by Darius Hinks
Liris stepped to her side. There was a dry, scratching sound as her talons brushed against Drycha. ‘Soon,’ she whispered.
Drycha nodded and looked back at the pitiful figure of Finavar, lurching and weaving towards them down the glittering path. ‘Balance will be restored, Liris. His blood will repay what is owed. The blood of a king. It will be enough. In the Orchard he will give his life. However great his pain, it will be nothing to the healing it enables.’ She shivered, rattling her rough, wooden limbs. ‘And the pain will be great. Bruithír will see to that.’
They raced on. For half a mile on either side of the path a battle raged in silence. Finavar staggered on oblivious as Melusine and the rest of Drycha’s sisters kept him alive. Beings from every age of the world had caught his scent. They came hunting for his blood, things of leaf, scale, fur and flame, but the branchwraiths held firm. At Drycha’s silent bidding they pitted themselves against the unknowable. They battled a power that had prowled the forest since the forgotten age of the Old Ones. They fought and died, but for every branchwraith that fell, another ten rushed to fill the gap. Drycha’s army was a river, bristling and bustling through the darkness.
Finavar paused to catch his breath, leaning against a tree for a moment and peering down the track. He frowned. There was violence in the air. He could feel it tingling across his skin, but nothing had emerged from the shadows. He had been travelling for what seemed like hours and the forest had made no move to stop him. Confused as he was, he still knew that the Wildwood was a place of death. But it seemed that he was free to safely journey through it. He looked back over his shoulder. There was still no sign of the spirits that had greeted his arrival.
He heard a muffled crash, somewhere to his right. The sound was barely audible, but whatever had fallen was so vast that the ground beneath his feet shifted slightly. He stared harder into the darkness but, as when he first awoke, he could see nothing beyond the patterns drifting across his retina.
He stepped from the path, trying to see what had fallen, but roots flew up to meet him and forced him back. Only the path seemed safe. The lights dazzled him again and he reeled from side to side, trying to recall his purpose, or even his name. ‘The Darkling Prince,’ he croaked, after clutching his head for a few seconds. The name brought another, Jokleel, along with it. The name of his brother was enough to steady him. He stood still for a moment and took several deep breaths, remembering why he had started off down the path. Jokleel was somewhere up ahead, calling him on. Either that or his ghost.
Finavar nodded and continued on his way, treading carefully so as to avoid the dark mesh on either side of the path. Hours, seconds or years passed as he walked beneath those mountainous trees, until finally the landscape began to change. The trees thinned out. A little light splashed across the ground. The thicket fell away to reveal patches of open scrub and fruit trees, huddled together like wary crones. They reached towards him through the dark. Splayed, crooked fingers. Coils of smoke, glimpsed in a storm.
Finavar eyed the trees warily but breathed a little deeper, wishing to savour the open space. He immediately regretted it. The air was heavy with moisture and it left a bitter, metallic taste on his tongue. As he walked slowly past the ugly branches, he felt a warm mist settle over his skin. He stopped to wipe his face and when he looked down at his hand he saw it was bloody.
He grimaced and looked around at the trees. He had missed it at first, because of the endless gloom, but now, as he looked more closely, he saw that the fruit trees were coated with a crimson dew.
‘Brother.’
The voice was much clearer this time and there was an edge of fear in it – or pleading.
‘I’m here,’ Finavar whispered, hurrying on down the path. The track swerved around a mossy shoulder of rock and led down into a little valley, surrounded on all sides by the ancient, lichened fruit trees.
Finavar glimpsed a slight figure, racing ahead of him and he began to jog. But when he reached the valley floor, something caught his eye and caused him to pause again.
The trees were laden with fruit and the load was so heavy it was dragging many of the branches down until they were nearly touching the ground. Finavar stepped closer to one of them and tried to work out what kind of fruit it was.
The nature of the Wildwood had confused him. The tree was much further than he imagined. He forgot about the path as he hurried towards it and, as he approached the tree, he saw that, like everything else, it was absurdly huge. It loomed over him like a storm cloud and he felt blood dripping on his face as he looked up into the branches.
He slowly realised the true nature of the fruit. It was the pale corpse of an asrai warrior. The tree had melded its bark with his flesh, so that his body had become a sleeve for a thick, forked branch. Finavar felt bile rise in his throat as he saw ridges of bark beneath the warrior’s skin and a length of living branch, sprouting from between shattered shoulder blades.
His disgust grew as he saw that all the trees bore the same hideous fruit. He saw hundreds of corpses dangling overhead – most were asrai, but some were outsiders and all of them were frozen in a grotesque parody of life.
Finavar’s repulsion was fleeting. He understood the logic of such a display. He had left similar trophies himself many times – draping the skins of outsiders in trees was an age-old method of warning off trespassers from the forest borders. He had never seen the technique applied to his own kind, of course, and it appalled him to think that so many of his kin had fallen in battle, but he could respect the thinking behind the gruesome sight.
He turned to head back to the path. As he did so, a branch snapped beneath his foot and broke the eerie silence.
To Finavar’s horror, as the sound rang out, the skewered warrior overhead opened his eyes. He looked around in panic and fear, then spotted Finavar standing a few feet below him. The warrior began to scream and thrash, clearly hoping that Finavar might be able to help him.
Finavar reeled backwards, horrified. How could such a pitiful thing still be alive?
As Finavar backed away, the warrior’s shrieks grew louder and some of the other figures opened their eyes and joined in.
‘By the gods,’ whispered Finavar, clamping his hands over his ears. ‘They’re alive.’
He turned to race back to the path but it was gone. As the chorus of screams continued, he saw that there was nothing ahead of him but the terrible fruit trees.
‘Jokleel!’ he cried.
There was no sign of his brother, or his ghost but, as Finavar clambered up the side of the valley, trying to find a vantage point, something else caught his eye.
One of the trees further up the slope was falling. No, not falling – loping towards him.
Finavar’s disgust mingled with fear. Had one of the tree husks finally caught up with him?
He turned to run back down the slope, caught his foot on a root and tumbled, headlong through the shadows.
Finavar hit the valley floor with a painful crunch and immediately leapt to his feet. The confusion that had been muddling his thoughts had vanished along with the path. Despite the screams that were assailing his ears, he now saw everything with horrible clarity.
He was alone in the Wildwood. A freak chance had allowed him enough time to glimpse the awful nature of the place. Now he was going to die.
‘No!’ he snarled, picturing Ordaana, laughing at him with an arched eyebrow. ‘I will not die. I will not leave the forest to her.’
He looked back up the slope. Whatever he had seen was gone.
He sensed movement behind him and whirled around.
A figure slipped back into the shadows. Finavar was too slow to see his stalker’s face, but he saw enough to know it was not one of the tree husks.
Whatever it was, it had a heavy, powerful torso that shook as it moved, and it was moving on all fours.
He raced in the opposite direction, leaping over roots and fallen branches.
As he ran, he left behind the screa
ms and made for a faint light at the far end of the gulley. ‘Jokleel?’ he called as he saw a slender figure pass in front of the light. ‘Is that you?’ Hope gave him speed and in a few minutes he had reached the end of the valley.
There was no sign of his brother, but the darkness had lifted. He looked up to see if there was sky overhead. There was nothing but more of the pale, stranded figures, hanging in the branches.
‘Jokleel?’ he said, sensing movement in the trees to his right.
Pain exploded as something connected with the side of his face. His head snapped backwards and he toppled to the ground.
His instincts stayed with him and he launched himself back up onto his feet.
Something whirred through the space where his head would have been.
There was a resounding thud as a thick, rune-carved shaft of oak slammed into the ground.
He looked up and gasped in surprise. His attacker resembled a hulking, powerful bear. But, rather than fur and muscle, its flesh was a torrent of shoots, stems and leaves. It towered over him, at eight or nine feet tall and its massive snout was contorted by rage, revealing a mouthful of curved, thorn teeth. Its eyes were coiled, black spirals of ivy. They bored into Finavar as the creature turned to face him.
Its weapon was a gnarled old quarterstaff, battered and stained and capped at either end with carved, fist-sized lumps of bone. And, as Finavar reeled away from the beast, it lifted the staff to strike again.
Finavar ducked and the quarterstaff cracked against a tree behind him.
He dived and rolled back down the path towards the fruit trees.
The bear-thing waded after him on its hind legs, swaying like a drunk as it raised its weapon.
Finavar feigned flight, then, as the staff came down, he ducked beneath it and bounded forward.
He dodged the blow but, before he could land one of his own, the monster lashed out with its other claw, slicing another piece of skin from Finavar’s chest and sending him crashing into the undergrowth.
Again, the quarterstaff pounded down and, again, Finavar was too fast. His skills as a wardancer were so ingrained he could call on them without thought. He sprang up, grabbed hold of a low branch and flipped up into the branches of a tree.
The monster let out a deep, rattling roar and slammed its bulk against the tree.
To Finavar’s amazement the whole tree came loose. Its roots tore up through the soil with a series of cracks and deep, protesting groans.
He dropped to the ground and shielded his face as the tree collapsed, showering him with branches and soil.
As the air cleared, Finavar whirled around, trying to locate the monster in the shadows.
It hurtled towards him like another falling tree and the air exploded from his lungs.
They both rolled across the ground and Finavar felt as though he were drowning in a dense clump of leaves. As he tumbled, his nostrils filled with the monster’s herby, verdant stink.
They came to a halt against a wall of raw earth, and a claw of tightly knotted vines wrapped itself around Finavar’s neck, crushing the air from his throat and slamming him back against the soil.
The monster lifted him easily from the ground.
His head spun with dizziness and lack of oxygen and, as he stared into the black pits that passed for the creature’s eyes, Finavar was reminded of his first meeting with Orion, when the tyrant king had done just the same thing – lifting him from the ground by the throat.
The monster drew back its quarterstaff, already stained with Finavar’s blood, and prepared to deliver a killing blow.
Finavar kicked his legs against the green mass but it was no use. His strength was quickly failing.
I cannot die.
Jokleel, he thought, looking past the monster into the trees beyond.
There was a figure there, watching, and Finavar’s heart raced. It was his brother, stepping from the darkness with a forgiving smile.
Then the shadows shifted and Finavar wondered how he could have been so wrong. How could he have mistaken such a thing for a brother? It was an ancient, hunched dryad. A knotted wraith of bark and thorn. She was not smiling but grimacing, bearing her splintered teeth in a desperate snarl.
Finavar’s stomach turned as he realised the truth. Whoever the spirit was, she had tricked him. She had led him to the lair of this monster. His brother was dead.
As he thought about the monster, it occurred to him that too much time had passed. Where was the final blow?
He looked back at the thing that was crushing the life from his body.
Its quarterstaff was frozen, mid-strike, and it was staring at him.
Finavar watched in confusion as the monster’s expression changed. The leaves that made up its face were coiling and rolling into a perplexed frown.
It loosened its grip slowly and allowed Finavar’s feet to touch the ground.
The branchwraith rushed forwards, allowing him to see all the outrage and bitterness of her cracked face. She was about to speak, but the bear monster held out a warning claw and she hesitated.
The bear monster still had its gaze locked on Finavar. Its face was wracked by confusion. It moved closer and sniffed him – sniffed his chest like an inquisitive dog.
To Finavar’s amazement the monster loosened its grip, shook its head and backed away from him.
Finavar crumpled to the ground.
The branchwraith screamed. It was an unearthly sound that cut deep into Finavar’s mind. The branchwraith was voicing a hurt so ancient and curdled that he almost wanted to go to her – to comfort her somehow. But the reason for her pain was his freedom and he retained enough sense to back away. He staggered away from the wall and the two strange figures that were watching him.
The bear-thing was still shaking its head in confusion, but it had clearly lost all desire to hurt him.
The branchwraith screamed and other dryads began slipping from the darkness. All of them stared at Finavar with panic and hate.
He looked around and saw that they were everywhere. Hundreds of them were emerging from the Wildwood, moving towards him with jerking, frenetic steps.
He shook his head in disbelief. The hopelessness of his situation was secondary to the pain of realising he had been duped. How could he have believed his brother was alive?
As the lurching shapes closed in on him, though, he could not shake the faint sense of hope that had kindled in him. He looked back at the bear monster. It was still watching him and, as their eyes met, Finavar felt as though the creature had seen the same spark.
Finavar stood, clambered up the wall of earth and crouched, cat-like, on its roof of overhanging turf. His mind was spinning as he looked around the orchard. The dryads were as numerous as the trees and they were all closing in on him, led by the one he had seen first. She had stifled her screams and was now approaching him with the same rigid, silent fury as the others.
Finavar should have felt hopeless. He was alone in the Wildwood, surrounded by hundreds of inhuman enemies. He was so drunk from lack of oxygen that his head seemed to be drifting several feet away from his shoulders. And yet, his pulse raced with the old thrill of adventure. He could feel youth, stirring in his ruined body. And something else. It was as though another sentience had joined itself to him – something powerful and benign.
One of the dryads moved with sudden speed, seeming to fold herself up the slope.
Finavar tried to back away but he was dangerously light-headed. He only managed to trip himself up and crash to the ground.
As the branchwraiths gathered around him, he began to laugh uncontrollably, seeing the ridiculous contrast between his inner sense of hope and the utter hopelessness of his situation.
The dryads splayed their thorn-like talons and moved closer, but Finavar could not stop laughing.
This seemed to enrage the leader of the wraiths even further. She lurched ahead of the others, drawing back her claws to strike.
An incredible din tore through the t
rees and she whirled around.
Finavar was no longer sure that the scene playing out before him was reality. He watched in amazement as more nightmarish shapes thundered into view.
They were tree-like things – forest spirits, like the dryads – but these were goliaths. Their faces looked down through the fruit trees and they batted the dryads aside like insects.
Finavar found it all inexplicably amusing. The giant spirits were smashing through the smaller ones in an attempt to reach him. The leader of the dryads made a last, desperate attempt to skewer Finavar but, before she could, one of the larger spirits slammed a tree-sized limb into her and sent her howling into the darkness.
The branchwraiths hurled themselves at the larger shapes: hacking, clawing and biting. Some of the larger spirits collapsed under the weight of their attackers, but the one who had defended Finavar scooped him up from the ground and waded off through the trees, carrying him as easily as a fallen leaf.
Reality swam around Finavar in waves as he glided through the treetops. He saw the frozen faces of the asrai, preserved in the branches. He saw the wild ferocious dance of the tree spirits, tearing and biting. He saw the confused expression of the bear monster, oblivious to the battle raging around it. Finally, just before he slipped into unconsciousness, he saw the face of his rescuer. It was long and flaked, like a piece of birch bark, but there was also something avian about it. The ridges were formed into a curved beak and there were white feathers sprouting from the paper-like bark. It had two glossy black eyes, framed by moss and soil, and they were watching him closely.
Finavar’s last thought was a thrill of recognition. He had seen this face before. He remembered seeing the weird amalgam of tree and bird, bowing, respectfully to him, after some kind of battle. He could not place the details, but he remembered the spirit had scratched a mark onto his chest.