Legend of the Nameless One Boxset

by Angela J. Ford

  The thudding grew in intensity and Tor Lir rose, moving into the reeds to observe what came his way. As he peered out with narrowed eyes, he saw a group of black panthers leap through the trees and pad up and down the riverbank. The panthers were giant beasts, standing as high as a male’s waist. On their backs were the fur-covered people of the Tribe of Fyn.

  A slight smile came to Tor Lir’s lips, and he stepped out of his hiding place as the leader, Agrim, spun a panther toward him. Agrim hefted a spear in one hand and pointed it toward Tor Lir’s neck. “Where did the beast go?” he demanded, his scarred face twisting in a snarl.

  Tor Lir held up his hands. “I mean you no harm. The beast has flown, and they have captured the female.”

  The snarl left Agrim’s face, and he lowered his spear, waving a hand for the warriors behind him to lower their weapons. Resting a hand on the panther’s head, Agrim stroked it until it stopped growling and relaxed. “Who was she captured by? How come you are standing here? Free?”

  “The white creatures made of bone. Do you know about them?”

  “Aye, as we spoke before, they come and take what they desire, leaving death behind. They have been raiding my tribe for days, despite the barrier we built against them. They are swift and move into darkness, here and gone in a flash. Like lightning.”

  “I believe I know where they came from, and I intend to stop them, but I need help.”

  Agrim grunted. “I am listening.”

  Tor Lir pointed to the river. “The Master of the Forest is taking the beasts and controlling them. I believe if we follow the river, we shall reach his lair.”

  Agrim frowned. “To what end? To submit to the control of the Master? How will you stop him?”

  Tor Lir let the emotion slide out of his face. He gazed into Agrim’s dark eyes as he let the ice cold invade through his body. A hostile aura surrounded him and he spoke firmly. “You don’t know who I am. Some call me Tor Lir, but I am the Nameless One. I came to keep the balance between good and evil. The Master of the Forest has invoked my wrath, and I go to his lair to set things right. I need you and your warriors to come with me, but choose. I will not beg you. I will only accept your offer freely given.”

  Agrim scowled and placed a hand on his thigh. “What of the beasts that terrify my tribe?”

  “I cannot guarantee peace—this forest is full of mischief. I sense the chaos in each step I take.”

  “I do not ask for peace, only the demise of those unnatural beings that flood this forest with malice.”

  “Then come with me.”

  Agrim swung a leg over the panther’s side and leaped to the ground. His fur covered him like a camouflage as he turned back to the tribe. One by one, they lifted their hands, made a fist, and thumped their chests. Agrim placed a hand over his chest and bowed to them. Walking to the male on his left, he held out a hand. The male handed him a bow and quiver that Tor Lir recognized as the weapons Novor Tur-Woodberry had given him.

  “You will need these.” Agrim tossed them to Tor Lir.

  Catching the weapons, Tor Lir slung the quiver onto his back and let the coolness of his aura drift as he met Agrim’s eyes. He nodded back at the male. “I had a feeling about you and your tribe. A good feeling.”

  Agrim mounted the panther. “I harbor no animosity between you and me, but your friend, the female, she will have to answer to what her beast did.”

  Tor Lir nodded, accepting the words. There must be a remedy for what Citrine and her beast did to the tribe’s home.

  “You need a mount,” Agrim added.

  Tor Lir gave him a wry grin. “Follow me. Silence is of the essence from here.”

  38

  Control

  A memory of yellow light and a basket full of green herbs took Citrine back to her childhood. She recalled her mother taking the herbs out of the basket and placing them on a long board in the sunshine. She hummed a tune and pointed to each herb. “What is this called? Do you remember?”

  “Lavender?” Citrine asked. “Thyme. Rosemary. Mint. Sage. Ginseng.” She grew more confident in her knowledge as she continued down the line of herbs. “Rose hips.”

  Mother nodded, her vibrant hair changing colors in the sunlight. Orange. Yellow. Silver. White. “Now that you know their names and how to recognize them in the wild, you must learn how to use them for your benefit. Understand?”

  Citrine shrugged in confusion. “Why do we study the herbs? No one else does.”

  “Ah, but you are mistaken. The Healers have always used herbs to help relieve maladies among the people groups and animals.”

  “But we are not Healers,” Citrine pointed out.

  Mother shook her head and picked up a bunch of lavender, the purple blossoms still wide open. “Nay, all the same, you must know the herbs. My favorite is lavender for the air of clarity combined with ginseng. If you need to clear the mind and calm your thoughts, a pinch of these herbs will help. Do you hear the voices yet?”

  “Sometimes when I’m by the pond, the frogs speak to me.”

  “Out loud or in your head?”

  “I can hear them in my head. The butterflies whisper, and the dragonflies hum a song without words.”

  “Be careful with the voices, my little enchantress. You may speak to them, but never force them to do anything. You must not exert your control over the beasts. They are free animals; although some may swear servitude to you, remember, you must always let them have free will. What is the rule we have?”

  Citrine swallowed hard and looked down. “I don’t remember.”

  A hand came out, slapping her cheek. “You must remember. Never forget. Now say it with me: never harm another.”

  “Never harm another.” She’d bitten back the tears at the slap, aware she needed to learn and understand. She was too young to notice the double standard her parents had. They pushed her hard and punished her for forgetting and making mistakes.

  “Good. Now these herbs will help you if the voices become too much. I’ll show you my recipe, but you must keep it a secret . . .”

  The memory faded away and Citrine’s eyes flew open. It was silent in the glade. Her throat was sore from thirst and her arms ached from being pulled tight behind her back. Three spots of blood had dripped and then dried on her throat from where the Master’s claws scraped her. The sickly sweetness of sap made her head hurt, while the throne before her was empty. She closed her eyes again, shutting out the present and stilling herself as she searched.

  When she was young, the world was vibrant with sound. She’d heard many voices and as she grew older, she filtered them out and protected her mind from the continual words dancing around her. Youth and innocence quickly evaporated, and she’d been excited to strike out on her own. She’d left her parents, who she assumed still lived close to the fortress in the east. They were loners, hiding their unusual gifts from the people groups, and yet Citrine thought she could find them again if she opened the connection of communication that led back to them. However, her need for them was gone and although she’d never disobeyed the instructions they gave her, control sounded promising.

  Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she ignored the itching on her head. Taking a deep breath, she felt the thread of communication and stilled herself for the influx of thought. She opened the doors and a wave of voices rushed in.

  Citrine had only been to Oceantic once. Father took her after a bad spell when the voices overwhelmed her and made her nose bleed. Each morning she’d wake, blood pouring from her nose as the voices screamed inside, too many to distinguish what they said. Finally, Father took her on a two-day journey to the white shores where endless waves lapped against the sand. They sat there watching until dark clouds rolled over the horizon and the wind blew strong around them. Sand lifted off the beach and rolled into mini cyclones, and Citrine held Father’s hand, watching with interest and wondering if they should seek safety.

  “The waves rise high now. See.” Father pointed. “They will come r
olling in with a magnitude of strength and sweep us away if we lose our footing.”

  “But we won’t lose our footing if we don’t go in.” Citrine looked up into her father’s calm face, but his citrine eyes never left the water.

  “We are going in. The waves are like the voices. You must learn to navigate them if you are to control them. Once you learn, the nosebleeds will stop.”

  Citrine squeezed Father’s hand as fear swirled through her. “I am afraid. I don’t want to go in.”

  “You must not be afraid.” Father’s tone was firm. “Fear will always try to stop you, but you must act, regardless of the fear. Be brave. Step out.”

  Citrine stood still, watching the wind whip up and the waves rise higher. “How will standing in the waves help me control the voices?”

  “It always helps to navigate the physical world before delving into the complex themes of the intangible world. I will be with you—this time. But you must take the initiative to step out.”

  Citrine had let go of Father’s hand and stepped into the waves. When she closed her eyes, the storm roared around her, but when she found a rock and anchored herself to it, she found she could withstand the wind and waves. It was difficult. She’d slipped, been submerged and coughed up more water than ever before. But she survived, and that was enough.

  Now the voices blasted through her mind, making her eardrums ring, and a slow trickle came to her nose.

  First, she heard the voices of trees giving into the death grip of the gray vines. Mentally, she closed that door and put out her feelers for more. Creatures thrashed in the forest and drank from the river, bickering with sullen voices. She pulled her feelers away from them.

  Searching, she found Ava, flying high above the forest, and Morag, sulking in the bottom of the river, feeling lower than the bottom feeders that scuttled along the mud. Her heart went out to him and she saw the foggy threads of control surrounding him. Moving down inch by inch, she reached out to him, plucking back the strings of control, one by one, hoping the Master was too distracted to notice. She felt Morag’s senses awake as the spell of control lifted from him. Don’t speak. Just run, she told him, heart pounding.

  A drop of blood fell onto her lip, begging to be wiped away. She twisted her bound hands, but the rope held firm and she dived in again, sending her feelers of communication onward. Now and then, she came up hard and fast against something that she assumed were other mortals. Animals were her gifting; she’d never had the ability to communicate with mortals in her mind.

  As the minutes dragged by, she became uneasy. What if the Master was hiding his mind in the same way—what if she couldn’t read it? Although she assumed if he could read her mind, she could read his, unless his power was much greater. Anger surged through her at the thought of Paradise being taken by the bone-white creatures, and she clenched her sap-crusted fingers as she dug deeper.

  Blood ran from her other nostril, and she opened her mouth to breathe through it. A thudding began in her head and a throbbing pain began at the base of her skull. Ignoring the physical discomfort, just like she had in the storm, she dug through layers of communication, opening her feelers and closing them. She found Grift. The strands of control had barely begun, but she pulled them free and sent him the same message. Don’t speak. Just run.

  Digging deeper, she found Zaul, the spark of communication almost gone with a grip so strong she did not know where to begin. There was nothing for it; unless she destroyed the Master, she could not set him free. Squeezing her eyes tighter, she gave it all she had while blood ran over her mouth and dripped down her chin. There. She’d found it. The mind of the Master. It was open and churning with an array of dark thoughts. Reaching through all the threads of communication she’d closed, she opened them and channeled them to the Master, sending a tidal wave of conflicting voices into his mind.

  39

  Lair of the Master

  A roar of fury bellowed out of the wood and Tor Lir paused, crouching down in the thicket. “We are here,” he whispered to Agrim. “Now, I will go in, face the Master, and find Citrine. On my signal. Attack.”

  “As discussed,” Agrim grunted.

  His tribe hid in the thick underbrush. They’d had to dismount and move on foot while their panthers slinked through the forest. Some males had scaled trees and were making hand signals to each other.

  Tor Lir crept into the darkness, twisted ivy growing up each tree, choking out their existence and hiding the light. A distinct smell of sulfur hung in the air and as Tor Lir approached, he saw a dark throne made of wood and ivy dripping with sap. A creature made of bone knelt before it. It had three claws for fingers and each clawed hand gripped the side of its head as it knelt, facing away from the throne and howling. It had a long snout like a crocodile and a crown of antlers curved up from its head. Long bones made up its limbs and although it roared in fury, a creeping sensation of angst came over Tor Lir. He swallowed hard, wanting nothing more than to back away. Hollow words twisted through his memory. A cloud of darkness. A green shimmer. A knowledge forced on him when he did not want it. Dread sat heavy on his heart because he wanted to understand and yet he wanted to flee lest the darkness enter and corrupt him.

  Forcing himself to move, he took a tentative step, trying to see what the creature was facing. Something white darted out of the woods and sprang in front of him, snarling. As the thing reached for him, another flash of white appeared and bowled it over. The bone-white creature stood before him, her limbs shaking and her eyes cast down.

  Tor Lir glanced from her to the creature lying headlong in the ground. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “My allegiance was to the Master, but the bonds are breaking,” the creature whispered, her silver hair hiding her face. She reached out her white fingers and locked them around Tor Lir’s waist. “If I give you my name, will you help?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Slyvain. I come from the woods. The Master of the Forest woke my tree and took over. He wants the dead to live again and become mortal, with flesh, to gain access to the Beyond.”

  Questions swirled around Tor Lir’s mind and he reached out, caressing Slyvain’s cheek. “I am the Nameless One and I have come to help you. But why now? Why do you trust me now?”

  Slyvain turned and pointed to the creature roaring in front of the throne. “Because now there is hope.”

  Letting go of her, Tor Lir crept toward the throne and as he turned to see what caused the creature to roar, he saw Citrine. Her face was ghastly white and blood covered her mouth and chin, dripping onto the forest floor. Her vibrant hair had gone still, turning a gray white as if the life had gone out from it. Bright-red spots glimmered along her hairline and along her neck. As Tor Lir moved toward her, bone-white creatures dropped out of the treetops and a thrashing began in the underbrush.

  “Agrim! Now!” Tor Lir shouted as he dashed for the tree where Citrine was tied. Grabbing a knife he’d borrowed from Agrim, he sliced through the rope, setting her free. But Citrine did not move. She sagged more heavily against the tree, her arms pinned behind her back.

  Tor Lir dashed around the tree, noticing the Tribe of Fyn shouting out their battle cries as they swung down from hidden perches. Clubs flew and the bone-white creatures shrieked under the assault. The black panthers leaped into the air, ripping vines, limbs, bones, and anything else they could sink their teeth into. Tor Lir wrapped an arm around Citrine’s waist and grabbed her hands, cutting them free. Her eyes opened, glazed and unseeing. Her full weight sagged into his arms.

  The smell of sulfur increased and Tor Lir backed away from the roaring creatures just as something struck him on the back. He dropped Citrine and tumbled head over heels, his back slamming into the throne. He regained his footing and crouched, realizing how worthless his bow was in such close combat. As he faced the creature, he saw it was the four-legged beast who’d first driven him into the forest. The beast growled and swished its tail, preparing to pounce.
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  40

  Winner Takes All

  Zaul. Citrine blinked as her vision cleared. She felt Zaul near, but he was still under the grip of the Master and about to attack Tor Lir. It surprised her that Tor Lir had come to her rescue. Her preconceived notions of him drifted away.

  Zaul. She tried again as her beast charged Tor Lir. Her ears rang as she pushed her worn body to her knees. Bending over, she spit blood into the dirt and wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing blood down her arm. Focusing her will, she hurled threads of communication at Zaul, who tore over the ground, teeth glittering in his mouth as he opened them for a bite.

  Tor Lir leaped and Zaul missed, but he swung his tail around, smacking trees, the loud sound ringing through the chaos of the battleground.

  Zaul. Stop. He is not the enemy. Something broke within her and tears flooded down her face as she saw her beast charge again, ignoring her. Please, Zaul. Please stop. Come back to me. It’s Citrine.

  A rough laugh cut through the air and she felt suspended as if someone had snatched her up by the hair. Citrine screamed, her legs kicking out, although she was still crouched in the mud.

  Citrine. This time, the threads of communication were from the Master of the Forest. You broke through my boundaries, and I sense you stealing back control. You won’t earn another life to regret. This is your demise.