Er’ril grimaced. It frustrated him to be stuck in the Western Reaches during this critical time. For centuries, he had dreamed of bringing the battle for freedom to the shores of Blackhall itself, but now that it was actually happening, he was lost, hundreds of leagues away, whisked away by a miscast spell.
He bit back his anger and drew his thoughts to their own objective. “And what of the threat in Winterfell? Any word of the Wyvern Gate?”
There was a long, pained silence. Elena finally spoke. “No. An envoy was sent from Standi, but they never returned.”
A growl built in Er’ril’s chest.
Elena continued. “Rumors continue of razed foothill villages and attacks by misshapen beasts at night.”
“The sooner we rendezvous with the elv’in ship, the sooner we can discover the answers on our own.”
Elena sighed. “The ship has already set out. Barring any unforeseen obstacles, we should both reach the Pass of Tears at the same time.”
Er’ril frowned. Barring any unforeseen obstacles . . . Dare he hope for such a lucky circumstance?
A voice arose on his other side. Harlequin Quail marched his small piebald gelding up from the ranks. “Is that a fire ahead?”
Er’ril stared forward. To the right of the trail, a faint flickering of firelight illuminated the deep gloom, the glow reflecting off the neighboring Mirror River. “A campfire,” he said, frowning, angry at himself for letting his attention wander.
“Perhaps they’re other travelers?” Elena offered.
Er’ril pulled his stallion to a halt and signaled for the others to follow suit. He could make out shadows moving against the light. There appeared to be more than one in the other party. “I’ll go ahead. Everyone else remain here.”
Nee’lahn slid from her horse. “I should go with you. If there is a danger in these woods, the forest will protect us.” The nyphai woman shone with a stunning vitality. She had clearly drawn considerable magick from the wood during this journey.
Er’ril nodded. Nee’lahn was in her own element here.
She handed Meric her lute. “Keep it safe,” she said. Her fingers lingered a moment longer on the elv’in prince’s hand; then she turned to Er’ril. “Continue along the path. I’ll cross through the forest.”
Without waiting for an answer, she headed into the woods, where the trees swallowed her away as if she were a mere figment.
Er’ril nudged Rorshaf and began down the trail.
“Be careful,” Elena warned.
“Always,” he assured her. He walked his horse at a steady pace. There was no use attempting stealth. He suspected whoever camped here already knew of their presence. In a few moments, he crossed around a crook in the path. The others disappeared behind him. Beyond the bend, the trail continued in a gentle arc toward the river. At its nearest point lay the strangers’ campsite.
Er’ril slowed his pace and Rorshaf huffed, sensing his rider’s wariness.
This close, Er’ril could make out the shapes by the fire. He was relieved to see they were mere men. Five—a manageable number as long as more were not hidden in the woods.
Er’ril kept one eye on the campsite and another on the surrounding forest. There appeared to be no others. Then again, he could not spot Nee’lahn, either.
Er’ril moved his war charger forward. “Ho! What news of the trail?” he called out, a common greeting among travelers.
One shadowy figure stepped to the trail. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a coppery beard that draped down his bare chest. He wore a pair of dappled leggings and black boots.
Though he clearly bore no weapons, Er’ril sensed a wary menace in the man’s cold, hard stare.
Rorshaf snorted loudly, dancing angrily on his hooves.
The other’s eyes shifted from Er’ril to the stallion, then widened with recognition. “Bloody Mother!” the man grunted coarsely, taking a step back. “It’s that demon we sold in Woodbine.”
Er’ril calmed Rorshaf. He recalled the horse trader’s mention of trappers. Were these the men who sold the stallion?
“Mean cuss, that one,” the bearded stranger said. “But I see he’s taken a shine to you.”
Er’ril shrugged, keeping one hand on his upper thigh, his wrist touching his sword’s hilt. “He just takes a firm hand.”
“That so?” The man’s attitude remained gruff, but a bit more respect entered his tone. “He nearly took off one of my men’s thumbs when he licked a whip on the monster.”
Er’ril frowned. “Not all commands require the crack of a lash to be firm.” As he spoke, he noted the others by the fire, staring back at them.
Another of the group stepped to the trail, a slender woman dressed in the same dappled outfit of green and blacks. She, too, had hair that shone in hues of red and copper, shorn to her shoulders. She laid a hand on the larger fellow’s arm.
“Excuse my brother’s welcome,” she said. “These are sour times in the Reaches, and a healthy suspicion is wise in the wilds.”
Er’ril shifted his hand a fraction from his sword. “My companions and I mean no threat. We only seek word of the trail ahead.”
“There is little we can share, since we travel the same direction as you . . . away from Woodbine.” She gestured back to the fire. “But night falls, and we can offer the warmth of our hearth and the hospitality of our camp instead.”
Her brother’s face had darkened with these words, his brows bunching like storm clouds. But he remained silent—the offer had been made.
Er’ril glanced to the bright fire, then out to the black woods. He sensed no malice in the two before him, only wariness. In this dark forest, a few extra eyes guarding against dangers were as welcome as any fire. “I thank you,” he said, bringing his fist to his belly in the common gesture of hospitality accepted. “May the Mother bless your hearths for your generosity.”
As he finished, a scream suddenly shattered through the quiet woods, freezing everyone in place for a heartbeat. A sword appeared in Er’ril’s fist as the cry died away.
Er’ril searched the forest. It was Nee’lahn. He was sure of it.
Immediately the thunder of hooves sounded on the trail behind them. Er’ril swung around in his saddle and spotted Elena, leading the others swiftly on horseback around the crook in the trail. The scream must have panicked them forward to his aid.
The gruff trapper backed a step. “What betrayal is this?” He pulled his sister toward the trees.
“We mean no harm!” Er’ril called. He feared creating a new enemy at his back. Whatever lay out in the wood had best be faced together. “Fear not from us! It is the woods you must guard against!”
The woman shook out of her brother’s grip. Er’ril met her gaze, his eyes pleading as hoofbeats thundered behind him. She turned to the larger man. “I believe him, Gunther. If there is evil afoot, let us join forces.”
The man scowled, then nodded. He swung into the woods. “To the fire then, Bryanna!” He shouted to his men. “Arm up!”
The woman called to Er’ril. “Ready your people and join us at the fire.” With a swirl of her cloak, she followed her brother.
Er’ril raised his blade. “To me!” he called, as his own companions closed the gap.
Elena was the first to reach his side, her mare’s chest heaving. “Nee’lahn . . . ,” she said breathlessly.
“I know.” He slipped from Rorshaf’s saddle. “We’ll secure things here, then search for her.”
Atop his piebald gelding, Harlequin nodded toward the fire. “And what about this rangy lot? Do you trust them?”
“We have no choice. Besides, I’d rather have these trappers where I can see them.” He led the giant war charger toward the fire. “Follow me.”
Still mounted, the others walked their horses behind him. Ahead, extra branches were added to the bonfire, driving the blaze higher, while the Mirror River flowed shallow between muddy banks. The rest of the forest remained dark as the sun finally set.
Er’ril tied off his mount near where the trappers’ horses were tethered. The others dismounted and did the same.
Meric landed lightly on the ground and stepped to the horse behind him. “What about Greshym?”
Er’ril frowned as the darkmage was loosened and pulled to the ground. Though the man’s arms were still bound and Cho’s dampening spell remained in place, he dared not leave the mage unguarded. He turned to Joach. “Keep a watch on him.”
Joach nodded. He shifted his gray staff under one arm and grabbed Greshym’s elbow with the other.
Meric crossed to Er’ril’s side. “We must find Nee’lahn,” he said anxiously.
“We’ll find her,” Elena assured him, stepping to join them.
She went to remove her gloves, but Er’ril stopped her with a touch to her arm. “Not yet . . . Use your magick only if necessary.”
Elena hesitated, then secured her gloves. She reached to her waist and pulled free her silver dagger.
Harlequin in tow, Er’ril led the group to the campfire. Gunther and Bryanna joined them. The other three trappers, all men, stood with their backs to the fire, watching the woods. All of them bore short swords. Gunther also carried a hand ax in his other fist. Bryanna had a bow in hand and a quiver of fletched arrows over a shoulder.
Gunther eyed their group, his gaze lingering an extra moment on Elena. He then turned a stern eye on Er’ril. “Have you any idea what threatens us?”
Er’ril shook his head. “The scream was one of our companions, a woman. She was in the woods.”
Gunther’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but before Er’ril could elaborate, Bryanna gasped. “The forest!”
Er’ril and the others turned their attentions outward. Just beyond the reach of the firelight, eyes glowed back at them, at least a score. Some were low to the ground, others higher in the branches of the trees.
As Er’ril raised his sword, other eyes bloomed, deeper in the forest surrounding them. With each breath, more and more appeared, in all directions, even across the river.
Elena stripped off her gloves. This time Er’ril did not object.
More eyes appeared in every size and shape, extending leagues into the trackless woods. Some glowed through narrow slits, while others were round as saucers. Only one feature was shared by all: Each pair of eyes glowed amber.
“Shape-shifters,” Meric whispered.
Er’ril stared out at the silent army around them. “What do they want?”
Gunther spoke at Er’ril’s shoulder. “We’ve had dealings with the si’lura before, trading and such. But I’ve never seen a gathering like this.”
“It makes no sense,” Bryanna said. “They’ve never been hostile unless provoked.”
Er’ril shared a glance with Meric. Shape-shifters again—but why? What were they after?
“Maybe it’s the horse,” one of the other trappers mumbled.
Er’ril glanced to the speaker. “What do you mean? What about the stallion?”
Gunther waved away the man’s words away with his ax. “That makes no sense.”
Er’ril refused to let this strange statement pass. Iron entered his voice. “Explain yourself.”
Bryanna answered, speaking rapidly. “We traded a cask of bitterwort spice for the black a few leagues from here. It was said the stallion came from the flooded forest, where the Stone of Tor fell. We figured to fetch a good price in Woodbine—it’s a logging town where a stout horse is always in demand.”
“Now we know why the black went for so cheap a price,” Gunther grumbled into his beard.
“What does this have to do with the si’lura?”
Bryanna glanced to him. “That’s who we bought the stallion from.”
They all stared out into the dark wood. Hundreds of eyes glowed back at them. What was going on?
Dazed and bleeding from a cut on her forehead, Nee’lahn struggled against her bonds. The ropes bound her to the trunk of a large oak. She heard the song of the mighty tree, but gagged with a roll of cloth, she could not join her voice. Without song, she was cut off from the magick all around her.
She watched dark shapes lope, slither, and pad among the trees, indistinct shadows in the gloom. She had been caught by surprise, walking into a trap as she had focused on the flickering flames of the campfire. The treesong of the forest had offered no alarm. But then again, why should the Great Wood be concerned with shape-shifters? The si’lura had been denizens of the deep glade for as long as the forest had lived, as much its caretakers as the nyphai had been for Lok’ai’hera.
Blind and deaf to their presence, she had been attacked from above. Something large had leaped from the branches and clubbed her to the ground. A single cry of surprise was all she had managed before she blacked out. Moments later, she had woken into full night, gagged and bound to the tree.
She relented in her struggle against the ropes, taking deep breaths, pushing back her initial panic. She had friends nearby, and though her tongue was bound by the roll of cloth, she could still touch a fraction of the magick around her. She took another deep breath, letting her eyes drift half closed, and hummed from the core of her spirit. She married her soft notes to the thrum of treesong, merging the two.
Though the contact was weak, she called what she could: the smallest roots of the oak at her back. She felt the richness of the loam as the rootlets wormed to the surface. If she could wind the small limbs into her bonds and loosen a hand—
A growl sounded on her left, full of threat. The hum of power died in her throat as a large white she-wolf stalked from the darker forest and revealed its white pelt and glowing amber eyes. Nee’lahn recognized the shape-shifter who had tracked them through the streets of Woodbine.
The wolf circled the tree once, rumbling a long growl. As it crossed back into sight, its flesh melted and the shape-shifter shimmered from its wolfskin, straightening and rising. A woman’s face replaced the wolf’s, but the amber eyes still glowed with a feral bit of the wild forest. She stood naked before Nee’lahn, unabashed, shoulders back. A long flow of white hair, straight and fluid, draped to the middle of her back.
“Attempt to free yourself again with your magick, and you’ll find your throat torn out before you can take two steps.”
Nee’lahn did not doubt the threat. She remained silent and stared back at the si’luran woman.
The shape-shifter’s eyes narrowed, studying her. “We have your companions surrounded,” she said quietly. “But before we attack, I want to know why you broke your vows to the forest, nyphai.”
Nee’lahn’s brow crinkled with confusion.
A hand shot out toward her face. Nee’lahn cringed back, but the woman’s fingers settled to her gag. “I’ll loosen your tongue, but one note of magick from you and it’ll be your last.”
Knowing that any hope of freedom lay in cooperation, Nee’lahn nodded once in acknowledgment.
With a deft flick of fingers, the gag fell away. Nee’lahn coughed. “Wh-who are you?”
The si’luran’s back straightened. “My name is Thorn, prime tracker of the Freshling clan, third daughter of the elder’root. You’re to be brought before my father and the Council of Wishnu, to be judged for your atrocities against our forest.”
Nee’lahn was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
Thorn snarled. “Nothing happens in the Reaches that is beyond the eyes of the si’lura. We have been watching you, nyphai, since you first were reborn here in our forests.”
Nee’lahn could not hide her shock. Over a winter ago, she had used the magick of the great forest to pull her spirit from its resting place inside a black acorn and birth her body anew. She’d had no idea that the si’luran people were aware of her.
“We watched you and your companions last winter, leaving a path of destruction.”
“We destroyed nothing. We sought to mend the Northwall and fend off the Grim wraiths who harried the edges of the forest.”
“You brought down the Stone of Tor,” T
horn spat back. “A place sacred to the si’luran people.”
Nee’lahn was stunned. She remembered the crash of the pinnacle of stone. While imprisoned in a wagon headed to Castle Mryl, she had felt the rending of the forest and the resultant flooding as the toppled peak dammed up rivers and streams. A good portion of the Western Reaches had been destroyed that day. “The Grim had to be stopped,” she offered weakly.
Thorn’s eyes flashed with ire. “The results of your actions were a thousandfold worse than any threat from the Grim.”
Nee’lahn remained silent.
“The forest gave you life, and you repaid it with death.”
“You don’t understand—”
“And now Moon Lake,” the shape-shifter continued, ignoring her protest as she stalked back and forth. “Hundreds of my people were slain—but you walked out unscathed. Word spread quickly through the si’lura, one mind speaking to another. We recognized you. Again you walk our forests and leave a wake of devastation.” Fiery rage entered her voice. “But no more!”
Nee’lahn listened, stunned at the accusation. But a small part of her understood this one’s fury. This was their home. They knew nothing of the greater war beyond the woods. Isolated from the world at large, all the si’lura saw were great swaths of their homeland forests destroyed, and at each instance, the same person had been present.
Nee’lahn stared into the angry eyes of the other and recognized the true face of those caught in the battle of magicks. All these folk saw of the small victories against the Dark Lord was the destruction of their own homes, their own peoples. Here stood the folk who bore the brunt of the larger battle, forgotten and dismissed, never mentioned in tales or songs—those left behind.
Nee’lahn struggled to find words to encompass the pain, some reason to justify the loss of lands and people. But all she came up with were three heartfelt words. “I am sorry.”
Thorn stopped in her tracks. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Nee’lahn. It was the suspicion of a wolf staring back at her.
Nee’lahn faced the accusation in the other’s gaze. “I am truly sorry for all you lost.”
A crinkle marred Thorn’s smooth brow. The fire dimmed in her eyes. When next she spoke, it was a plea: “Why?”
Wit'ch Star (v5) Page 22