Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1)

by Jonathan Michael

  Off in the distance ahead of me, dark spots stipple the horizon. Scattered evergreens invade the cultivated fields. That must be the border of the Redcliffe Forest.

  I recall Gunther’s words for navigating my way to Greybark. In the morning, ride toward the scorching heat. In the evening, away from the calming, red hues, and once you reach the speckled horizon, head northwest through the thick wood. And do have patience with the Animal King. I pleaded I would lose my way with such a vague route of travel. However, he insisted I’d be as blind as a bat if I missed it, so I took his word. And his word will indeed be tested as soon as I arrive at that forest.

  Not more than an hour, and the speckles on the horizon grow to an army of massive towers standing before us. I allow the beasts a rest before penetrating the tall, rigid sentinels that guard the wood. Aside from being able to mentally note its location on a map, I know little about this wood. I prefer the tiger be at full strength before exploring the unknown.

  We adjust our course due northwest just as instructed. I’m skeptical of such vague direction from an acquaintance, but his firm composure leaves me compelled. And I have little reason not to trust him after all the assistance he offered. My instincts urge me forward.

  After trotting through the forest for some time, I find it mild compared to the Broken Forest in terms of the anxiety and fear it can manifest. The daylight penetrating the canopy is in surplus due to the thin evergreens and a few chance fig trees. The aura is much more serene and inviting. In fact, it’s eerie how peaceful my surroundings are. The wind blows. The trees banter back and forth in their screeching arborous language, and there’s not another whisper from any life, almost as though the wood is telling me to leave my wariness in the plains. No other sounds aside from the rhythmic hoof beats of Marauder. Not even Helios is speaking up. It causes me to nod off from time to time while letting Marauder take charge.

  Hours pass, and the three of us continue grinding through the forest. No trail to be followed, only word leading us deeper and deeper into the increasingly darkening forest. Not a single sign of a village or civilization whatsoever. Plenty of evergreens, but nothing more. My doubts rise, despite the whispers of the forest saying otherwise. I should’ve known better than to take navigation advice from a former fisherman who travels by the starlight. There is no starlight in a forest. Not enough for navigation anyhow.

  Too soon, the darkness hinders our travels without sight of any village, grey bark, or animal kings, so I setup camp for the night. I secure the stallion before hunkering against the trunk of a large cedar. Helios beds down next to me. Without the threat of Cryptids about, it’s not necessary to climb a tree for the evening. And with the painted stallion and the regal beast to act as alarms, I find heavy eyelids rather quick.

  I wake softly with a large yawn and outstretched arms. I bend backward awkwardly to relieve a stiff lower back, which is no surprise, but oddly, my head is pounding. Hydration, perhaps.

  I squint through the bright morning sun. It doesn’t take me long to realize there shouldn’t be morning sun shining on me—I’m in the middle of a forest. It’d have to be high noon.

  My eyes snap open fully to find I’m not where I fell asleep. The first clue, there’s straw piled about me, and it sticks to my face when I arise. The second, more obvious clue, wooden bars surround me on all sides. I’ve awoken in a wooden cage. Is this a grizzly trap? Who would build a cage this size if not for a prison? Where are my beasts? Where are my things—my kukri, my purse, my whip? Where am I?

  I jostle the bars. They’re too solid. Each extending from a single origin above, like an iron birdcage, and penetrating the ground below me. There is no bottom, just the forest floor. How deep must they be buried? I suppose that depends who built it. A Sprhowt could have them down to bedrock if he desired.

  But who would build a cage of this magnitude? Could it be the animal king Gunther spoke of? And why would an animal king have need of a cage if he were king of the animals? Sounds like a ludicrous hoax.

  I rub my eyes to rid them of sleep and take a second assessment. Large tree roots. That’s all it is. Looking around outside my living cell, I don’t see anything save for more trees. And a few other cages similar to my own, but they’re all empty. This is a prison.

  To avoid raising alarm to whoever, or whatever, captured me, I reluctantly claw away with my inadequate digits. Hand over hand at the perimeter of my cell with forced enthusiasm. The deadfall layered over the soil brushes away with a few swipes, and the ground below is softer than my seasoned hands, making for an inspiring start. I trust these roots aren’t too deep before they thin out and become frail enough to tug free. I dig at a steady pace, throwing the dirt between my legs like a mutt heedlessly digging after a grounded rodent. The pile behind me grows at a rapid pace and so does my escape route. The cage was impressive at first glance, but now I’m wondering who the idiot is that created it. Even the lowest of creatures would discover that digging would set them free.

  Soon, the hole is large enough to sit in. I shake the bars, but it does nothing to loosen them. I grab onto one of the bars with both hands and place my feet against the bank of dirt I’ve created outside the cage. I yank, but the bar won’t budge. I must go deeper yet. I carry on, allowing myself no time for rest. My jailer could return at any moment.

  As I get deeper, the bars bend inward, making the cage tighter, and they aren’t getting any thinner as I suspected. I’m determined, so I keep at it. They can’t go on forever. No jailer would waste the energy on such a cage unless it were for a Cryptid. But who would capture a Cryptid? Cryptids deserve death, not captivity.

  I pause, finding myself standing upright in a hole deeper and wider than I am tall. My fingertips ache and I presume they’re bleeding underneath the thick layer of mud crusted over them. I ravage the bars, trying to bend or break them in any way, without success. They are as solid as ever. Could it be possible they were not only manipulated to grow but petrified as well? If that were the case, I should be able to snap them due to the length and natural brittleness of petrified wood.

  I leap into the air and throw both my feet at the bars. I ricochet off, landing flat on my back. I lie there a long moment after, filling my lungs with air. But I’m not defeated. I won’t be defeated. I prop myself up and concede to the fact they’re not petrified, just extremely strong roots.

  I revert back to being impressed with the architect of this forsaken cell. What I’m not impressed with is the son of a bitch who left me to die in it. The son of a bitch who left me to die… Someone had to have put me in here, so where’s the door. There must be an opening somewhere. They had to have opened it to put me in here because no Sprhowt, not in this age, is talented enough to manipulate this kind of cage overnight.

  After climbing free from my hole, I bat at every root with the palm of my hand as I circle the cell. It doesn’t take long for me to discover every root is alive and well, unbreakable, relentless. There are no doors. No hinges. There is no way out. I slump to the ground, unknowing what to do. Defeated. No, not defeated. I am Goose the Great! I am never defeated. I will figure this out. But how?

  “Is that it?” A chipper voice from an unknown source speaks out.

  “Who’s there?” I call out in anger. “Show yourself!”

  “You can try harder, can you not? You’ve plowed some mud and beat the wood like an eager, aroused old man. There’s more to life than that, lad.” The hidden captor bursts into laughter, making me even more irate.

  “Show yourself. Why have you locked me in here? What have I done?” I rise and circle the cell, unaware of which direction the voice is coming from.

  “You’re a Regal Rider, riding a stallion as if you’re the head of a battalion, looking like a tatterdemalion and aiming for a medallion. And that screams danger to the Redcliffe Guardians.” More senseless laughter erupts.

  Great! A damned lunatic has captured me. “So, what you’re saying is you locked me up because I look dangerous?
”

  “Ah, not a light-hearted soul, I can see,” squeaks the unknown voice.

  “I’m trapped in your cage! Of course I’m not light-hearted about this.” A tailless rat drops from the top of my cell, arousing a hunger in my gut. “Look. I’m flattered you think me a threat, but I’m not a Regal Rider and I’m not dangerous.” I know there’s nothing useful in my cell, but I search regardless, looking for anything to trap that rat. “Not to those who aren’t my enemy, I must add.”

  “And how do I know I am not your enemy?” Just outside my cell, the rat is parading back and forth on its hind legs and waving its forelegs about as the man speaks.

  Am I going mad? No, it’s just a coincidence, I tell myself. I answer the faceless voice while glaring at the increasingly annoying rat. “Because I only have one enemy, and he isn’t a hermit. He lives among society like normal folk. In fact, I will be so bold to say he is the tyrant controlling the pawns of this realm. But not me. He’ll never control me.”

  “The Taoiseach is your enemy?” The rat stops in its tracks and faces me, poking his pointy head through the bars. It raises its paw, fixing its gaze on me, and points. “That is a bold comment when you don’t know to whom you speak, young lad.”

  “Oh hell…why is this rat talking to me? Have I been poisoned?” I think aloud. And for some reason I answer his question, making eye contact with the rat. “Yes, he is my enemy. I have my reasons, and he is aware of them. And what’s it to a little pest like you? What do you care?”

  “Rat? This is Chippie, the Tailless Avenger you speak to. Not a rat. A squirrel. Young lad, you need a father figure in your life,” squeaks the voice. “You should not speak so ill about that which you know nothing of. A squirrel or a rat are not pests. A squirrel is an intelligent and prized asset in the world we live in.”

  The rat-squirrel is now waving its forearms up and down as if I’ve angered it. What in Susy’s four hells is happening?

  Unexpectedly, an elderly man drops from the top of the cage. I shuffle backward, having thought I was losing my mind talking only to a rat. His feet plant firmly into the ground with strength and finesse. With his tall stature, lanky appendages, and leathered and sagging skin, he’s much nimbler than a man his age should be. His attire, however, is much more youthful than his physical characteristics, resembling that of a jester. Greyish bark plates guard his shins, thighs, forearms, biceps, and chest. Each includes a bright painting of an animal—all different. His shoulders are capped with horned turtle shells, and his groin is covered with a grass kilt. Atop his head, maybe entwined into his hair, is a crown of miniature palms. And behind all his juvenile armor, somehow, he exudes a confidence.

  “If you are not a Regal Rider, then why the regal beast?”

  I look down at the squirrel—sort of an assurance I haven’t gone mad—then back to the man. Both are staring at me with their arms crossed. Then I see the old man’s lips move, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Not many drifters travel with a beast of such luxury, you know. Did you steal it?” He continues his interrogation without acknowledging the quirkiness of his unveiling.

  Who is this jester?

  “The tiger is not mine, but I did not steal it either,” I reply, chin up and chest out. “He was left in my care, and I will see to it nothing happens to him. That’s your warning.”

  “Ooh, a boisterous lad. But deep down, I’m certain your sad. For you’re all alone, trapped in a cell, by a man who could be your grandad. Whom you believe to be raving mad. But you should know, this cell was designed by an—”

  “Enough! Enough with the rhymes! What’s your game?”

  The squirrel climbs up one of the cage bars and starts chirping at me from above. I look around for something, anything, to throw at it. My stomach rumbles.

  “No game. I simply inquire.”

  “There’re more of you. Yes? You’re not alone in this wood?”

  “Of course not,” he squeaks. “Did I not mention the Redcliffe Guardians? Are you deaf or dull?”

  “Neither. Are you a crazy old coot?” There’s nothing within reach except pine needles and dirt, so I give up on what would be a lousy breakfast anyways. Rodent is a beggar’s meal.

  “Ah, that I am, but I’m not alone.” He responds with a grin then physically wipes it away with his hand before promptly continuing his interrogation. “So, if you have a tiger as a companion, what’s with the stallion? Why not ride the regal beast?”

  “If your eyes worked, you would see that regal beast is far too seasoned. The stallion was lent to me by a generous man who believed I was on a justified path.”

  “Believed in you, or your ‘justified path’? And to do what?”

  “Too many questions.”

  “We choose to know who roams our wood.”

  “So, you lock up any traveler that enters this wood? Isn’t that a bit taxing?”

  “Not every traveler, just the ones who’ve no business here.”

  “Let me go, then. My business is in Greybark.”

  “Greybark?” The coot paces and massages his hairless chin. The squirrel bounces to the forest floor and paces alongside him. “Why Greybark? I here there’s not much to see save for a withering old village and a grumpy old goat.”

  “I seek Old Lady Windblown. I’ve been told she resides there. I hear she’s full of wisdom, and wisdom is what I seek.”

  “Wisdom, huh? You’re more likely to get modsiw out of her. Everything she says is backwards or in riddles.”

  I stare at him, unsure how to respond to that comment.

  “What? She’s absolutely whacky. Crazy. Unhinged.”

  He’s either absolutely mad himself or a mad genius. I decide to bypass his games. “You know her, then?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Can you tell me how to reach her?”

  “Possibly. There’s really only one way to get there, but by the status of your current situation, I know you don’t have what it takes.”

  “I have what it takes. I always have what it takes.” This crazy jester assumes too much. He thinks of me as some incompetent fool.

  “Ah…you may be right. I’m not the best judge of character. But you can’t seem to escape a simple cage.”

  Dammit. I must escape this inane cell, if only to give this imbecile a wallop. There must be something. A mechanism to open a hatch or something. Stroking his squirrel, the old man watches as I inspect the cell.

  “Alright.” He throws his hands in the air, and the squirrel scampers to the side. “I’ll tell you how to get out if you tell me one thing. Why do you seek wisdom from the grumpy old goat?”

  I start from the beginning, explaining our escape into the Broken Forest and the false accusations. I continue to the point of Jaymes McLarin’s disappearance. When finished telling my story, he remains silent. I fail to read his expression and wait for something. Anything. He stares past me, and his lower jaw moves awkwardly as if he has some okra between his teeth. Is he judging me? Did he even listen? His jaw stops moving, and he stares for a moment longer without moving. What is this? Has he some form of spontaneous paralysis?

  “Sorry, nut wedged in my teeth,” he says solemnly. I don’t recall him chewing any nuts. I look to his feet and see the squirrel gnawing on one. “You’re not worthy,” he adds.

  “I am, so thank you for the delusional judgement, but will you get me out of here now?” My stomach roars with impatience. “And if you have some extra nuts…” I rub my gut.

  “What nuts?”

  “The nuts you just said were wedged in your teeth?” My brow lowers. He does the same. “You are delusional, aren’t you? Do you even know how to get me out of this cell?”

  “Your intentions are candid.” His high voice grasps a lower tone. The squirrel rises to perch on his shoulder and calmly eyes me, as does the old man. “A bit arrogant, selfish, malicious, but genuine. You said Advocate Gunther Wormbit sent you?”

  I nod.

&nbs
p; A long silence fills the air. “I will help you.”

  “You will? Great! How do I get out of here?”

  “But only because I believe our current leader has been tainted by his tenacity. He sees past that which he protects. And all of Azure may suffer the consequences of his ignorance if there isn’t fruition. You have an honest purpose that takes courage. Courage that many don’t posses, and that is why I’m going to help you. You may just be the fruit we need.”

  “Fruit?”

  “Yeah, I’m hungry too.” He pulls an apple from somewhere beneath his grass kilt and offers it to me. “I suppose you can have mine.”

  I cringe but extend an open hand to accept it.

  “H-hoh man…” The old coot erupts with laughter. “You are hungry. Now I know why you were eyeing Chippie. Here.” He reaches above his head, palm opened wide, and an apple falls into it. “Have this one instead.” He tosses it to me. “You’re a Sprhowt, are you not?”

  I nod in agreement, my mouth full of red apple—my least favorite, too grainy, but I’m still grateful.

  “A Sprhowt, and you’re not aware how to escape your cell?” His lips purse as he shakes his head. “An infant in the world of Azure, thanks to the Taoiseach. Knowledge of the Seasonal Sciences has dwindled under his long reign. Every generation understands less and less. The education system, I presume, which he controls. If you are worthy, you will know more than he would like. You will be a threat. Do you understand?”

  “My life or his.” I nod.

  “Now…unlike all other talents, a Greenthumb can work it both ways.” He swings his hips front to back with a disturbing grin. “Accretion…” Forward thrust. “Reduction…” Reverse thrust. “Accretion…” Forward thrust. “Red—"

  “Come now. That doesn’t suit me. Plus, you’re a hundred seasons my elder. You’re sure to snap a femur, or some ribs. Your days are done.”