by David Estes
Mortis couldn’t be certain whether she was playing him for a fool or not, but he’d seen enough wonders from these people that he knew not to doubt her. “I’m thirty-two,” he said. “Wait, thirty-three, I think. Time passes differently now.”
She looked at him, her gaze never wavering. It was something she did sometimes, and he’d learned not to look away. It once made him uncomfortable, but not anymore.
Finally, she said, “Time passes the same as it always did. You just perceive it differently.”
Logically, he knew that, but it didn’t feel that way. He waved the truth away, juice dripping from the plum. Took another bite. “You can’t keep me locked up forever,” he said.
“Can’t I?”
He shook his head. “I’ll die of old age before you ever do, and then you’ll be stuck with a rotting corpse. The smell alone, can you imagine?”
“Are all humans so amusing?” she asked.
“Nay. Just me.”
“Are you ready for your history lesson?”
He was. Over the last week, Sparrow had taught him the Orians’ history, from over a century ago when the forest was just a forest, and they were just like humans—“But with better hygiene habits,” Sparrow liked to joke. He’d learned how the mistakes of a foolish man had unwittingly unlocked the secrets of the forest’s underground ore deposits, how over centuries they’d learned to channel the ore, and the changes it had wrought in them, from their hair and eye color, to their physical prowess, to their long lives.
“Today we’re talking about humans,” she announced.
Mortis frowned. “I already know about humans.”
“But not why we hate them.”
When she spoke bluntly like this, it always stung. Though Mortis had seen the great kindness her people could offer, he’d also seen the potential for harsh action, hidden behind their japes and laughter.
“Because we must control things,” he said, remembering what she’d said the first time he’d met her. The day he was almost eaten by a tree.
“Because you must conquer,” she corrected.
He couldn’t argue with that. Even his own people—the Crimeans—had sought to conquer the colonists when they tried to break free. And the colonists had tried to conquer the south and the east. It was the way of men, he knew.
“We’re not all like that,” he argued. The only thing he’d wanted was Scarlett’s heart, and even that had been taken away from him.
By a man who wanted to conquer her, he realized. Anger flowed through him, as it often did when he thought about Lord Farley. The anger was the only thing keeping him from shattering like crushed glass. Well, and these daily history lessons, he had to admit.
His anger faded when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sparrow had moved closer and was looking at him, touching him. She leaned forward and kissed him.
For a moment he was stunned, the warmth of her lips against his, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into her, to move against her, to feel her arms around him…
He pulled away, shoving her back, shocked by the intensity of his feelings. She must’ve done something…used the magic of this place, or the ore, something, to bewitch him. “What are you doing?” he said, wiping at his mouth.
The mouth that had only ever known the lips of one other woman. Though he scrubbed at his lips, he could still taste Sparrow, sweet and fruity from her breakfast, and he hated that it was a good taste.
Her eyes narrowed. “She’s dead,” Sparrow said, and though the words were cruel, her tone was not. Only matter of fact. “I am not. Why be alone?” She didn’t look angry at having been rejected. Not at all. More than anything, she looked…curious.
And you’re interesting…like a new bug.
Her words and the neutral manner in which she spoke them only angered him more. “I don’t want to replace her. I don’t want anything. Leave me alone.”
She licked her lips, seeming to consider. Those lips that had tasted so frustratingly good.
Somewhere deep inside him, Mortis had known Sparrow was beautiful—devastatingly beautiful—but until now it was as if his mind and heart hadn’t processed it. But now…
“Go,” he said again.
She shook her head. “I will not. We haven’t finished your history lesson.”
For the rest of the day, she talked about war. To Mortis’s surprise, learning about the wars of Orians and men snuffed out what was left of his anger, leaving him cold inside.
Three months later
Mortis was no longer a prisoner. He hadn’t been for some time. And though some of the Orians still glared at him when they saw him, even pretended to nock invisible arrows to invisible bows and shoot him through the throat or eyes, most were pleasant—even kind—to him.
He did his best to help them, learning to climb the tall trees into the highest boughs to find the sweetest fruit, offering them into the general supply and accepting his portion. They didn’t need him to collect the fruit, as any of their children could do so far more efficiently than he, but that wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was that he tried.
Sparrow, to her credit, had never tried to kiss him again, nor had she held any grudge. They were fast friends, spending long hours in each other’s company. He’d taught her about the ways of humans, and she’d reciprocated with lessons in archery and demonstrations of ore channeling. She’d even introduced him to her favorite ore panther, which had apparently wanted to eat him for some time, but which would now make an exception. Lucky me, he’d thought.
Now, Mortis hung from a long vine just beneath Sparrow. The vine was swinging at breakneck speed, hurtling for one of the platforms—
“Jump!” Sparrow cried, and Mortis did, because the only other choice was to slam into the metal trunk of the tree.
He flew through the air, his arms flapping wildly as if they would turn into wings and help him cover the distance. The distance which now appeared impossibly far. Still, his weight and momentum carried him forward and for a moment he thought he might make it.
But then he didn’t, his fingertips scraping against the platform’s edge, unable to gain purchase as he slid away. Sparrow landed above him with the barest of thumps and reached for him a second too late, only able to watch him fall.
His scream lodged in his throat and his heart smashed into from behind, followed quickly by his lungs and stomach.
With a jolt, his fall was arrested by something that gripped his ankles hard enough to hurt. He twisted upside down and swung awkwardly, narrowly avoiding a collision with a tree. Like a pendulum finishing its arc, he stopped, before gaining momentum in the opposite direction, once more brushing past the tree with mere inches to spare.
When he finally stopped swinging, he found himself staring up at Sparrow, who channeled the ore rope back up to her fingertips, setting him gently on the platform on his back.
He looked up at her and every detail seemed magnified:
Her eyes not just green, but turquoise, too, like the waters of the ocean near the shore; the silver hairs of each brow etched in perfect lines to create the whole of each arch, which mirrored her expressions so closely; her lips, pale pink in the shape of the wings of a butterfly; the crest of her armor as it curled around her chin, her ears, her brow…
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
“Shall we go again?”
She smiled. “Aye. But try to land on the platform this time.”
Ten years later
When Mortis Ironclad thought back over the years, they seemed much like the wind. Remembered, felt, but unseen, moving so quickly they were gone before he could catch them.
The last decade of his life had been good. Pleasant even. Though he would never be an Orian, they had accepted him into the fold, or at least learned to live with his presence in Ironwood. In the early days, Sparrow had warded off any threats, and eventually she didn’t need to anymore.
Ironwood felt like home now,
a thought that surprised him. Strange that a woodcutter would find happiness in a forest of metal. Then again, he was no longer a woodcutter, but an architect. His field of expertise was iron defenses. Though he didn’t have the ability to channel ore himself, he knew forests, having spent most of his life within them. And he knew humans, who continued to be the greatest danger to the Orians’ way of life. Their primary enemy was the Calypsians, who apparently had a growing brood of new dragons, which they called the dragonia. Once they were full-size, history told there was every possibility they would attack. A lesser threat came from the west, where the independent colonists continued to expand further and further across the plains. At least they haven’t sent more military forces, Mortis often thought.
He’d become a student of history, learning every detail about the wars of the past, the victories the Orians had won—and the defeats they’d suffered—and how to overcome the tactics of both the Calypsians and Crimeans, if it came to that.
Daily, he worked with the top Orian ore channelers to build ore defenses into their borders. He wanted Ironwood to feel like a fortress, so the occupants could feel safe. And so I can feel safe, he admitted inwardly, watching as a new shield defense was tested against a full battery of Orian archers.
Positioned off to the side, he held his breath, hoping for more success than the last test. Once he’d believed Ironwood to be impenetrable, but that wasn’t really true. The ore defenses were only as good as the Orians channeling the iron, and Orians could be killed. The more who fell under an enemy attack, the weaker the defenses became. Which was why proper shielding was so important.
The archers fired, aiming at different heights—a common tactic used by the Calypsians.
Broad shields burst from the trees, shooting out in sheets and connecting, creating more of a wall than a collection of shields. Arrows deflected off the metal, falling harmlessly to the ground. Even the highest arcing shots were blocked.
But that was the easy part. Mortis released his breath slowly, watching as the Orian “attackers” split into two separate forces racing in opposite directions, trying to flank the newly established wall.
High above the ground, the Orian channelers took off, charging along the narrow bridges that now spanned the entirety of this side of the forest. As they ran, they extended the wall, gritting their teeth as they poured everything they had into the effort. Behind them, the wall vanished. In a real battle, more channelers would be used so the wall could be kept intact—or at least that was the thinking.
Mortis wondered how many channelers it would take to stop an army of a thousand. Or ten thousand. And if they had dragons…
He swallowed the thought, concentrating as the split groups of archers fired once more. This time they shot on the run, which was a skill it was likely their enemies would not be able to mimic, but they could perhaps shoot from horseback, or from the backs of their guanik, the reptilian beasts the Calypsians favored, which Mortis had never seen.
Once again, the arrows were deflected, save for perhaps a few that slipped past just ahead of the growing wall.
The test continued like that for an hour, with different tactics used by the archers to breach the defenses. When the test was finished, it was deemed an outright success.
“Nine arrows got through,” Sparrow announced, holding them bundled together in a fist. She wore a smile as she strode toward him, her gait lithe and graceful. She looked much the same as she had when he’d met her a decade earlier, though her hair was longer now—she’d finally cut it only after it had surpassed her waist.
Sparrow was his best friend and partner on the defense project.
“Better than nine hundred like last time,” he said as she stopped, dropping the metal arrows to the ground at his feet.
She snorted. “Aye. We’re making progress.”
He could hear the unspoken words behind the statement. But it’s not enough. Mortis wondered how it could ever be enough. Ironwood was simply too large to defend. Their enemies could come from any direction at any time. And if they had dragons…
“We need more channelers,” Mortis said.
“There are no more.”
That, he knew. Although every Orian was born with the ability to channel ore, he’d learned over time that some had a greater propensity for it. Only the best were able to perform at the level of channeling required for their defenses. Sparrow was one of them.
Mortis ran a hand through his hair, which was beginning to sprout stalks of gray. Unlike the Orians, he felt like he was growing older by the day, his bones creaking, his muscles sore.
“We will work with what we have,” he finally said. Sparrow was standing so close it would be so easy to reach out and touch her.
Easy, but not simple.
He resisted the urge and she stepped back. It was so like her to realize the moment he became uncomfortable, and though she laughed it away and feigned a punch to his shoulder, Mortis knew her well enough to see the slight hurt she felt, her cheeks pinking.
He wanted to say he was sorry he was haunted by ghosts. He wanted to say he was sorry he wasn’t a better man.
Instead, he said nothing and she turned away, off to debrief the channelers.
After a moment of listening to his heart pounding twice as fast as usual, he followed her.
Mortis didn’t know why he’d been summoned before the Orian Council, but he couldn’t think of any good reasons.
They’ve finally decided to banish me.
They’re going to forbid me from seeing Sparrow.
They’re going to put me back in a cage.
They were ridiculous thoughts that had no anchor in reality, but he couldn’t keep them from rattling around in his brain.
The broad iron pathway through the forest seemed to narrow, though Mortis was fairly certain it was his imagination, because just as he felt the trees closing in, the trail spilled into a large clearing. He didn’t require measurements to be certain it was a perfect circle, ringed by iron trees that felt more like columns. Pillars that seemed to hold some unknown weight from coming crashing down on his head.
The Council awaited, a group of five comprised of one man and four women.
He approached the armored group of Orian elders—their combined age exceeding a thousand years—subconsciously sticking out his chin and preparing for the worst.
Then he spotted Sparrow standing off to the side and he flinched, stopping. She wasn’t old enough to be an elder, and they rarely invited guests to their councils.
Yet she is here.
The look on her face was surely intended to be neutral, a practiced expression of nonchalance that once, many years ago, he would’ve had trouble reading. But not anymore. Now he could lift away the shroud and see the barest hint of fear in her narrowed eyes and pursed lips.
Suddenly, all the worst-case scenario thoughts fell away, replaced by something darker and full of shadows.
“What has happened?” Mortis said.
The unspoken leader of the Council, Sanspool, beckoned him forward, but Mortis’s feet felt impossibly heavy, like they’d been surrounded by the ore that ran beneath him like an underground river.
Sanspool sighed. She was a tall and wiry woman, as many of the Orian were. Her hair was jet black but with natural streaks of gold. Her eyes were the color of fire. “Your people are gathering to the west,” she said. She leaned forward slightly, as if she wanted to step closer but was as stuck as Mortis felt.
Your people. It was one of several habits that even time had been unable to break. “They aren’t my people,” Mortis said. “They haven’t been for a long time.”
“But you don’t want to kill them.”
It sounded more like a statement than a question, but Mortis felt compelled to answer anyway. “Do you? Why does anyone have to kill anyone?” He knew he sounded naïve, but he didn’t care. On one tumultuous night more than ten years ago, he’d had more of death than one lifetime should have.
“If
they attack Ironwood…”
“Then we must defend ourselves. Of that, we are in agreement. But they haven’t, not yet.” He was being naïve again, but it was the only way he’d managed to do his job for so many years. He preferred to believe it was the Calypsians who would eventually attack, not the westerners.
One of the other council members, Jenai, placed a comforting hand on Sanspool’s shoulder. If Sanspool reminded Mortis of fire, Jenai was ice, her hair pale blue with eyes to match. The two women were bondmates, and, regardless of their age, as a pair they were a force to be reckoned with. “This isn’t why we asked you here,” she said.
Right. Of course not. This was never meant to be a conversation, nor a debate. “Then your decision is made,” he said. He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone.
“You misunderstand,” Jenai said. “Please reserve your comments until you have heard the full story.”
He gritted his teeth, blowing his breath through his nostrils, but nodded.
Sanspool said, “As you know, we have spies across the Spear.”
He did know, and they brought back tales of expansion, colonies springing up month by month, year by year, pushing further east, like a net closing in on Ironwood. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
“The west is changing. Verner Gäric is dead, and—”
“He’s been dead for a year, and his son…” This was old news, word of the western ruler’s passing fading away months ago.
“His son is no longer in Knight’s End,” Sanspool said before he could continue his thought.
Oh no. Though the elder Gäric was an old man and would’ve never left the capital city, the younger would have boundless energy. He would want to build his legacy. Conquest was one way to do that.
“He’s not leading an army,” Sanspool said, as if she’d read his mind. “He’s gone north.”
“What?”