Venom and Song

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “You’re right,” said Tommy. “Grimwarden called them Silver Mattisbough. The entrance to Nightwish was somewhere in the middle of them.”

  Something snapped in the forest.

  Bear’s entire body tensed, the hackles on his back standing up. Autumn leaped down just as Bear rumbled out a low growl. The Seven took his warning and prepared to strike, senses alert. In the clearing they were exposed, the closest cover more than fifty yards away. The afternoon sun illuminated them, easy targets.

  “Maybe it’s just a wee squirrel or something,” Jimmy offered up in a whisper. “Bah, I can’t see what’s going to happen.”

  But Tommy shook his head. “That was no squirrel,” he said. “Bear doesn’t think so, either.”

  “Wait,” Jimmy said, holding a hand to his forehead. “There!” He pointed to a spot among the trees at the two o’clock position. The others looked, waiting for whatever Jimmy saw to catch up with present time. And then a lone Elf emerged from the woods, bow at the ready. He stood motionless for three beats and then raised a hand. And with it, more than one-hundred Elves emerged from the forest in a circle around the Seven and Bear.

  “We are sorry, m’lords.” The lead Elf crossed his wrists and bowed, the rest of the group following his lead. “But we had to be sure. Endurance and Victory.”

  “Endurance and Victory,” Tommy said, stepping forward.

  Kat reached up and patted the wolf on the shoulder. “It’s all right, Bear. They’re friends.” He seemed to ease at her touch, but still took his protection of his new friends very seriously.

  The lead Elf stood at Tommy’s command and introduced himself. “I am Mathinil, flet soldier of the Third Order, Commander of the Twelfth, ordered by Guardmaster Travin.”

  “Guardmaster?” Kat inquired. “But Grimwarden is—”

  “Thank you, Mathinil,” answered Tommy. “We are grateful for your service. I am Lord Vel—”

  “We know, sire. We have been expecting you.” Mathinil stood aside and gestured with his hand into the woods from which he had emerged. “If you please.”

  The words we have been expecting you did not settle well with Tommy, or any of the others for that matter. They were each aware of the elders’ plot to thrust them into battle. With Grimwarden, Goldarrow, and Alwynn gone, they feared the powers that now controlled the Elven survivors of Berinfell. And the fact that the elders had replaced Travin as the new Guardmaster confirmed Grimwarden’s death. Travin had been loyal to Grimwarden . . . but would his loyalties still be true given the circumstances?

  The Seven walked into the shade of the forest. They’d made it back to Nightwish, but they did not know what to expect. Bear followed them in, wary of the flet soldiers who filled in behind him. They walked for no more than a minute before Mathinil stopped beside a cluster of large boulders, the leader indicating a small cave behind a latticework of brush.

  “You are fond of this creature?” asked Mathinil.

  “Very much so,” said Autumn.

  “Yeah, we are,” said Jett.

  “Well, not all of us,” mumbled Jimmy.

  “I see,” said Mathinil, clearly troubled. “I . . . I, uh, don’t think it wise to bring it inside. The tunnels are cramped and there are children about. But you are the lords. We will do as you wish.”

  “No, that’s okay,” said Tommy. “You’re probably right. But please see to it that he is watered and fed.”

  “As you command,” said Mathinil.

  Woof, WOOF! Bear turned toward Jimmy, shot out his tongue, and knocked the Elf off his feet. Then Bear turned, leaped over the flet soldiers, and disappeared into the woods.

  “Oh, Bear!” Autumn yelled. “Oh, come back!”

  Bear did not return. “We’ll see him again,” said Johnny. “I know we will.”

  “I hope not,” said Jimmy, wiping gobs of wolf saliva off his face.

  The long tunnel wound its way deep underground, intersecting others, growing larger and larger as it went. Finally it spit the entourage out into the northernmost section of Nightwish Caverns, standing on a ledge overlooking the entire city.

  Like before, the incredible blue light filled the room, shining from the luminous rocks used to contain dremask. But unlike before, shafts of daylight mixed with the otherworldly hue: radiant beams of sunshine let in through large holes delved through the sandstone above.

  But more shocking was the state of the Elven underworld. Where before the Elves went about their daily tasks, trapped in the dark routines of the subterranean, everywhere they looked their people were mobilizing for war. Whatever preparations had been stockpiled over the last eight centuries, they were being readied now. Weapons and armor were assembled and organized in various sections of the city: sword blades, spear points, arrowheads, and axe blades fresh from the forge fires were taken to carpenters who affixed handles and arrow shafts; cured leather as hard as rock was pulled from the tanneries and passed off to metalworkers who bound the plates with chain mail; long bows and short bows were sanded to a stonelike luster before being married to the high-tensile bowstrings that the Elves had perfected over thousands of years of use. Helmets were buffed, daggers were sharpened, and sword weights were tested. The Elves took great care and accepted nothing but the highest quality.

  Hearth fires spewed out dark smoke, laden with the scents of meat, vegetables, and spices. Vats of an Elven drink called lychestine were being emptied into canteens, as were the fresh pools fed by the underwater aquifers. Dates, apples, and berries plundered from the forest above—now with renewed confidence, despite the previous week’s reported attack on Whitehall—were packed along with the wrapped meats and canteens into backpacks, ready to accompany the growing army that could been seen swelling in the streets.

  And with all the sights and sounds of life also came the foreboding feeling that things were accelerating out of control. Tommy felt a knot tighten in his stomach, growing worse when Mathinil produced a horn from his belt and gave a single long blast.

  The entire city below came to an abrupt stop and looked to where the new arrivals stood.

  “Elves of Nightwish”—Mathinil’s voice boomed out over the cavern as he raised a hand to indicate his company—“our lords have returned!”

  Memories of their first arrival in Nightwish flooded back as the city streets erupted in adoration of the Seven Lords. The people pumped whatever was in their hands in the air—swords, spears, bows . . . fists if nothing else. Children ran through the streets with flags, women fluttering blankets from second- and third-story windows. But it was not the same. It would never be the same. While the cheering persisted, Mathinil turned and led the Seven down a wide staircase that hugged the cavern wall. They crossed the river and descended into the city streets among throngs of ardent followers. And with every step the lords took toward the Great Hall, their anxiety mounted, unsure of what reception might await them within.

  They all waved, despite their inward feelings, realizing their outward appearance must have looked more befitting of trained warriors, what with months of Vexbane training behind them. Their stature and resolve alone were a far cry from the seven middle-school students who first floated into this hall, wide-eyed and speechless.

  The lords tousled the hair of children and smiled at doting mothers. The men of the city offered forearms for the shaking, or dipped their heads out of reverence for their superiors in both royalty and now fighting skills. And all the while the Great Hall grew larger, now looming high overhead. What waited within was anyone’s guess; the Seven were prepared for a fight. Going to war against the Spider King was hard enough, but marching on Vesper Crag without the map would be near impossible, and with Manaelkin in place of Grimwarden or Goldarrow? A death wish.

  Mathinil took them inside the passage of the Great Hall and shut out the boisterous world behind them with the closing of the massive wooden doors. Then he disappeared into the council room, giving a quick, “I’ll be right back, m’lords.”

  To
mmy looked to the others, alone in the anteroom.

  “I don’t like it,” Kat said, her face fixed on the council room door.

  Suddenly there were loud shouts from within. Shouts and the banging of a gavel. “Manaelkin, no doubt,” grumbled Tommy. The others nodded. “But we have a job to do, and I for one am not going to let some two-faced coward dictate—”

  “If you please, m’lords,” came Mathinil’s voice from the opened door. “The council will see you now.”

  The Seven shared a secret glance. “Here goes,” said Tommy, taking a step forward. What he saw took his breath away.

  “Good of you to join us, Lord Felheart,” boomed a familiar voice. Grimwarden! And beside him sat Elder Alwynn and Elle Goldarrow, all rising to their feet to welcome the Seven.

  Tommy stammered for a moment before finally managing the words, “You’re—you’re alive! I can’t believe it!” The lords filed into the room and spread out around the central table, trying both to ascertain the strangeness of the scene as well as Grimwarden’s, Goldarrow’s, and Alwynn’s presence. “We thought you were—”

  “Dead?” interrupted Alwynn. “We would have been, had it not been for Grimwarden here.” He patted the battle chief on the shoulder. “In any event, we’re glad you have returned.”

  “We are, too!” exclaimed Kat, tears bursting and running down her cheeks. She strode around the chair backs and embraced Grimwarden, who didn’t quite know how to receive the gesture at first, but eventually relented and hugged her back.

  When the others had finished greeting their favorite teachers and politician, Grimwarden indicated the high-backed chairs and they all took their seats, all but Grimwarden. He drew his rychesword and bellowed, “Vex lethdoloc vitica anis. Wy feithrill e’ Ellos abysscrahl nyas!”

  “We are not Wisps,” said Kat.

  “Yes,” said Grimwarden. “I know that . . . now for certain. But we cannot afford to be burned again.”

  “But where are the others? Where is the council?” Tommy sat up, noticing the empty chairs.

  “We may have time to discuss our escape from Whitehall and your expeditions at a later date,” Grimwarden said. “But for now, I shall answer your question as simply as possible, Lord Felheart. Alwynn here is the last of the elders. All of them, including Manaelkin, were killed during the surprise assault on Whitehall.”

  “I proposed to the others that I run back to see how you fared,” Autumn put in. “But when I arrived, I found Whitehall destroyed by the hands of Gwar and Warspiders.” Her memories resurfaced, the images filling her mind. “We thought you’d all been killed.”

  “It was a horrific sight,” said Alwynn. “I wish you had not seen it.”

  “So let me get this straight”—Jett said, leaning forward—“all the elders but Alwynn here are dead? Gone?”

  “I am afraid so,” said Grimwarden.

  “Afraid so?” Jimmy nearly exploded out of his seat. “But that’s perfect! No more opposition, no one to try and thwart our plans, we answer only to—”

  But Grimwarden’s glare stopped him cold. “The elders may have differed in their views, but they were still our brothers. And I mourn their loss, as well as the light of their collective wisdom being snuffed out too soon. We now care for widows and fatherless children who grieve. We dare not rejoice.”

  Jimmy suddenly felt quite ashamed. As did the rest of them. Grimwarden, of course, was right. And once again he proved his position by choosing compassion when he could have chosen righteous indignation.

  “Forgive me,” Jimmy said, lowering his head.

  “Forgive us all,” Tommy added, recognizing the community of thought.

  “It is forgiven,” said Alwynn. “For now, we”—he motioned to himself, Goldarrow, and Grimwarden—“will serve as your elder council until more members can be selected.”

  “I’m down with that!” said Jett.

  Alwynn was puzzled. “What’s down?”

  “Nevermind,” Goldarrow said to the elder, waving it off. “We must turn to the matters at hand, m’lords.”

  “Vesper Crag?” asked Jimmy.

  The three elders at the table nodded, and the Seven felt a cool shiver go up their spines. The time had come at last.

  “Preceding our attack, there are still two vital components missing, I fear,” said Grimwarden.

  Goldarrow addressed the Seven. “Neither Nelly nor Regis has returned with the map.” The Seven shared a worried look.

  Tommy spoke up. “Do you still think the map is necessary?”

  Grimwarden nodded. “Essential, Lord Felheart. Without it, we would rely on brute force alone. An attack of that nature would invite utter failure given we are the aggressors on foreign territory, not defenders.”

  “What’s the other bad news?” asked Johnny.

  “Unless you have news we don’t know of, we still don’t know where the Keystone is.”

  “WE FOUND IT!” the Seven belted in one voice. The elders jerked back in their seats with surprise. The three of them were like little children.

  “You did indeed?” Goldarrow leaned forward. “What, what is it?”

  “Do you have it with you?” Grimwarden inquired, his hands nearly twitching.

  “Sadly, no,” said Tommy. “It was lost in a cave-in.”

  “Cave-in?” Goldarrow was horrified.

  “We barely escaped,” said Autumn. “If it weren’t for Bear . . .”

  “Bear?” asked Goldarrow.

  “Actually, he’s a wolf,” said Jett.

  “A giant one,” added Jimmy.

  Grimwarden waved his hand before his face as if clearing a plume of smoke. “So, then, the Keystone is destroyed?”

  “Yes,” said Tommy.

  “But, Lord Felheart,” Alwynn pointed to him. “You seem far from concerned.”

  “Well, we took from it what we needed.”

  Grimwarden clapped his hands. “Good lad!” He thought better of his outburst. “Well done, I mean. Resourceful, just as I taught you, young lord.”

  “Indeed,” said Tommy.

  “And?” Goldarrow pressed him further.

  Tommy and the others went on to explain their introduction to the Gnomes, the subterranean fortress, and all the events surrounding the cistern, the Keystone, the Rainsong, Bear, and their narrow escape. Grimwarden was beaming with pride as he heard the account of the Seven working together and, against all odds, succeeding in their quest. His training had served them well. They all knew it.

  “I wish I could have seen it,” Goldarrow said wistfully.

  “As do I,” said Alwynn. Grimwarden nodded in assent.

  “So the lyrics,” said Goldarrow. “You have them?”

  “Yes,” said Kiri Lee. “I will require some parchment, a quill, and some ink right away.”

  “Yes, immediately.” Grimwarden looked to Alwynn, but the high cleric was already at the door to the chamber telling a flet soldier to fetch paper, quill, and ink.

  “We all know the Rainsong,” Kiri Lee indicated the other lords. “But I will need to teach them the melody.”

  “Especially me,” said Jimmy. “I canna’ sing worth dirt.”

  Kiri Lee smiled kindly at him and then turned back to the elders. “According to the prophecies, the Rainsong has great power.”

  “The Rainsong,” Alwynn nodded. “Oh, yes. Quite!” And rubbed his hands nervously. “May we—may we hear it now?”

  “Here?” said Kiri Lee, looking around. “Well, I don’t see why not. If it’s okay with everyone else.”

  “Indeed!” said Goldarrow. She glanced at Grimwarden.

  “Of course!”

  “Very well.” Kiri Lee cleared her throat. She closed her eyes, bringing the melody to the surface of her thoughts, and then drenched the lyrics, line by line, in the rich deluge of the song. When she opened her mouth, it was auditory color that everyone saw. Felt. Touched. It was as if she were painting with her words. Entranced by the sweetness of the tone, no one noticed th
e lights flickering, nor the subtle tremor in the ground, nor the smell of rain in the air.

  Grimwarden could not remember the last time anything had moved him as much as this song. There was power in the Rainsong, perhaps enough even to defeat the Spider King once and for all.

  31

  Battle of the Heart

  FOLLOWING KIRI Lee’s moving performance of the Rainsong from the day before, the Seven young lords and the elders engaged in a lengthy and, at points, heated argument. While the map of Vesper Crag’s inner-workings still eluded them, the manifestation of the Rainsong, as well as its apparent power, seemed to prompt the most impatient to war . . . especially Jimmy.

  “But we have it! Yu feel the power in it, just as I do.” Jimmy had his fist on the table. “I can’t believe that yu would prefer we wait for a trivial, and even mundane, piece of reconnaissance when compared to the supernatural power of the Rainsong!”

  “Trivial?” Grimwarden sat up. “Lord Thorwin, I have never said anything of the sort. I respect the power of the Rainsong, just as I respect the power of the prophecies. I would caution you of accusing me of anything less. However, I will say that in all battles, there are both elements supernatural AND natural. To be victorious, we are to be prepared on both fronts.”

  “I must agree with Guardmaster Grimwarden,” added Elle. “Wars are won with as many allies as might be found. There is nothing unspiritual about waiting for the map, just as there is nothing natural about using the Rainsong.”

  “So you would have us wait?” Tommy suggested.

  “Wait?” Grimwarden drummed his fingers on the table. “Yes, I would have it so, at least for a time. But ultimately, these orders are not mine to give. They are yours. Yes, Jimmy, even yours. For we”—he motioned to Alwynn and Elle—“are your advisors, not your dictators. We believe Ellos brought you back to us, and you are the fulfillment of the prophecies. I have done my best to train you in all the ways of war and discipline. Now the best we can do is advise you.”

  Jimmy began to argue more, but Tommy raised a hand toward him. “We thank you for your counsel,” he said, trying to sound lordly. Then, glancing at Jimmy, he went on to say, “While we are not old in years, we are passionate.” He gave a quiet laugh. “On Earth, we’d have said we’re stoked. I guess we feel like we’re ready now for what we’ve been called to do. And we intend to use the gift of our youth in battle. But while we are young, we lack the wisdom of years, and so . . . we look to you for it.”