Meedryk sat beside her. “That’s all right. Did you see anything about Transcendence?”
“It is a lot of complicated speaking,” she said. “The person who wrote it enjoys wandering on his way to the destination.”
“Yes,” said Meedryk. “He was a mage.”
“But it speaks of esereult.”
“Esserule?”
“Esereult. Barring and embracing,” she said. “A technique for concentrating and achieving great things.”
“It’s the same book, then,” said Meedryk. “The one I started reading when I was younger, the one written in Galadane. It started with stupid exercises like that, too. My father took the book away before I got more than a dozen pages in.”
“Esereult helps me very much, Meedryk. Perhaps it can help you too.”
“Will you read more?”
“Not tonight, Meedryk. I must care for the child.” She reached past the boy on her lap and took the pages from a sack. “They became wrinkled a little when I ran through the forest. I am sorry.”
Meedryk threw a hand over his mouth. The first page had torn free of the yarn binding. The other pages were creased and ruffled.
Aramaesia noted the expression in his eyes. “Perhaps you should keep them for a bit? You can give them back tomorrow and I will continue?”
Meedryk took the pages from her and tried to smooth them. “Yes. I’ll... I’ll bring them back tomorrow.” He turned to go, then paused and looked over his shoulder. “Thank you Aramaesia.”
†††
Grae dreamed that night of Cydoen. In the dream, he marched on the village with a full cluster, split them into five groups of twenty, as he had on that cruel day. He ordered four of the squads to attack from four different directions. Left the fifth mounted, and posted on a hill overlooking the village.
As he marched into the dream village, he heard the screams again. Heard the running feet. The first group of villagers stumbled into his men while fleeing the northern squad. Their eyes changed when they saw the new danger. From wild fear to the terrible knowledge of death. The eyes were the same as they had been on that day, but the villagers weren’t villagers. They were thrulls.
Grae and his men hacked them down like weeds, just as it had been. The screams were human screams, not the cries of thrulls. When the first one fell before him, in the dream, Grae noticed that it wore a mask. He dropped to his knees. Suspected he would find a human face behind that thrull mask. Willed himself not to reach out, but dreams have no mercy. His hand thrust forward. And when he removed the mask he didn’t see a human face—it was the face of an orchard pig.
The carnage continued around him. His men ran forward crying, Laraytia! And like they had four years ago, those cries became something savage. Women, human not thrull, were raped. Children were slaughtered. Men mangled and tortured and burned. The few who escaped were run down by the mounted Standards on the hill. Except for three men; each had one eye gouged out and then was sent running to spread the tale of what happened in Cydoen. Of what happens when Gracidmarians resist Laraytians.
In the dream he stopped with his first victim. He didn’t take part in the slaughter. He didn’t lead his men forward, killing everything that wasn’t Laraytian. He didn’t order the men to gather the heads of the fallen and pike them in a perimeter around the burned village. One hundred and thirty two heads. He didn’t help the men harvest the heads, cleave them from the lifeless bodies one at a time. He didn’t notice the dead, staring eyes of children, the arms of mothers locked around their offspring in death’s embrace.
In the dream, he only watched his men do these things. And when the village had burned to the ground, when the screams and whimpers of the wounded were silenced, he looked back and saw the victims lying in neat rows, deathstones behind them, hands folded across their chests. They were the victims from every one of the villages and towns that the Headsman had visited. Thousands of them. Their bodies stretched off into the distance as far as he could see in every direction. And on the ground before him lay the ivory-handled dagger belonging to Aramaesia’s cousin.
†††
“Sir, the trees are trembling.”
Grae stirred from his sleep at the sound of Hammer’s voice. Strange words. Perhaps dreams and reality had tangled. “The trees?” he rose from his haypad and dipped his hands in a bowl of water.
“Aye, sir. The trees are trembling. Was just a little at first, but now they’re trembling awful. Don’t like it. Think we should pack up quick.”
Grae dried his hands and pushed through the flap. Drissdie Hannish immediately began disassembling the officer’s tent. “Good lad,” Grae called.
The rest of the squad was grouped near the center of the camp, staring upward. Grae followed their gazes. The trees around them were massive, hundreds of feet tall. Trunks thick as castle towers. Gnarled limbs big-around as gatehouses. But there were plenty of trees of that size in the forest. What drew Grae’s attention were the bulbous growths that hung like goiters. Scores of them. As if the bark had sagged and swollen and filled with fluid. And it was these horrible boils that trembled.
“Sage?” Grae called. “The trees are trembling.”
“Aye, brig, sir,” he replied. “Not your normal tree behavior at all.”
“Any thoughts?”
“Yes, brig, sir. I’m thinking that quivering trees is an odd thing to wake up to.”
“Lord Aeren?” Grae called.
“It’s not the trees that are shaking,” the scholar replied. “It’s those dangling things. I’ve never seen anything like them, brig, sir. I would like to study them, with your permission.”
“Permission denied,” Grae said. “We don’t know if they’re dangerous.”
“We’re in Maug Maurai,” Shanks called. “Course they’re dangerous.”
Grae walked the circle of the camp, looking upward. The sacks didn’t look dangerous, but it was unsettling to watch them shiver.
Aramaesia smiled at Sage. “Perhaps the trees need to be tamed?”
Sage grinned, remembering the conversation he had with her while he climbed the colossal fueryk. He shook his fist upward. “Don’t make me come up there!”
“We should leave,” Grae said. “Everyone gather your belongings. Now. I want to be gone from here in a quarter bell. Meedryk, put out the fire. Hannish, tie up the extra spears when you’re done with my tent. Let’s move. Right n—”
Jjarnee Kruu’s mangled Galadane rose from the camp perimeter. “A thing comes! A thing comes with approach!”
Soldiers surged to their feet. Hefted weapons. Palmed helmets.
“Circle up!” Hammer called “One meter intervals! Move!”
Jjarnee bellowed a laugh and the soldiers slowed. Drissdie and Sage exchanged grins.
“I’m getting tired of that crossbowman’s jokes,” Hammer snarled.
“You will to see this!” Jjarnee shouted. “A thing of marvelous! You will to see this!”
Grae brushed past the men and stared through the narrow opening in the waist-high ramparts. Jjarnee Kruu stared back, his blazing smile shining.
And next to him was justice.
Chapter 6
There is no paradox greater than the reconciliation of Justice and Mercy. Of Blythwynn and Lojenwyne.
—Twilight man Huntley Bravon
Black Murrogar grinned, but there was no cheer in his eyes. “I lost a flock of sheep around here. You ladies seen any of ‘em?”
A long silence settled.
Then cheers.
“Black Murrogar!” Hammer’s voice cut through the ovation. “Grae, it’s Black Murrogar.”
Grae stared, unmoving as the soldiers hooted and pounded swords or spears against shields.
Black Murrogar is alive. Gods above, he’s alive.
The brig stared up into the canopy. Lojen was up there somewhere. Laughing. Or perhaps it was Blythwynn, thwarting the Headsman’s plans.
Black Murrogar is alive.
A
nd Grae would have to kill him.
He kept his eyes skyward, prayed to whichever deity was on his side. The branches quivered over his head. A crack formed, tearing the bark of one of the hanging goiters.
“Laraytia! Laraytia! Laraytia!” The soldiers shouted.
The great pulsing sacks on the branches trembled in time to the shouts. “Laraytia! Laraytia! Laraytia!” Another crack appeared in one of the quivering growths. Then another.
“Silence!” Grae bellowed, knowing he was only adding to the clamor. Praying that he was wrong about what was about to happen. Understanding now that Lojen and Blythwynn were at war, and the campground was to be the battlefield. “Silence!”
But it was too late.
The untamed trees fired the first volley in a war of gods.
†††
The first eruption deafened Grae. A mind-shattering blast that fractured his composure. Left him spitting half-formed orders that he could neither hear nor articulate.
The roar of a dying mountain.
The cracking of a god’s skull.
The shattering doors of Lojen’s halls.
Keg-sized pods exploded into the ground, hurling muted geysers of dirt into the air, leaving craters in the moss-cloaked soil.
“Run!” Grae bellowed, but he couldn’t hear his own scream, and he imagined neither could his men. The deafened soldiers took shelter beneath their shields. Jjarnee Kruu and Beldrun Shanks vaulted the low ramparts and ran wildly into the forest. Something exploded beside Lord Aeren. The scholar crashed to the ground, holding his arm, face twisted. But Grae could not hear his howl.
Sir Jastyn pulled Maribrae close and held his shield over the two of them as they ran through the southern opening in the ramparts.
“Run north!” Grae still couldn’t hear his own words. The trees hurled death from above, and he could feel the blasts in his belly. Like single strikes from a hundred drummers at the same instant. “Run north!” He waved his hands as a shower of dark, wooden shards bounced against his armor. “Run north!” The only sound was a single, high-pitched and reverberating tone in his skull. He imagined it was the same for all of them. But the squad mates didn’t need to hear him. They ran north. And south. They ran like animals from lightning, to the east and west. Whichever direction would take them furthest from the hurtling pods.
Meedryk, holding his massive pack, tripped and tumbled to the ground in a jangling spatter of mortars and pestles and spoons. Sage grabbed the magician by the collar of his meridian cloak and pulled him upright. A metal saucer fell from the pack and rolled on its edge away from them.
Another explosion.
Aramaesia crouched against the inside wall of the rampart, her body shielding the Cobblethrie boy. Grae raised his shield and threw his arm around her waist, and lifted her to her feet. The archer’s thigh pressed against his arm, setting his heart hammering even faster.
Another explosion. Then another.
Drissdie was on the ground, crawling. Hammer grabbed the young soldier’s arm and yanked. Black Murrogar fell to his knees and shielded Lord Aeren.
Grae turned to Aramaesia. “Leave the boy! Run north!” he tugged at the child but her grip was savage. She tore free of Grae.
“I’ll carry him!” he read the words on her lips. “I’ll carry him!” She swung her long legs over the wall, ran northward with the boy.
Hammer tumbled over the rampart, the sack holding Grae’s canopy slung over one shoulder. The old soldier staggered to his feet, eyes wide as lakes beneath the brim of his kettle helm.
“Go with Aramaesia!” Grae motioned to the running archer. “Gather the squad!”
Hammer gave Grae one last look, brows knitted, then took long, leaping strides into the forest after the archer.
Grae vaulted the rampart again as another explosion rattled his bones. Something crashed next to him, taking a dog-sized chunk out of the earthen wall and blinding him with a spray of dirt and leaves. Wood splinters pattered off his armor. He rubbed at his gritty eyes and ran toward Lord Aeren and Black Murrogar. The young noble was on his feet now, holding his arm. He ran past Grae, his mouth open in a muffled scream. Murrogar didn’t rise from his knees. Wounded. He was wounded. Grae stared at the old hero, and the old hero stared back.
No one from the caravan can leave that forest, the Chamberlain had said.
Something lurked in Murrogar’s eyes. Something alien and sorrowful, and Grae felt a mysterious pity for the old warrior.
Drissdie Hannish clambered over the low rampart wall and stumbled back into the camp. He clawed madly at his pack, searching for something. Grae kicked the pack out of his hands as another explosion sent moss and stones into air.
“Are you mad?” Grae shouted. “Go! North!”
Drissdie rose, eyes wild. “My good luck charm, d’you suppose?”
Grae kicked him in the shoulder, knocking the young soldier backward. “Go!”
The young soldier lurched to his feet and scrambled in the wrong direction.
“North!” Grae shouted, knowing his voice wouldn’t be heard. A stone struck his breastplate and bounced away. Grae crouched and shielded his head with his arm. He watched the simple soldier run eastward, but he couldn’t give chase. Something had to be done.
Murrogar knelt on the ground, too weak to hold up his shield. Grae took a step toward the old hero as a shower of dirt and stones fell. He touched the hilt of his dagger. Murrogar glanced up, and their eyes met. The old hero’s gaze fell to Grae’s dagger, then back to The Headsman’s eyes. The brig took another step toward him. Murrogar sat up on his knees, reached for his own dagger.
No one from that caravan can leave the forest, the Chamberlain had stressed.
Grae took another step toward the wounded hero. Murrogar drew his dagger and waved the brig forward. His lips moved. “Come on then.”
Grae’s heart thundered. Could he really kill Black Murrogar?
He wouldn’t find out.
Another explosion sounded. Louder than any of the others. It was the thunder of Lojenwyne. Or perhaps a bolt of mercy from Blythwynn. Grae wasn’t certain. All he knew was that one of the gods struck a decisive blow in the battle for Grae’s soul.
A gnarled wooden pod streaked down from one of the hanging sacks. A bolt of fury. A smiting blow from above that struck Black Murrogar in the back. Swift and lethal. The impact hurled the old hero to the ground. Knocked him flat and likely shattered his spine.
Murrogar’s hands clawed at the soil. His body spasmed. He made no sound as the last breath left his body. His dead eyes stared toward Grae, and past him, into hidden lands that Grae would one day gaze upon himself.
Or maybe I won’t see them, Grae thought. Maybe there is only Darkness in my future.
Grae’s throat felt like a solid thing, a thing of stone.
Black Murrogar is dead.
Something flashed to Grae’s right, and the brig crouched instinctively.
Lokk Lurius stood just inside the rampart, holding his sword belt, the two Eridian short swords dangling. The mercenary stared at Murrogar. Another blast made the moss shiver, but Grae and Lokk didn’t move. They stared at the old warrior, then at one another.
The Eridian motioned eastward, where Drissdie had run, and Grae nodded. The simple-minded soldier would get lost if someone didn’t fetch him. Lokk sprinted eastward.
Grae glanced once more at Murrogar’s body, then ran northward as two more explosions sent tree-pods into the earth. He glanced skyward, and wondered whom to thank.
And whom to curse.
Chapter 7
Without reason, you are naked in a world of cacti.
—Eridian proverb
“You think it was the demons of CWNCR?” Drissdie muttered. “I heard the demons can look like trees. We shouldn’t be here, in the forest. We should just leave, d’you suppose?”
Lokk Lurius shoved saplings aside and stomped onward. He was never lost in a city. Cities made sense. Even the Outer Line cities of Eridia,
with their cattle-path roads and winding alleyways. Cities were created by humans, and even the most twisted of settlements contained a logic that could be unraveled. Forests were unreasonable things. Twisted and purposeless. They were a disease. A crazed affliction of the land.
“I heard CWNCR is the gateway to The Dark Place,” Drissdie continued. “I heard Mundaaith himself travels through CWNCR when he comes to Celusia, d’you suppose? And that anyone in the forest when Mundaaith arrives dies. Just like that. Dead. Except I heard you get a lot of pain before you die. You fall and you feel like your guts get ripped out your arse. I know a lad, Frynn, he says that you stay in pain ‘til Mundaaith leaves the forest? I can’t think of nothing worse than that. You think you stay in pain for days? Wouldn’t you just die? I think you’d just die. No one could stay in that sort of pain for days, could they? You’d go mad, d’you suppose?”
Lokk Lurius spun in a slow circle, staring up into the thick canopy of Maug Maurai. How far had they gone from the camp? The imbecile had run for at least a mile. Only the fool’s flashing mail had allowed Lokk to find him. And when they walked back for a mile, they hadn’t found the camp.
Unreasonable forest. A damned plague of the land.
“Do you think the others are dead?” Drissdie rubbed his hands together, as if washing them. “Do you… do you think the demons got them?”
They had wandered for hours, shouting for the rest of the squad. But the forest smothered shouts. Murdered sound. And the campsite remained hidden from them. They were lost. Ridiculously lost. Frustratingly, unreasonably lost.
Lokk walked forward a dozen paces and listened for any sound of the squad. Drissdie had sworn that he recognized a leaning fueryk tree. Had sworn he knew the way back. So Lokk had followed the fool for another mile in the wrong direction. That was the last time the Eridian had spoken. Traveling one mile in the wrong direction was trouble in Maug Maurai. But two miles was a death sentence. Even the trees in Maurai were lethal. If left alone for long enough, the two of them would eventually find their way out. But Lokk had heard enough to know that Maug Maurai never left you alone.
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