The crouched woodcutters leapt to their feet and the watchmen blew their horns as the circling shadow cats bared their huge, white fangs and lunged towards Cal and the rest of the corralled animals.
Cal reacted out of instinct and fear. He rushed forward, grabbing a pitchfork that was leaning against the corral fence, and ran with thoughtless bravery into the onslaught. To Cal’s great astonishment, the black Percheron followed him, rearing up on her hind legs and bringing down her mighty hooves with deadly accuracy on the intruding cats.
Just as the first few riders arrived within striking distance of the lions, screams came from the east as volley after deadly volley of raven-fletched arrows rained down upon the camp.
“TAKE COVER!!!” someone yelled.
Violent roars and screams mixed with bellowed commands and painful wails filled the night’s air as the dim, silver light was flooded with confusion on both fronts. Arrows flew with reckless fury, piercing man and beast, lion and lamb.
One of the larger cats, with fur as black as onyx and eyes of an unnatural green, bounded over the barricade towards Cal. As he fixed his hungry gaze on Cal’s throat, an axe flew from behind him and hit the post barely a hand’s-breadth from the large cat. The enraged lion leapt at Cal with fierce intent, and all Cal could do was kneel and brace the end of the pitchfork in the dew-drenched earth, aiming the rusted metal tines at the cat’s breast.
The shadow cat fell upon the pitchfork and the rusted metal found its purchase in the heavy, fur-laden beast. His great weight snapped the wooden shaft, and in an instant the bloodthirsty beast fell hard, collapsing his impaled form down on top of Cal. The green eyes hungrily stared at Cal, alarmingly close to his own blood-spattered face. Cal watched in breathless terror as the lion’s greedy eyes slowly faded black. The shadow cat let out a soul-chilling scream and then went limp, the life gone from him.
Yasen and his riders charged in on their horses and felled four of the green-eyed cats rather quickly. Some of the bravest men leapt over the sheep pens with axe in hand, dodging claws and fangs with as much deftness as exhausted men can muster, barely finishing off the last of the ravenous lions.
The arrows had ceased their chaotic assault, and at the moment there seemed to be no more shadow cats prowling inside the camp—at least none that still breathed. A few of the men had been ripped wide open by the razor sharp claws of the monstrous lions, leaving very little that could be done for them. Those men who were still whole knelt with those who no longer had flesh and limbs intact. Grasping the dying hands of their now-spilled comrades, they whispered the grieving words of the Priests as life departed from their fallen brothers.
Most of the woodcutters had come away with only minor gashes and scratches, however six of the men had been riddled with the raven-fletched arrows of this unseen enemy. Two of the three watchmen had fallen, and Bor, brave and unrelenting as he was, had refused to crouch when all others did so. He stayed his ground, protecting his chieftain, until the ravens’ arrows forced him to yield.
Yasen and his riders, upon dispatching the lions, rode hard and furious into the eastern forest, determined to waylay these ravens of the night. There were few braver in all the North than Yasen, save perhaps Bor the fallen. None, however, were as skillful a pursuer as he.
The hunts of Yasen and his men were legendary. The men called him the “North Wolf”, for he traveled, foraged, and scouted for the good of the woodcutters. He always hunted in a pack of fearless riders, and almost without fail they would return to their den with the spoils of their victories.
Some say that the white lion fur that Hollis wore was the last and greatest of the white lions in the North, and was given as a gift from Yasen in homage to his chieftain.
The feeling within the camp was uneasy at best, for many mourned their fallen comrades. Some were on edge, not given yet to rest, still waiting for the next wave of assault to come. Others began the hard work of repairing the damages and tending to the wounded.
Hollis made his way to the corral, knowing that it was here where the bloodiest of the carnage had taken place. Mutilated rams were tossed about like rag dolls, and a few of the men still lay splayed open with their insides spilled on the reddening, cold earth.
Hollis ordered some of the men to begin skinning the beasts. Their hides would serve as warmth and as a reminder of the dangers that live in the shadows; but he demanded that their bodies be burned, for there was evil in their blood and he would not permit even one of his men to consume the vile flesh.
Hollis noticed one of the horses, a large black Percheron, was repeatedly using her head to push one of the fallen cats, but he couldn’t quite tell why she was doing so. The horse was clearly agitated, as were most of those still in the corral, only this one was baying and snorting with anxious determination, seemingly fixated on the fallen lion.
Hollis yelled for someone to come and see to the crazed beast, but as he made his way closer to the animal it became clear what it was that the horse was trying to do. Underneath the body of the big, dead cat, the hand of a man was barely visible.
“She’s trying to roll the dead cat off this fallen man!” exclaimed one of the woodcutters. Hollis and two others grabbed the legs of the lion and pulled with all their might, rolling over the black, bloodied beast to reveal a crumpled form underneath. The horse, still unsatisfied, began nudging the man, grunting and snorting as she begged him to sit up.
The men rushed over to Cal, propping him up as they splashed water on his face to wash away the shadow cat’s blood. Cal’s eyes opened, half-aware and hazy. In a pained grunt he asked the men if the horses were okay.
“I guess you are a groomsman after all, son,” Hollis bellowed out with a saddened chuckle. “And it appears that you have found yourself a horse of your own.”
Chapter Thirteen
The slight relief the men felt at slaying the shadow cats and enduring the unforeseen waves of black arrows was quickly done away with the moment Yasen and his riders pounded hastily back into the corral. The horses barreled through the carnage, dodging both braziers and brothers, making their way towards their leader as fast as they could.
As Hollis watched Yasen approaching, he could see something new growing in the eyes of this brave warrior. Something dreadful.
In a single movement Yasen pulled his horse to a sharp stop and leapt down, approaching the chief with an alarming urgency he did not usually display.
“I need your ear, and I need it now,” Yasen spoke, catching his breath.
“What have you seen? What is it that troubles the North Wolf?” Hollis asked, his tone quieting to match the hushed voice of his lead rider.
“My men and I rode hard and fast towards the position of the raven archers, following with as much haste as our mounts would give.” Yasen turned and pointed east into the retreating forest. “At first all we could see is a darker black, a thicker shadow of sorts. As we rode closer we began to see a light in the thick of it … though it was no light of men. There was nothing natural about this light at all.”
Yasen’s eyes narrowed as he leaned closer to Hollis, betraying his unease at the retelling of the events. “As we approached the shadow, a green light emanated from out of the mist. It did not shine like a fire would, nor like a torch does, though it did flicker like a flame.”
The men near the corral began to take notice of the grave conversation between the chief and the hero, and all could see the dread that seemed to drain the color from both men’s faces.
“We heard a sickly horn sounding as we reached the outer edge of the shadow, and we braced ourselves for yet another round of arrows or the spears of our assailants. But when we reached the green light in the center of the fog, there was no one there.”
Hollis was now nervously looking over the shoulder of Yasen, afraid he might too see some green light or growing shadow.
“Our blood went cold, for there was not a single soul, not one natural enemy for us to engage … nothing save the gree
n torch and its vile glow.”
“Not one?” asked Hollis. “How can that be … we felt the bite of their arrows! There must have been at least a dozen or more. You can’t simply tell me a dozen men just up and vanished!”
“I am not so sure they were actually men, for I have never seen such witchcraft as this. The ground around the torch had turned to ash, as if it were draining the very life and the light out of the forest. Strange runes were written there in the earth, in a tongue I have never seen before.”
“Show me,” Hollis demanded.
Yasen hesitated for a moment, remembering the feelings of the encounter with such an evil. He was not so sure he wanted to relive it again himself, let alone lead someone else into it.
“Yasen, I need you to take me to see it,” Hollis repeated.
“Aye, Chief,” Yasen consented with forced respect, and turned to head back to his mount.
Hollis shouted orders to the men, instructing them to make ready their comrades for burial while keeping a sharp eye out for another assault. Two new men relieved the lone and now-shaken watchman at the top of the tower, and the riders and their chief set out upon their assignment with a newfound vigilance.
By this time, Cal was up and on his feet with a good part of his strength returning to him. He set about the task of seeing to the rest of the horses and mending the broken fences, securing the corral and sheep pens once again.
Rest will not find any of us easily on this night, Cal thought as he watched Hollis and Yasen ride back out into the forest.
“What kind of evil possessed those beasts?” Cal said to the horses as he led them back into their corral. “Aren’t the watch fires meant to keep shadow cats away from our camps? Whatever it was that was driving them, it was surely not natural, surely not made by the THREE who is SEVEN.”
Cal worked for over an hour to settle the livestock back into their makeshift pens. As he was securing the last of the horses, the quiet of the corral was broken with the low, earthy blare of the watchmen’s horns. They rang out in three long blasts, and Cal looked up as he tried to determine what the signal meant.
He saw the men of the camp, those who had held ready axes on the eastern circle, those who had been in charge of skinning the beasts, and those who were now freshly bandaged, all making their way towards the decimated forestland west of the camp. There on the outskirts of the cutter camp, weary and wounded men had dug nine graves for their fallen comrades. The light from their torches mixed with the faint, silver light of the dying tree, coloring the camp in a wintery sadness. Though Hollis and the riders had not yet returned, the Priest called for all the men to assemble and kneel in prayer at the newly dug graves of the fallen. The words that Cal had heard Yasen speak just weeks ago on the North road were the same ones spoken now by the young Priest, here amongst the stumps of felled trees.
Flints were kissed and words were murmured, but then the men rose to do something that Cal had never seen done before in Westriver. With sadness still fresh in their eyes, the woodcutters each reached into a small iron chest that the Priest held and pulled out from it a single acorn. Each man threw his acorn upon the uncovered graves of their fallen comrades as they whispered yet another recitation.
“By your body broke, come birch and elm, pine and oak.”
As the last of the men planted their seeds and said their words, the horns of the watchmen rang out once again upon the cold, silver air, signaling the return of their chief and the riders of Yasen. They rode, without stopping, right up to the gravesites of the fallen woodcutters. As Hollis and the rest of the men dismounted and knelt, they joined their fellow woodcutters in honoring the fallen with words, flints, and seeds. After they had finished, they picked up the shovels that the others had used to dig the graves. One at a time, they began to cover the nine holes.
Their faces were solemn, but not just for the loss of these men; rather, a good part was due to what they had just witnessed in the deep of the retreating forest.
“Evil is near, Priest,” Hollis said solemnly to the young Priest who had just performed the ritual burial.
“Evil always seeks to invade the darkened places of the world,” the Priest said piously. “That is why we work so tirelessly.”
“Tell me then, if evil seeks only darkness, how does one fight an evil that makes its own light?” Hollis’ grim face leaned closer to the Priest, daring him to answer.
The moments felt like an eternity as silence hung over the weary and war beaten. The men continued to fill in the open graves, and the Priest puzzled over the foreign question.
“Well, I have never heard of such an evil,” he finally responded. “Perhaps, we have misunderstood its intentions? The way of the flint instructs us that light is always a gift from the THREE who is SEVEN.”
“Make no mistake about it, Priest.” Hollis stared hard into the young Priest’s eyes. “It is not a matter of misunderstanding any intentions. I think the truth of the matter is that maybe we have never had a clue as to what real evil looks like!”
“What do you mean, woodcutter?” the Priest said defensively.
“I promise you this … the light we have seen is no gift at all,” Hollis told him.
Hollis put down the shovel and walked over to his horse. He reached inside one of the satchels tied to his saddle and dug out a small object wrapped in a dark cloth. The large, strong, red-bearded woodcutter looked unusually pale as he strode back to the graveside.
He threw the cloth and its contents at the Priest, ready to show him exactly what they had witnessed in the darkened forest. The young Priest fumbled his catch and dropped the object to the ground. As it fell, the cloth dropped away to reveal the item that had been concealed within it. The Priest bent to retrieve it from the fresh earth, and his horrified eyes registered what he was holding.
“I am telling you what I saw, what every one of these men saw right out there, not two hundred paces into the trees,” Hollis said as his voice grew with frightened intensity.
The Priest listened, shaking his head in utter disbelief at what Hollis told him, all the time fingering the evidence in his quivering hands.
“That there, what you hold in your very hands … there were dozens of them decorating that vile green torch. Dozens, I tell you,” Hollis spat.
Yasen spoke up for the first time since the riders returned to camp, his voice hardened with a settling dread. “You know what that is, don’t you? It’s not from a shadow cat or a bear … no. That is a dragon’s fang, Priest.”
The Priest dropped the cursed tooth back into the dirt, quickly reaching for the leaf-shaped flint from around his neck. Kissing it over and over again, he mumbled desperate prayers for himself and all of Haven. The men watched the scared Priest, who just minutes ago had been so self-assured, now coming to the realization that maybe they had never known the terror of true evil before now.
That night while Cal slept next to the black Percheron, the dreams came again, as they did every night; the Oweles and serpents plagued his thoughts and haunted his rest. Somehow they seemed all the more real this night, maybe because they were here in the cold North, or maybe because Cal somehow knew that he was coming closer to whatever purpose they intended for him.
While the young groomsman tossed and turned in a fitful state of unrest, a grouping of the frightful birds gathered, ready to carry out the bidding of the One who had sent them. High in the pines on the edge of the forest, overlooking the scene of the evil un-light, the Oweles perched with deliberate intent. As they watched the ruined circle of forest where the green torch blazed and consumed all traces of life within its cancerous reach, the largest of them let out an eerie screech in echoed protest to its unwanted presence.
The torch flickered in the north wind, glittering its toxic un-light off the shining points of the cursed dragon’s teeth that hung from its black shaft. The once green and living forest had turned a sickened grey, and its dwindling life seemed to fuel the unlit green of the flaming torch.
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Haizea, the “Wind of God”, flew upon his snowy white wings into the evil shadow of the green torch. His violet eyes blazed with deliberate fury and angered disgust at such an abomination. The large bird of prey began to speak with tones unheard by human ears. So deep and violent were the words of magic spoken in defiance of this un-light that a rumble of thunder could be felt half the world away. His wings pulsed as though he were flying and yet he remained in one place, his violet eyes never wavering in their piercing stare. His powerful words flowed in violent rhythm with the movements of his massive wings.
The cadence of his pounding wings formed a fury of wind, a gale of such force that the whole of the forest creaked and groaned against its breath. The very trunks of the tall soldier pines began to bend underneath the power that emanated from the white bird of prey, and wave after wave of focused strength crashed in upon the evil magic of this hideous object.
The un-light of the green torched flickered once, twice, and then a third time before the wind of Haizea caused it to be extinguished. The Oweles screeched in congratulatory agreement as the white bird succeeded in disarming the darkness, if only for a little while.
Chapter Fourteen
Cal woke, like most of the encampment, with a different kind of soreness in his bones and a different kind of heaviness on his mind.
For over seventy years, the only fear to consume the minds of men was firmly fastened to the dying tree and its fading glory. Not only were men afraid of the approaching dark, they also feared the unknown of a life in the shadows. They feared the loss of the world Aiénor as they have known it since man took his first breath of her hallowed air so long ago.
The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) Page 11