Roggen sank to his knees. ‘I do, my lady.’ A handmaiden of Alarielle was no mere spirit, but the right hand of the Goddess of Life. Among the sylvaneth, there were none greater than the branchwraiths who served as the Everqueen’s servants. They were Alarielle’s word given physical form, sent to do her will in the world of men.
‘Good.’ She circled him, walking through the trees. They swayed and bent with her, hiding her from view. ‘I would tell you a story, sir knight.’ Roggen did not move. He knelt and listened, though it was a story he had heard many times before. Sometimes, he thought it was the only story there was to tell. Perhaps for the sylvaneth it was, or had become so…
‘The world was fair, in ancient days. Forests rose, one upon the next, tumbling upwards forever into jade skies, and the sounds of life were as the songs of minstrels, echoing between the glens without cease.’ Her voice was like the murmur of fresh water over smooth stones, soft but persistent. ‘Then came the Withering Season, and the Cruel Gardener. With his pitted scythe, Nurgle reaped life and made the air and waters foul. His slaves sowed sickness, planting a crop of plague-seeds which fester even now, in darkling vales.’
The trees ceased their swaying.
He could feel her gaze on him and cleared his throat. ‘Speak on, my lady. What is your will? If it is within my power, I shall see it done.’
‘Take care with your words, Roggen of the Ghyrwood March. A spirit crueller than I might take that as a binding oath, rather than a simple boast.’
Roggen frowned. ‘Perhaps it is. Why else would you come here to me?’ He glanced around, trying to spot some hint of her among the trees. He lifted his mangled stump. ‘Not to fix this, I think.’
‘And if I could, would you ask it of me?’
Roggen hesitated. The tone was teasing. He lowered his arm. ‘As novices, we are taught to be wary of Alarielle’s children, for they are not mortals and do not think as mortals do. They change with the seasons and cannot be trusted.’
‘Are we so wicked, then? Are we monsters, to be feared?’
He heard a susurrus behind him, as of something moving through the grasses. He did not turn. ‘No more so than the storm or the flood. We are taught to respect you, but not to trust you.’ He bowed his head. ‘Seek no favours of the tree-kin, but sink deep the roots of every bargain,’ he recited.
‘There is a wisdom, in those words.’ Her voice came from directly behind him. ‘Turn, sir knight. See me.’
Again, he hesitated. She laughed – a rough, rattling sound, as of many branches rasping across brick. ‘Do you fear to look upon me, then, mortal?’
‘I once heard tell of a young knight who wasted away for want of your touch and voice, having met you,’ he said. ‘They say you took him away and entombed him in some secret bower where he sleeps eternally.’
‘I, too, have heard that tale.’ Something light, like a strand of cobweb, stroked his cheek. ‘There is little truth in it. He sleeps, that knight, though it was not I who laid him to rest. But that is not important. Come. Look at me.’
Roggen turned. Like all branchwraiths, he saw that she was beautiful in her own way, but not human. Her face was a twist of bramble and bark, the features shifting constantly, from an approximation of a woman’s to something altogether more frightening. Her form was hidden beneath layers of creepers and cobwebs, and her hands were gnarled claws of splintered wood. Her hair was a spill of bramble vines, heavy with berries and spiky leaves.
‘Good. Far to the south sits the Writhing Weald. An old forest, even by the standards of my folk, and savage. Do you know it?’
‘I do, my lady.’ It was a foul place, baneful and hoary. Men went in and did not come out. At least not in one piece. It was said to be a haunt of dark spirits, more capricious than most, and malignant.
‘There is something at its heart – a mote of darkness. A plague-seed, like those I spoke of in my tale. An ancient weapon, once wielded by a cursed scion of Nurgle’s demesnes, who came many seasons ago to burn the Weald and take that which he had no claim to.’ Her voice became a hiss, and the tree branches made a sound like spears rattling. Her thorny claws pressed painfully close to his throat as she circled him.
‘He was slain for this temerity, and made food for the soil. But his weapon – his hateful weapon – lingers there, festering in the dark. And the forest grows sicker by the day. Do you understand?’ She leaned close, her splintery lips brushing his ear.
Roggen swallowed. ‘I do. But why do you not claim the weapon yourself, if it troubles you so?’
Again, the cobweb-gentle touch traced his jugular. ‘We cannot touch it. It pains us. It is a foul thing – an ancient weapon, hungry for the life of the forests. So a mortal must do so. In return…’ She touched his bandaged stump. There was a moment of pain, followed by a sensation quite unlike anything he’d felt before. The bandages bulged and tore as thin spirals of dark wood bloomed from his ravaged flesh. He watched in amazement as a new hand grew where the old one had been. It was a hand of bark and bramble, but a hand nonetheless.
‘My hand… You…’ Even as he tried to find the words, the hand shrank and withered, falling away from his stump. He closed his eyes, as the pain returned. ‘What would you have of me, my lady?’
‘The tainted axe, Roggen of the Ghyrwood March. Bring it to me, and I shall grow you a hand to replace the one you lost. Will you do this thing?’
Roggen nodded. ‘Such is my oath, and so it will be done.’
‘Good.’ A talon-tip lifted his chin, and he opened his eyes. ‘You will have safe passage, but even so, the Writhing Weald is a confusing place. You will need a guide.’ She held out her palm, and on it, a thin tendril of bramble sprouted and grew. It tore itself free of her and coiled about itself like a serpent. He heard what might have been a whine of complaint as she plucked it from her hand and set it in his.
‘This spirit will guide you. Trust it or not, as it pleases you. But it will help you find what you seek.’ She closed his fingers over the brambles. ‘Do not fail me, my knight.’ She leaned close and brushed his cheek with her lips.
A moment later, she was gone.
Roggen stood. When he touched his cheek, his fingers came away red.
The forest reeked of sickness.
There was no wind, but the trees shook as if afflicted with ague. Swollen, black roots ruptured the loam, and the hum of insects echoed from among the high branches. The air was still and damp. Almost stifling in its opacity. It tasted sour, like curdled milk.
Worst of all were the strange lights that danced between the trees, and the unidentifiable shapes that scampered through the underbrush, just out of the corner of the eye. The forest was alive, but it was a darker sort of life than he was used to.
‘A fair wood this is, eh, Harrow?’ Roggen growled, leaning forward in his saddle. The bronze-coloured ironwood war-plate he wore creaked as he did so, and his ragged, jade tabard rustled noisily. His demigryph squalled in reply, her tail lashing. The big beast, a monstrous blending of feline and avian characteristics, was covered in a shaggy pelt the colour of damp soil, and vibrant green feathers. Dark ironwood armour protected her barrel chest and lean flanks.
Larger than any stallion, she could run for days on end without tiring. Twice as vicious, she had dismembered an armoured warrior in moments on several bloody occasions. Now her great talons scythed into roots and bark as she carried her master through the vast blackness of the Writhing Weald.
Roggen had entered the forest three days ago, though it felt considerably longer. Even time itself seemed afflicted by whatever sickness had taken the Weald. He was half tempted to put the forest to the torch.
But that would not solve the problem. The forest would grow back, and the sickness would continue. It was in the soil, poisoning the roots of the trees and souring the waters. A tainted seed, nestled in the forest’s living heart. Something left
behind that had festered and grown and now must be purged. ‘Such is my oath, and so it will be done, as the Lady of Leaves wills,’ he murmured. He glanced down at his wounded limb. A cap of ironwood now covered the mangled stump, preventing further injury. The bracelet of bramble vines the Bramble-Maiden had given him had been knotted about the end of the cap. The brambles moved slightly, contracting. He felt the pressure of the thorns as they scraped against the cap.
‘Are you awake, little spirit?’ he rumbled.
‘I do not sleep.’ The brambles spoke in a thin, hissing voice, like rushes in a breeze. ‘I cannot sleep, with your stink.’
Roggen chuckled. ‘So you have said. Which way?’ Without the spirit, he would have long since become lost in the black belly of the Writhing Weald. But it was an untrustworthy thing. He suspected it was taking him in circles. Then, perhaps that had been the Bramble-Maiden’s plan all along – the ways of the tree-kin were not those of men, and often seemed confusing or contradictory.
The bramble-spirit was silent for a moment. Then it twisted up like a snake preparing to strike and said, ‘South. I can feel it, there. Like a discordant note in the spirit-song. It… hurts.’
‘Not for long.’ Roggen thumped his heels against Harrow’s flanks. ‘Hup, girl. Let us not tarry here beneath these dark trees.’
‘Wise. These trees were watered on blood,’ the bramble-spirit murmured slyly. ‘They yearn to sink their roots into soft meats. Like the kind you hide beneath your ironwood shell.’
‘They shall find me more than a mouthful if they try.’
Harrow suddenly squalled as something hooked her forepaw, causing her to stagger into a tree. Roggen grunted in pain as his shoulder was caught by a branch and he was nearly plucked from the saddle. Above him, in the canopy, he caught a flash of something pale and heard high-pitched laughter. At first, he thought of children. But he knew better.
High, thin voices murmured in singsong tones. He seeks, he sorrows, he slips and sleeps… Nonsense words, spilling over one another in a babble of sound.
Harrow tore herself free of the tangled roots that had snared her and shrieked again. The demigryph’s claws tore strips from the bark and the pale things retreated, the echoes of their malign laughter dancing on the wind. ‘Up, girl, get moving,’ Roggen growled. Harrow sprang between the trees, moving quickly.
‘I did warn you.’
Roggen glared down at the bramble-spirit. ‘Is that what you call it?’
‘That they have not plucked out your eyes and made a toy of your beast’s pelt to taunt you with as you wander blind and anguished is proof enough that you have safe passage. But they are… agitated, nonetheless. Something else is abroad in the forest. And they cannot tell the difference between you and it. So they lash out.’
Roggen knew well enough the dangers of such spirits – outcasts from the groves of the sylvaneth, they took root in dark places and grew twisted and strange.
‘These spirits do as they will,’ his guide continued. ‘It is not Alarielle’s song that they hear, but a rather more primal melody, and darker by far, sung by one whose will is as tangled as the roots of this forest. You know of whom I speak.’
Roggen could not repress a fearful shiver. ‘I do.’ He did not say the spirit’s name for to do so was said to attract her attention. And that, he desperately did not wish to do. ‘Is she abroad in these lands again?’
‘Once. No longer. It was the self-styled Regent of the Outcasts who cursed this place with her thoughtless savagery. It was she who planted the plague-seed you seek, and her followers guard it even now.’
‘What?’ Roggen blinked. The Bramble-Maiden hadn’t seen fit to mention that. Drycha Hamadreth, the Queen of Thorns, wasn’t the sort of foe he would have relished facing, even with two good hands.
The bramble-spirit tittered. ‘She did not tell you!’
‘Perhaps she did not think it worth mentioning. Much like your name.’ Roggen pressed his injured arm close to his chest as he held on to the reins of his mount with his good hand. Riding a demigryph at full pelt was akin to being on a boat during a storm. It took years of training to learn the art, and years more to learn how not to get eaten in the event that you did fall off.
‘You would not eat me though, would you, my girl?’ he said, bending low over Harrow’s feathered neck. She squalled again, as if in reply, and snapped her hooked beak at the air.
‘Meat riding meat,’ the bramble-spirit hissed. It tightened its coils, scraping his bracer with its thorns. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘But efficient,’ Roggen said. ‘We cannot all slip through the trees as easily as a fish swims in water.’
‘What is a fish? Another meat-thing?’
‘Yes. A delicious one.’
The bramble-spirit made a disgusted sound. ‘Meat eating meat. Disgusting.’
‘Did you not just say these trees fed on blood?’
‘They are outcast, and mad.’
‘Yes.’ Roggen caught sight of a mark on a nearby tree – several gashes akin to those that might be made by a demigryph’s claws. Behind him, he heard something moving through the branches. He did not look back. ‘South, you said?’
‘Did I? I meant north. Yes, north. You are going the wrong way.’
Roggen frowned, but turned Harrow’s head north. The demigryph shrilled in protest, but kept moving. ‘I must have misheard you,’ the knight said.
‘Yes. Meat does not know how to listen. You are deaf to the song of spirits. That is why we are Alarielle’s chosen, and you are nothing.’
‘So you have said many times.’
‘Meat is forgetful and must be reminded of its place.’
Roggen snorted but didn’t reply. He thumped Harrow’s flank and she lashed out with a paw, gouging a nearby tree, marking their path. Only a few thin drizzles of sunlight pierced the canopy to illuminate the path ahead. He saw familiar slashes on several of the trees. They’d come this way before. ‘This forest fair drinks the light,’ he murmured.
The trees seemed to lean close about them, as if curious. Perhaps they were. You could never tell, in Ghyran. In the Realm of Life, some things were far more aware than they might seem at first glance. Even the stones underfoot might have something to say, if you but listened.
‘How did you lose your hand?’ the spirit hissed, suddenly. ‘Was it in battle?’ It sounded eager, as well as curious.
‘And are you interested in the deeds of meat, then?’
‘You have no idea how boring it is to be a bramble.’
Roggen laughed. ‘Fair enough. But a tale for a tale. I tell you mine, you tell me yours. How does that sound?’
‘I shall decide when I hear your story.’
Roggen smiled. ‘I lost my hand in battle against a sorcerer. He sought to turn my very flesh against me, so I removed it.’
He frowned, remembering the feel of change-fire as it seared his hand into a new and monstrous shape. The pain of that desecration had been worse, in its way, than that which followed. Sometimes, as he slept, he dreamed that he could feel some last tendril of altered flesh worming its way through him. Taking root like a cancer. He thought, perhaps, that he and the forest shared that in common.
‘Is that it?’
Roggen blinked, startled from his reverie. ‘Is what it?’
‘Is that all there is to your story? Did you kill the sorcerer?’
‘No. He escaped.’
‘That is a terrible story.’
‘Is yours any better?’
The bramble-spirit was silent for a moment. Then, with a rustling sigh, it said, ‘I was magnificent, once. A hero. I fought in the vanguard of my household and collected the heart-roots of many a foe. Now I am bound to these twists of bramble by the Everqueen’s command.’
‘And why would your mistress do that to you?’ Roggen asked, though he suspecte
d that he knew the answer well enough. The Everqueen’s aspects were as varied as the seasons, and like the seasons, some were harsher than others.
The bramble-spirit hissed angrily and scratched at the cap of his stump. ‘I made a mistake.’ The bitterness in the spirit’s voice was evident. ‘We are no more united than you meat-things. Groves jostle for a place in the sun. Their roots squeeze each other, seeking water. In the eyes of the Everqueen, we are as children. Some among us are unhappy to be seen so.’
‘And you were one of these?’
‘It is no business of yours, meat.’
‘True. But will you at least tell me your name?’
‘You do not deserve to know it!’
‘Perhaps. Though we are companions, for the moment. I thought I should enquire.’
‘I would no more tell you my name than you could grow a new hand,’ the bramble-spirit said derisively. ‘Feh! – the weakness of meat. So fragile.’
Roggen grinned. ‘As the Lady of Leaves wills, little spirit. But there are some advantages to being made of meat, else I would not be here, in service to your mistress and mine.’
‘But do you truly serve her? Or do you serve another?’
Roggen frowned. ‘A man may serve more than one god.’ His Order had made an oath of service to the duardin god Grungni, in centuries past. Though they worshipped Alarielle, the Knights of the Furrow had often shed blood in service to Grungni.
‘And what if those gods disagree? The Crippled God,’ said the spirit slyly, ‘is not well loved in the courts of the Everqueen. His devices of steel and stone gouge the earth and gobble trees, scraping these lands bloody so that men might build cities. And yet here you are – a servant of the Lady of Leaves, wounded in the service of one she hates.’
‘I serve Alarielle in all things.’
‘Oh? I have heard, on the wind, that the Crippled God seeks weapons of power. Like the one entombed in this forest. Do you seek it for her, or for him?’
Roggen hesitated. In truth, he had wondered that himself. He did not believe that which he hunted was one of the weapons Grungni sought. If it had been, he would have seen some sign. He made to reply when he heard a sound. Not the hissing murmurs of the outcast spirits, flitting through the trees around him, but something louder.
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