“He fought bravely,” Pen said after a moment, struggling with his own emotions, “without regard for his life, willing to take on the entire Min army. And for a while he did, cleaving a path through those beasts with a ferocity that seemed unstoppable. Both him and Bear.” He chuckled sorrowfully at the memory. “But then a large Min . . .” He choked up.
Ruskin sighed. “It’s as I feared. I tried to warn that boy. ‘Revenge is a terrible thing,’ I told ’im. It consumes you and gives you a false sense of strength, trapping you in its evil seduction. He should’ve stayed home where he belonged. Now it’s too late. What a waste.” He spat into the dirt.
They lingered in the Dunes for most of the night, taking comfort in one another’s company and providing aid to those few survivors they discovered among the wrecked and broken bodies, bringing hope to fallen comrades who’d already accepted their fate. Caring for the injured and gathering the dead was strangely rewarding, Brax found, a welcome distraction from his guilt at not having done more to save Sotchek. As midnight approached and the smoldering fires shed a ghostly dance under the starlit sky, they began their trek back to Arbor Loren. The elves had left their woodland home and moved about the plains with tiny lanterns held aloft, like fireflies lighting the morbid night, helping those in need or providing food and water to the groups that still littered the Gap of Dunes.
They passed the outer tents of the encampment, seeing shadows moving inside or lying on makeshift cots. Brax remembered the fight between Bendarren and the Witch Sisters. He wanted to tell the others what had happened, how the elven master had come to their aid. How he’d lost Phinlera. But his mind was so exhausted, he just couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. Not yet. It took all his concentration to place one foot in front of the other and keep from falling over. He followed Ruskin’s lead, a solitary beacon in an otherwise dark and dismal night.
“We’ll rest here,” he heard Rusk say after a while. They’d stopped in front of an open tent on the western side of the camp, facing the gaping hole that was once Almon-Rin.
“What?” Braxton jerked his head up. “No, we have to go on. We need to get back to the forest. I . . . I have to find her . . .”
“It’s late, lad, and we need to sleep. You’ll be back by morning, and you can find her then.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and disappeared into the tent.
“I need to go.” Brax stumbled forward as if half drunk, but Penton grabbed his arm.
“You need to rest, Brax. We all need it. Besides, if Phin’s there, she’s already asleep. Let it go for tonight, and you can find her in the morning.” He gave a weak smile. “Anyway, Bear’s already down for the night.”
Braxton followed his brother’s gaze and saw the elkhound lying at his feet, his chest rising and falling. For a brief moment, he envied the animal’s simple life and how easily sleep came to him. He stared at Arbor Loren. It was so close. He could see the few remaining outer trees, brushed in the glow of the campfires. So close, he thought. I can make it.
“Let her go,” Penton repeated, as though reading his mind. “We’ll find her tomorrow. I’ll even help you look. I promise.”
Braxton wanted to force himself to the forest. Now more than ever, he needed to know if Phinlera was all right. If she’d made it through. But his body was so tired, and his feet refused to move. Somehow his brother managed to get him inside the tent. They passed Ruskin, already snoring, before Braxton fell facedown onto a cot. He turned to look at Pen, to say something that needed to be said. But even before he finished moving, he was sound asleep.
* * *
Braxton stood in front of Morgaroth. The creature’s eyes blazed like red fires, burning dark magic into his body, searing his flesh. He screamed repeatedly and writhed around on the stone floor, unable to stop the pain ignited by some unspeakably hot fire. Sotchek was struggling to get free from thick chains that bound him to the cave’s wall. His naked chest showed dark purple blotches from the torture he’d endured. But it was his grim face that haunted Braxton the most, drawn and thin. When Sotchek turned to look at him, his eyes were burned out. Braxton opened his mouth and screamed.
He awoke with a start, sweating profusely, trying to remember where he was. It was dark outside, and he could hear someone snoring nearby. Bear’s wet nose touched his arm, and he jumped, pulling away. Then he remembered and shut his eyes. His neck was stiff from lying motionless all night, facedown on the cot and fully dressed. Rolling over, he tried to find relief, scratching Bear’s head as the elkhound licked his hand.
He stared up at the canvas ceiling and the faint glow from the moon outside, thinking about the war. Penton breathed deeply nearby, a sound Brax recognized from a lifetime of sharing the loft back home. He tried to block out the dwarf’s guttural sounds and recall his dream, focusing on the images he could still remember, holding onto the vision as it slipped away. Was Sotchek being tortured? Had he somehow connected with his friend and witnessed his fate? It felt so real, not like most dreams. He knew better than to dismiss those experiences, having had a few of them before. They always seemed different somehow, more meaningful. And where was Serene? He hadn’t seen her helping Sotchek or felt her reassuring presence since the fight with Morgaroth.
Groping about for the Unicorn Blade, he was relieved to find it next to him. He thought of Phinlera and wondered whether Bendarren had reached the aid she’d so desperately needed. Or had he been too late? Could he live with himself knowing he could have saved her but had chosen to go and fight in someone else’s war? How could he have abandoned her like that? She must have survived, he told himself. I need to find her.
He started to get up and froze as the wood frame of his bed creaked loudly. Waiting a moment in the half-light, he listened to the dwarf’s monotonous snore. How could he sleep so deeply? He tried to hear if Penton was awake, but his brother’s familiar deep breathing had stopped. Braxton moved again, trying to keep his weight even. Placing one leg on the dirt floor, he shifted. When he stood up, Bear was waiting for him.
“Where ya going, lad?”
Brax turned toward the dwarf’s voice. “I have to get to the forest.”
“I’ll go with you,” Penton said. He got up and pulled on his boots.
Outside, no one stirred. Even the elves, it seemed, had retreated to their forest home. Only the smoldering fires scattered across the plains showed any movement, sending long trails of smoke up to the few remaining stars.
“I need to get back to the clans,” Ruskin mentioned, “before they depart for the Spine. I have to send word to Dûrak-Thûhn. Tharak will want to know why so few have returned. I’ll catch up with ya’s later.”
Without waiting, the dwarf headed north, disappearing among the remaining tents and debris of the war they’d endured. Braxton watched him go, thinking of all they’d shared on their journey since leaving Oak Haven. And those they’d lost. So much death, he thought. So much loss to one war.
He closed his eyes, not wanting to count Phinlera among their number. When he looked back, the dwarf was gone. He glanced at Penton, and his brother nodded, understanding.
“We’ll find her,” he said reassuringly. Braxton tried to smile. He was amazed at how well Pen knew him.
Turning together, they headed to Arbor Loren and whatever news awaited them.
Chapter 44
Sunlight touched the plains as Brax, Penton, and Bear reached the elven forest. The two brothers looked back for a moment, Braxton in awe, as always, at the magnificent sunrise. Like so many others, he thought, yet each one so unique.
“I never tire of that,” Penton said. Brax nodded and turned toward the trees. The morning light revealed what he’d been dreading. Black and broken limbs protruded everywhere from the ground, as if some massive, evil creature had awoken beneath the earth, its spines bursting from the underworld, only to be stopped by the light. Gone were the majestic oaks that once heralded Almon-Rin as a vibrant and beautiful city; gone were the intricately carved buildings, ladders, and
spires that had formed its elevated forest community. Instead, shattered trunks and burnt snags covered the ground. Even the lush and warming forest floor had been replaced by soot and blackened debris.
Braxton stared in shock at the sight, sickened by the terrible destruction the Mins’ catapults had wrought upon the elven kingdom. Then he realized something else was missing. The feil was gone. That wondrous living and faerie-like essence had been destroyed, and he no longer felt its pulsating presence or earth-born energy. He closed his eyes, saddened for the loss of something pure that had been taken from this world. Penton’s warm hand touched his shoulder, encouraging him. Brax glanced back at the sun, drawing strength from its ability to always revive his spirits. Sniffing, he patted Bear as the elkhound brushed against him.
They stepped into the parched wasteland, taking time to find their footing among the sharp fragments. Scorched twigs snapped beneath their feet, and they tried not to breathe the ash that floated about in the air, disturbed further by their passing. Unlike before, nothing moved. Life no longer existed in this part of the forest, and the elves and other woodland creatures had simply abandoned it to its fate, leaving behind an ugly scar in testament to the Mins’ devastation of this once beautiful and vibrant land.
It took over an hour to cross the gaping hole, reaching the green growth and majestic towers of the oaks that had called to them from afar. Moving into the forest felt refreshing, like passing through some invisible barrier. One moment they stood amid the death and destruction of the burned perimeter, and the next, they were surrounded by the brilliant sights, sounds, and feeling of life renewed. Birds sang loudly, and the small white wildflowers that grew prolifically among the sea of green reappeared like earthly stars. Trees swayed overhead, and squirrels, rabbits, and other forest creatures rustled about in the undergrowth, encouraging Bear to chase after them.
They stopped and breathed it in, their senses overwhelmed by the sudden change. The forest seemed to be exaggerating its natural abundance of life in stark defiance to the desolation from the Mins. A dozen yards into the trees, the elves appeared, welcoming them with fruits, breads and honey cakes, and soft leather decanters filled with cool water.
“Can you tell me about Phinlera,” Brax asked the first elf he saw. “No thank you, I’m not hungry,” he said to another. “Please take me to Bendarren.” He tried repeatedly, but the elves refused, lifting the food to his mouth and encouraging him to eat.
Penton, however, consumed large quantities of the cakes and fresh fruit, before draining several goblets of forest berry wine.
Realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere until he’d eaten, Brax swallowed some spicy bread and drank down the water. The meal made him feel alive again, cleansing his weariness from the Dunes and strengthening his body.
The elves guided them through the forest, first in one direction and then another, singing, dancing, and placing small wreaths of wildflowers in their hair. They let themselves be led on by the revelry, a welcome change from their war-soaked melancholy. Brax questioned them again about Phinlera, and they responded by interweaving her name into their song, telling him to go to Almon-Fey. He pleaded for information, but they ignored him, insisting that he eat and drink as they headed toward the capital city.
Hours passed quickly, and Braxton soon lost all sense of time and direction. The food and drink continued to relax him, uplifting his spirits and banishing his fears. By the time they reached Almon-Fey and caught sight of the three enormous white oaks, Braxton felt mildly intoxicated. He had only a vague idea of where he was or why they’d come. The elves continued their celebration, dancing through the capital and joined by hundreds more who led them to a huge clearing where thousands gathered.
Moving among the crowd, Braxton bumped into a man wearing long blue robes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing for his clumsiness, then realized it was Bendarren.
Instantly the festival vanished. Brax, Penton, and Bear stood with Bendarren in the little clearing in front of his tree. They blinked in the bright morning sun. Their elven mentor bore a long white mark on his face, extending from the top of his forehead, along the bridge of his nose and down his right cheek to his jawbone.
“My people’s joy can have a powerful effect on those unaccustomed to our ways,” he said.
“What?” Brax felt strangely dizzy, and his temples throbbed.
“Where are the elves?” Penton looked around.
“Eat this.” Bendarren handed each of them a sprig that smelled like peppermint.
“We were just dancing when . . .” But Braxton couldn’t remember.
“Eat,” Bendarren repeated, and they began chewing on the stringy plant that had a strong, bitter flavor. Slowly their minds began to clear, and they looked around bewildered, wondering how they’d gone so far into the forest.
“Where’s Phinlera?” Braxton blurted out. “Is she all right? Were you able to . . . I need to find her!”
“Where are the elves?” Pen asked again. “There were so many of them.”
“Keep eating,” The elf handed Penton another sprig.
“I need to know!” Brax insisted, looking into the open doorway of their elven friend’s home.
“Drink,” he said, handing Penton a silver goblet. Pen drained half the contents before offering it to Brax.
“I’m not thirsty. I just want to know if Phin’s alive. Please! Why won’t you tell me?”
“Drink first.” Bendarren took the goblet from Brax’s brother and handed it to him.
“But I just need to . . . oh, fine,” he said at last. He took the cup, intending to take a quick sip to appease the elf. But when he finished, he realized he’d emptied the goblet. Surprised, he looked at Bendarren.
“Go to your mother’s tree. She will answer all your questions.”
“Please tell me.”
“Go now,” he repeated, pointing to the forest.
“But—just—” Brax stammered.
“It’s clear he’s not going to tell you,” Pen said. “There must be a reason for it. Let’s find Mom.”
Disappointed, Brax let his brother lead him away toward Arbor Glen. He looked back at Bendarren watching them go.
Walking cleared Brax’s mind. He breathed in the morning air and began to think out loud. “Why wouldn’t he tell us? What does it mean? Is Phin . . . ?” He stopped short, unable to say what he feared.
“Don’t think about it,” Penton said. “I’m sure she’s fine.” But Brax could see the worry on his brother’s face, unusual for his lighthearted disposition, and his stomach sank. Penton quickened his pace.
Braxton began to run, concerned what Bendarren’s refusal might mean. He couldn’t accept that Phinlera might not have survived. He could still hear her screaming from the witch’s magic and see the look on her face from the wyvern’s sting. It was something he knew he’d never forget. He chided himself for the hundredth time for not being stronger, for not being able to summon the spirit magic better or quicker, for failing to protect her. Now she might be dead. All because of him. Because of his failure. Because he was weak.
By the time they reached Arbor Glen in the early afternoon, Braxton’s emotions were at a fever pitch. He crested the little hill fronting their mother’s tree and stopped short, his eyes falling on her wooden form.
“What the . . . ?” His thoughts turned to anger at seeing a small structure protruding from her base.
“Who’d build a house in Mom’s tree?” Penton asked.
Like so many others in Arbor Loren, the building seemed created from the oak itself, extending out as a natural part of the trunk’s larger frame. Low-hanging branches covered the roof, giving the vague impression of the giant tree cloaking the smaller home, overlapping the structure to form a natural porch that wrapped around to one side. A round window faced toward them, its soft curtains closed, blocking their view inside.
Braxton’s temper flared. Someone had desecrated his mother’s beautiful for
m, violating her essence by building into her natural shape. He gripped his hands into fists, his nails cutting into his palms. Summoning the energy, he moved his hand over his shoulder and gripped the Unicorn Blade. Whoever did this was going to pay a terrible price.
“Easy, Brax,” Pen said. He had almost forgotten his brother was there. Penton shook his head at how fiercely Brax held the spirit sword. For a moment Braxton stared back at him in anger, as if he was the enemy. Penton didn’t understand. He could never understand what his mom meant to him, what they’d been through together. The bond they’d created. Building into her tree was a direct assault upon that bond, upon his mom’s very essence, and her memory.
Pen touched Braxton’s arm. “Let it go. There must be an explanation.”
Brax pulled away and drew the sword. But the moment the blade left its sheath, it made an unusual ring, a high-pitched whine, unlike its normal peaceful and rhythmic response to being released. He began to shake. The energy surged through him, sending a cold shiver down his body. With it came an uncomfortable sense of being out of place, of having opened something that should not have been awakened.
He realized then what he’d done—drawing the blade in anger, out of a feeling for revenge, with hatred in his mind. The Unicorn Blade had responded to those emotions. Struggling, he tried to contain the evil sensation, wrestling with the destructive thoughts it evoked. Slowly, very slowly, he managed to move his shaking hand back over his shoulder and sheath the weapon, extinguishing the negative energy.
He stood stunned, breathing hard, drenched in perspiration. He never wanted to feel that side of the spirit magic again. Brax closed his eyes and took several long breaths, practicing the mental exercises Serene and Kael had taught him. Visualizing himself standing in the brilliant light of the sun, he tried to bring his body and mind back into balance. He understood now how the power of the Unicorn Blade had reacted to his emotions, to his dark thoughts and his desire to inflict pain. He at last recognized what he might become if he didn’t control his feelings in the face of that power. The magical energy that had intertwined itself with his physical life so completely could be used for good or ill. Through all his experiences on this long journey, it was the first time he’d ever wanted to use the spirit sword in anger: to attack rather than defend, to hurt rather than protect, to destroy rather than heal. The sword’s power responded to those emotions, and, if not controlled, they would consume him.
Cathadeus_Book One of the Walking Gates Page 29