He frowned. “Friendly takes the fun out of it.”
“Just answer my blasted question! What happens if the Grove is gone?”
“I really am surprised you don’t know this. Ho! Otherwise why would you have dedicated yourself to the trees as one of their vaunted defenders, hmm? Is it not common knowledge that they keep some awful catastrophe at bay?”
She glared at him. “I know that much. It’s what the trees told me. But what is the catastrophe? No one will say. Even Tolynn doesn’t seem to know the exact nature of it, or if she does she won’t tell me.”
Theodore chuckled. “What catastrophe? Ho-ho, Terri. The world you live in is a horrible and terrifying one. You just don’t know this because you have been lucky enough to have been born in this particular secluded part of it. Yes, horrible things would befall us in many different ways if not for several barriers that protect the Known Lands from disasters abroad. The Jharro Grove’s barrier is but one of them. It is said that the three prophets, the dark one included, erected another. Even more protections are given us by holy artifacts in different mountain sites throughout he lands.”
Tarah gave him an open-mouthed look. “What the hell are you talking about?”
The imp shook his head. “It’s disgusting how much knowledge is lost. There was much lost to time even when I was living, but now? Ho!”
“Do you even know?” Esmine accused.
Theodore sneered at her, then shrugged. “Some say it is the oldest disaster. They say that before the world was as it is now, a great eternal destruction had taken place. The Grove holds back that destruction from happening again. Others say that it is a sickness, that without the trees all of life will weaken.” He opened his mouth again, then closed it.
“What?” Tarah said. “Is there another theory?”
He licked his narrow lips. “My grandnanny had a story. Ho! But she was an old wrinkled thing. Mean with a whip when we did not obey. But at night she would tell us tales that set an imp’s mind afire. Yes and one tale she was fond of was the great trees that were the givers of magic.”
“Givers of magic?” Tarah said. “The trees seemed to think that they were holding back some evil.”
“That’s not how grandnanny told it. She said that those who sought the power of the Grove were fools. Ho, that if ever the trees should fall all magic would cease be it spirit, blood, or elemental. Imagine that world? Some demons saw it as paradise. All blood magic races would wither and die. As for us demons, our magic would leave us, but we would live. As would humans and goblinoids I suppose.”
“I see,” said Tarah. A world without magic? Esmine would be gone and Djeri would likely die anyway, and Tarah would be left without powers. Would a half-dwarven baby even live?
“Does it matter what would happen?” Esmine said. “None of those things are good.”
“It does not!” the imp agreed. “Now go forward with the dream, Terri.”
“Right,” Tarah said, steeling herself as she headed down the hill, taking the path to the left.
As she did so, her mind went back into the spell of the dream. All she knew was that this wave of green death was coming for the Grove and only she could stop it. The land around her blurred as she rushed to the forest’s edge.
Finally, she was standing there, Tolynn and Beth at her side. She looked out at the enormous wave. It towered above them all, its shadow falling on Roo-Tan’lan and at the top of it, laughing madly was a woman with arms that waved like snakes.
The wave struck the city, pulverizing the walls and buildings as it went. Tarah saw magics hurled at it, both elemental and spirit, but neither had any effect. The wave crashed on, countless defenders dying in a fruitless attempt to stand in its path.
“What will you do, Terri?” the imp asked, standing slightly behind her.
“I will not let this happen,” she swore, raising the staff and thrusting the end of it into the ground.
A beam of light shot up from the staff, piercing the clouds above. That small ring of sunlight that fell on the Grove widened into an immense wedge that drove forward and struck that wave.
The ground shook. Esmine screamed. It took every ounce of mental strength Tarah had to stand firm. Then the unthinkable happened. The wave split down the middle. The wedge of light sent the wave to the west and east where it crashed impotently into the mountains and harmlessly into the sea.
“We have no choice. We are needed here,” Esmine said.
Tarah didn’t reply. She was staring forward. With the wave gone she could see into the far distance where Djeri stood in his slime-coated armor. She watched in horror as dark tentacles darted in at him, grasping his arms and legs. He was lifted into the air.
“It seems that your choice is indeed Djeri or the Grove,” said the imp, one pale hand raised above his brow as he watched the distant dwarf be torn limb-from-limb. He looked back at Tarah’s stricken face and an uncharacteristic look of compassion filled his eyes. “Or maybe not. Ho! Dream interpretation is a silly hobby really. I cannot know what it means for sure. That figure may not even be your dwarf. Maybe some other trollish monstrosity stole his armor.”
Tarah looked down at the staff in her hand. She knew the truth of it. She had known it the first time she had the dream. She had only needed it confirmed. Djeri’s life was in her hands, just like it had been the day of the treaty. “I can’t just let him die. Not again.”
“You know what you need to do,” Esmine said reproachfully, reaching out to touch Tarah’s arm with her small hand. “I am sorry, Tarah, but you can’t let the Grove be destroyed.”
“I know,” she said, but that declaration sounded hollow. When the battle started would she really be able to stand back here at the Grove knowing Djeri would die? She felt the baby turn inside her as if in response and she clutched her distended belly as tears began to flow from her eyes.
The imp grimaced and scratched his balding head. “This is not set in stone, you know. Ho, any seer will tell you that! The future is like the branch of a growing tree. It may fork many times leading to many different destinations.”
“Are you trying to offer me empty hope, Theodore?” she asked.
“Me offer hope?” The imp snorted. “Does that sound like something I would do? Ho-ho! No. There is likely still much time before this decision needs to be made. This dream is the current course of events, but there is time for one of those branches to happen. It’s possible that if the right decisions are made by the right people, the dream will change.”
Tarah stood straighter. “Are these decisions you’re talking about ones that I can make?”
“Who can say?” the imp replied. “There are surely other cogs that turn events. But if your will is forceful enough, perhaps you can influence them too.”
Tarah wiped her tears and nodded. “I’ll save Djeri and the Grove. No matter what it takes I will find a way.”
Chapter Eight
Justan’s eyes flew open. His head felt as if it would burst. A groan rose in his chest but was muffled by something that had been stuffed in his mouth. The sides of his mouth hurt and he tasted salt and dirt. Justan remembered the filthy handkerchief that had been shoved into his mouth and tied into place by a piece of rope.
His ankles were bound together, his arms tied behind his back. Grunting, he rolled onto his side. The tent he had been thrown into didn't have a source of light and it was dark outside. He could see very little except for shadows thrown by the fires outside playing along the walls of the tent.
There were two guards throwing dice next to the tent flap and he could hear drunken laughter in the camp. Justan gagged on the foul taste of the handkerchief and started working it with his tongue until he was able to move it around the rope and spit it out. The next obstacle was the rope itself, but it was fairly loose without the gag in place and it wasn’t too thick. He started chewing on it while he worked at his other bonds.
He knew he had to escape before his captor arrived. He fiddled w
ith the rope that bound his wrists, but the man who had tied them must have known his knots because Justan couldn’t reach them with his fingers.
“Of all the things for them to be efficient at,” he mumbled to himself, but was pleased to find that the rope in his mouth came apart easily.
His most immediate hope of escape was his friends. From the shadows outside his tent he knew that he was in the middle of his enemy’s army. There were far too many for them to fight through. That wouldn’t stop them from trying though.
Justan reached for his bond with them but was dismayed to find it blocked. How was that possible? Who had that kind of power? A wave of fear rolled over him that he did not understand. He heard close voices and looked to the rear wall of his tent where two shadows were projected.
“Come-come, my dear. I have but one prisoner to see to and then we’ll be on our way. Yes we will.” The voice was thin and eerie, but with a seductive tone.
The second voice was female, very polished and proper sounding. “Perhaps I will go with you but perhaps not.” A hint of hesitation entered her voice. “Your proposal is quite interesting but I don’t like those rings, Ewzad. They make you look thin and wasted and your hands are all . . . crawly.”
Justan’s eyes widened. He knew this. He knew who those voices belonged to.
A sudden gust of wind rocked the tent. Justan felt a swell of magic that carried a sense of attraction to it. He switched to his mage sight and watched the shadows of Ewzad Vriil’s fingers writhe as he poured his charm spell into the woman.
Justan felt a disturbing desire bubbling up inside of him and shook his head, rejecting the rogue wizard’s intoxicating magic. This wasn’t right. This was all over. This was in the past. There was an obvious reason for this but his head hurt so bad he couldn’t think of it.
He strained at the ropes, ignoring the painful way they dug into his wrists. His captors may have known how to tie a man, but Justan wasn’t just any man. He was nearly as tall and heavily muscled as his father and his bond with Fist made him even stronger. The ropes snapped.
Ewzad was still working on his seduction of Elise. The wizard’s magic tingled at the edges of Justan’s defenses, but he did not let it affect him. He reached for the ropes at his ankles ready to strain again, but he was able to pull them apart as if they were made of paper.
“Now wait with Hamford,” Ewzad crooned to the princess. “With my powers, I can take us to the castle swiftly. I have only to deal with one matter.”
Elise was taken away and Ewzad Vriil’s shadow moved around to the front of the tent. Justan pushed away the fear that filled him at the wizard’s approach. He was not the same frightened and unseasoned Mage School student he had been the first time this had happened. He crouched, ready to attack. The tent flap rustled.
Then the tent was gone, lifted into the air. The encampment was empty. There were no guards or tents, just blazing bonfires casting wide pools of light.
Ewzad Vriil stood alone facing him. The wizard looked as he had the first time Justan met him, draped in velvet and silk, his black hair oily and clinging to his scalp. His face was gaunt, almost skeletal. His mouth was fixed in a wicked grin. It was more the face of a dead man than a live one.
“Well, my friend,” he sneered. “You have been a busy one, haven’t you? Yes-yes, the great ‘Sir Edge’. Still growing in strength. Impressing nations. And yet you know so little about true power.”
“I killed you,” Justan pointed out. His memories of the past were still a bit hazy, but he was sure of that one.
“You?” the wizard laughed, a tittering sound. “No-no, that honor went to my creations I’m afraid. Poor Hamford crushed me and vengeful Deathclaw tore my throat. Yes-yes they did. But that is in the past.”
“Then what is this about?” Justan asked.
“Your death, of course,” he replied and this time his voice was of a lower timber, feminine and sensual. Ewzad raised his arms and his worm-like fingers began to writhe.
Justan threw up a shield of air and charged towards the wizard but the power of the Rings of Stardeon was too strong. A mix of elemental and spirit magic shattered his shield and poured into him. Justan felt his right leg swell, bulging until his pants burst open. The weight of it dragged at him, but he continued forward, determined to reach his foe.
Ewzad did not back away. He shifted the magic and Justan’s right arm swelled, growing long and thick, green and covered with slime. It dragged behind him limply, but he continued to move, drawing closer even as his two limbs continued to grow. Growths sprouted from those dragging limbs, long clawed arms that dug into the ground, slowing him further.
Justan’s face started to swell as he reached up over his shoulder with his left arm. He felt his sword handle in his hand. His drew Peace and calm fell over him, the horror of the situation evaporating even as a set of troll-like eyes appeared in his cheek.
Justan surged forward with one last gasp of strength and plunged the weapon into Ewzad Vriil’s chest.
Ewzad laughed, a throaty chuckle. Justan could not feel the wizard’s thoughts, but a voice entered his mind. It was a female voice. “You were marked for death long ago. Now I have you.”
Ewzad’s arms wrapped around Justan. The wizard’s face rippled and darkened, all color leaving his skin. His flesh and clothing lost form, blackening and becoming fluid. For a moment his visage became the black face of the Mother of the Moonrats.
She smiled and plunged her face into Justan’s. The fluid flowed over Justan and soaked into him, joining with his skin. The mass of trollflesh grew; surrounding him, nearly consuming him. Faces formed in it and let out a series of primitive screeches.
Crying out in horror, Justan strained, trying to pull away. With a sickening slurp, he slid free of the mass of flesh and staggered forward. He looked down and was surprised to find his own body intact. But it wasn’t like his regular body.
His muscular frame was gone, replaced by flesh that was thin and clung to his bones. Yet he didn’t feel frail. In fact, he felt the opposite. Power surged through his veins.
Justan turned to face the still-growing monstrosity that he had left behind. It pulsed and slithered, screaming mouths appearing on its sides.
Acting on instinct, Justan lifted his hands and on his fingers glittered the Rings of Stardeon. His fingers writhed, bending bonelessly of their own volition as he poured a cascade of fire and lightning into the creature. He exulted in the unfettered magic that flowed freely from him and the thing screeched and convulsed as he burned it to ash.
He turned away from its smoldering remains and his fingers writhed again. A pool of water appeared on the ground in front of him and, as he looked down into its reflective surface, he saw the face of Ewzad Vriil looking back at him wild-eyed and sneering.
He awoke suddenly, gasping.
Justan? said Gwyrtha’s worried mind. The rogue horse was standing next to his prone body, her stance alert and protective. She nudged him with her reptilian snout. Are you alright?
Justan sat up. He was on a grass matt inside one of the Gnome Warlord’s tents, a thin blanket gathered around his waist. His shirt was drenched with sweat. The tent flap was agape from where Gwyrtha had pushed her way inside and he could see the thin light of dawn streaming in.
“Gwyrtha, did you see that?” Justan asked.
Your dream? she asked. No, but it was a strong one.
You dreamt of Ewzad Vriil, said Deathclaw. The raptoid was crouched in one of the trees high above the encampment where he could see the whole of the island including the thull village. I caught glimpses only. A vivid dream.
Justan shivered. It had been so real. This wasn’t just any dream. It was one like Fist’s, which means it was brought to me by the bond. The question is why?
Ewzad Vriil is in the past, Deathclaw said, though his thoughts were wary. Fist’s dreams are of the future.
Yes. Ewzad Vriil is dead, Justan agreed. Still, there is something I need to learn from this. W
e know that Mellinda is still alive. She was part of my dream too and she has the Rings of Stardeon.
Perhaps you will need to face her in the coming battle, Deathclaw suggested.
Justan let out a slow breath as he considered the possibility. If that is true, I need to be prepared.
How? Gwyrtha asked.
If this is truly like the dreams that Fist has had, I’m going to have it again, Justan said. When that happens, I want the two of you to join me inside.
Can this be done? Deathclaw asked, his thoughts tinged with curiosity.
Use the bond. I entered Fist’s dream once, even from this great distance, Justan replied, recalling the odd realistic feel of the dream as he had seen Fist standing there covered in biting snakes and screaming in slow-motion. And Squirrel has entered Fist’s dreams several times. I think Rufus might have as well.
And what are we to do when we appear to you in this dream? Deathclaw wondered.
First you must remind me that it is a dream. Then assist me so that I can try and take control of it. If I can do that I will be able to do as Fist did and decide what parts of it are real and what parts are just regular dream nonsense.
Gwyrtha was having difficulty with this concept. She cocked her shaggy head. How can you tell?
That part was not completely clear in Justan’s mind either. There will be some things that I can change and some things I cannot. The things that I cannot change are likely the important parts. I also think-.
The Stranger is approaching, Deathclaw interrupted from his perch as he watched the ancient figure make his way over to Justan’s tent.
“Great.” Justan pulled on his socks and boots and walked out with Gwyrtha to meet him. “Greetings, Matthew.”
“Ah, I thought you might be awake,” the man replied.
Like John, the Stranger had an average look and build and had a magic about him that made a person forget what he looked like when they weren’t looking directly at him. He wore plain, but luxurious robes and a lit pipe hung from the corner of his mouth. He held a small block of wood in one hand and was whittling at it with a small knife he held in the other.
Behemoth (The Jharro Grove Saga Book 6) Page 14