“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” Aram had mused aloud. “Not with all those spiders nearby. Did you see the size of the webs? Awful.”
“But you must sleep!” Drella looked scandalized, braiding flowers into her hair over one shoulder, sitting in her curious sideways manner to accommodate her fawn legs. Her skin glowed orange in the firelight. “Lie down, both of you, and I will sing you a lullaby.”
“I’m not a kid,” Aram protested, but laid down anyway.
“Sh-hh! I want to hear a dryad lullaby,” Galena had whispered. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
And so Drella sang to them, quietly at first, and then with more confidence. That wasn’t anything new. Drella sang all the time, and for any reason, but this was different. Aram could tell it meant something to her, that it wasn’t just some random bits of thoughts she had strung together with a melody, but a genuine song she had learned somewhere. Had Thalyss taught it to her when she was still just an acorn?
There I was
In the wood
With sunshine so bright.
There I was,
Not alone but alive.
There I walked in my grove
With hope and pride.
There I shall stay
When I fear the rising tide.
Stuck there on the hilltop of the base camp, his arms pinned to his sides, his chest throbbing with pain, Aram could swear he heard a soft whisper of the song again. Should it comfort him? Should it frighten him? He couldn’t move, paralyzed, watching in mute horror as Zathra’s blade sank into Drella’s side.
Galena screamed. Zathra howled with glee. And Aramar felt the blade go in as if it had been stuck between his own ribs and not Drella’s. Their bond. He had never doubted it, but also never given it too much thought. Now he knew it was real and personal and vital, and his eyes filled with tears as he watched Drella grasp the knife and pull it from her side, blood soaking through the flowers and leaves covering her midsection.
Rage. Sadness. Fear. Clarity.
There I shall stay
When I fear the rising tide.
Clarity. He would stay in that clarity, that singular focus that overtook him and made the crystal shard hilt pinned to his side glow suddenly white-hot with energy. Just as Drella was bound to him, the hilt seemed bound to his state, and the Diamond Blade exploded to life, a ripple of Light and heat blasting out from it in every direction. Aramar hardly felt the impact, but everyone else on the hilltop was not so lucky. The burst rocked the others to the ground, even Throgg and Malus toppling into the mud as Aramar broke free of the magic holding him, the shadow once more dissolved by the power of the Light.
“To me! Hurry!” Aramar shouted, and Drella listened without hesitation, galloping over the stunned bodies of Ssarbik and Ssavra, who had edged her toward the cliff’s face but now lay prone on the ground. Malus was the first to regain his feet, and the nearest, having stayed near the tents and not crowded Drella like the others.
He leapt toward Aram, snarling and swinging, his broadsword reflecting the last of the Light that had flattened everyone to the mud.
“No more!” Malus bellowed, his black eyes bristling with anger. His face had gone red with rage, spit dribbling down his chin as he grunted and swung his sword with reckless abandon. “I’m done with mercy.”
Aram, foolishly, let his attention be drawn by Drella. She was taking too long to reach him, slowed by the grievous wound in her side. He had to protect her, and yet he couldn’t, not when Malus descended on him. He was a tornado of violence, blade flashing relentlessly, Aram doing his best to deflect the heavy blows. But Malus was, in the end, not only a trained swordsman but a grown man of incredible strength, and Aram felt his wrists begin to ache from the effort of parrying the broadsword.
“At last,” Malus hissed, winding up for one last overhead swing. Aram braced, feeling his whole body shudder from the force of the blow as their swords clashed, and Aram slumped to his knees, overwhelmed and defeated. “Ssarbik! Get up, you useless peacock, and get us a portal out of here. NOW.”
Malus knocked the cutlass out of Aram’s shaking hands, then reached down, grabbing Aram by the collar of his father’s coat.
“You’ve won,” Aram muttered, trying to pry at the man’s far stronger hands. “Just kill me. Don’t hurt the others; they don’t deserve this.”
“You’re right.” Laughing, Malus slammed the rounded hilt of his broadsword into Aram’s temple, dazing him. The world tilted and Aram fell over onto his side, gasping, feeling the compass around his neck break under the weight of his elbow. The glass shattered, but Aram didn’t have time to mourn for it. The sense had been knocked from him, but he could still see a blur coming toward them at speed.
Drella.
No, he thought. Go away. Flee. This is all my doing, all my fault—
“Drella.” He groaned, weak. The others were rallying, the Hidden and his friends, and he could see Makasa shaking her head as she crawled up onto all fours. Aram’s head pounded, his vision failing. But Drella … He could see her, bounding toward them. Malus had heard him say her name, and he spun, broadsword in hand, intercepting her before Murky or Hackle could come to her aid.
His hand lashed out once, precisely, cuffing her across the face the same way he had hit Aram. Drella reeled, going up onto her hind legs, her eyes huge with fear as she went down into the mud.
“Nature preserve me, nature guide me,” she was saying, over and over again, but she was weak and wounded, and nothing but a flicker of emerald magic danced on the ends of her fingertips.
Time slowed again. Aram felt as if he might vomit from the pain coursing through his head and side. He watched Malus, his uncle, round on the dryad, preparing to raise his sword and strike the killing blow.
“Stop.”
It wasn’t Makasa who said it, or Galena, but Valdread. The Forsaken, mud-flecked and hunched, placed himself between Malus and the dryad, his blade ready as if to challenge.
“Get out of my way, corpse,” Malus said with a snarl.
“No.” Valdread stood his ground.
“You mercenaries are all the same. Never worth the price.” Malus sliced his broadsword through the air and huffed. “I don’t pay you for your opinions, and I don’t pay you to challenge my authority. Now shut up and move.”
“The boy is down; he’s defenseless; you have him now. You have the compass, man. You have what you want. Come to your senses. This isn’t a clean kill. Look at her; she’s hardly more than a child. Come now, Malus, this isn’t necessary. It would be murder.”
“No,” Malus said, shaking his head, and for a moment, Aram thought he might see reason and show mercy. Instead, he gave a strange flick of his head. Behind him, near the cliff, Ssarbik and his evil magics had been waiting. The blackened tendril wrapped around Valdread’s middle, catching him by surprise, which registered at once on his desiccated face. His mouth fell open as if to let out a scream, but it was lost to the wind as Ssarbik’s magic wrapped around him, whipped him across the camp and over the cliff’s edge, sending him plummeting to his doom.
“That would be murder. Ah. A little peace at last. Now”—Malus sighed and raised his broadsword again—“where was I?”
Aramar knew what would come next. He tried to crawl, tried to scream out a warning, but it was too late. Murky and Hackle would never reach her in time, and Makasa and Galena trailed well behind. All was suddenly quiet, except for Drella’s strained gasp of surprise, the broadsword striking true, striking deep, deeper than any wound that could be healed.
The roar that came after didn’t sound like Aram to his own ears, but it was, and Malus let him come, let him gather the dryad in his arms. Malus didn’t seem to care, or notice, going calmly to retrieve the crystal shard hilt and the broken compass in the mud. His work was done, and Aram’s heart was shattered.
Distantly, around the perimeter of his grief, Aram could see more black shadows rising from the ground, bending around his fri
ends, holding them fast. A dark purple-and-black light flickered in the middle of the camp, then reality tore open, an oblong portal shimmering into view.
“You’re all right,” Aram whispered, gathering Drella close to his chest. She was so light, like she was already gone, disappearing. There was warmth left in her shoulders, in her cheeks, and he brushed at the mud there. “You have to be all right.”
“I am not afraid, Aram,” she murmured, smiling, not even a sad smile, but a true one, the only way she could smile. “Do not be afraid. Please do not be afraid for me.”
Malus’s shadow darkened them, the crystal shard hilt tucked into his belt, the shattered compass sticking out of his vest pocket. Why couldn’t he just go? Why couldn’t he just leave them?
“Haven’t you done enough?!” Aram shouted, holding Drella. Rocking her. “Just leave us alone. You got what you came for. Leave us alone. Leave us … please.”
“Oh no, nephew, I’m afraid my master has other plans for you. Get up, or I’ll make you.”
“But … but Throgg thought you want him dead,” Throgg said, scratching his head.
Malus rolled his eyes. “Just something to frighten the boy. I have orders.”
Unmoving, Aram refused to look up at his cursed uncle. Instead, he watched the last sweet light in Drella’s eyes shine up at him, watched the smile on her lips quaver.
“Listen, Aram,” Drella murmured, her eyelashes fluttering, a tear cascading down her perfectly round cheek. She pressed something soft and delicate into his hand, closing his fingers around it. “You must listen, Aram, when nature speaks to you.”
Then he was ripped away, Malus dragging him, kicking and screaming, by his coat. Aram wouldn’t give up. He fought. He fought hard. And he watched, hopeless and heartbroken, as Drella’s small, still form grew farther and farther away.
One by one, the Hidden disappeared into the portal. Aram felt its terrible power humming as Malus dragged him toward it. He searched out his friends, each of them struggling against Ssarbik’s binding shadows.
“Aram!” Makasa called out to him, her face stricken, eyes wild. “Aram! I’ll find you! We’ll find you! Aram, I promise you, we’ll—”
Her last words were swallowed up by the portal closing, and then he was sucked into darkness, his only sense that something had changed. He closed his eyes and felt the loss like an arrow to his chest. Their bond. It was leaving. He’d never realized the magic that coursed through him—the connection he’d felt to her—until it was suddenly and irrevocably severed.
A hungry pit opened inside Aram’s chest, consuming all feeling until he felt nothing but cold.
The silence kept in the camp for only a moment. Then Makasa heard Murky’s webbed feet slapping against the mud as he hurtled toward the fallen Drella. Hackle came, too, but more gradually. Then Galena wailed behind them, falling to her knees in the mud.
“I failed her,” she said, fingers grasping desperately at the earth. “I had one mission, one purpose … To protect her. I vowed to protect her, and in her moment of greatest need I … I failed.”
“Come on,” Makasa said, reaching out her hand.
Galena sniffed, taking it. “What do we do now?”
“She is our friend, and she deserves to die with her friends around her.”
The dryad stirred at their approach. Murky was already draped across her stomach, head buried in his arms as he slobbered and burbled, inconsolable.
“Hackle sorry,” the gnoll mumbled, wiping at his snout and crouching. One huge paw smoothed over the dryad’s mud-streaked hair. “Hackle try, but not fast enough. Not strong enough.”
Drella managed to lift her head, just a little, and Makasa raced over, kneeling and letting the dryad rest her head on her legs. Smiling weakly, Drella gazed up at her and gave a nod. “I am so lucky,” she whispered, her breathing shallow, “to have such good friends.”
Makasa bit back her anger, her fear, while she waved Galena closer. She felt utterly helpless. The wounds the dryad had suffered were not survivable, Makasa knew that much, but she didn’t want to frighten the girl. Although … Drella seemed calm. Peaceful. There was no panic in her voice as she put a gentle hand on Murky’s head.
“Do not be afraid, friends,” she said, looking at each of them in turn. “All things die.”
Nobody spoke. Murky sniffled, lifting his head enough to blink up at Drella with glossy eyes. “Nrk gllrgg,” he bubbled.
“Oh, Murky, I think I have to go. But do not be afraid. All of this, all of it was our destiny together. There is a harmony to nature, a way and a flow. Like the path of a river, like the path through the soil that a stem takes to find the sun. A river may be dammed. A stem may be chewed away by aphids or grasshoppers. And a traveler may be diverted in any number of ways. But the flow exists, and we are without a doubt a part of its whole.”
Makasa took the dryad’s hand and felt her heart twinge. She had heard those words before, spoken by Thalyss, who had sacrificed his life for Aram, too. Drella’s fingers were growing very cold.
“Makasa,” Drella murmured. Speaking was becoming difficult, each word labored, each taking a deep breath to get out. “You are so strong, friend; do not forget to be soft sometimes, too. Soft things can bend and mend and grow. They need you. We all need you. Seven must become One. Depend … on each other. Stay together.”
She smiled then, and was still, and Makasa felt her little hand go limp against her palm.
Wind shimmered through the wet trees, fluttering the flowers growing among Drella’s colorful curls. Galena reached over, carefully, and closed the dryad’s eyes.
“Earth Mother grant you swift passage,” Galena whispered, and then something in a language Makasa did not understand.
They sat in silence around the dryad’s body for a long time, and Makasa suspected, like her, nobody had any idea what to do. Drella was gone. Aram taken and likely to follow their friend into an early grave. The compass—the only way to locate the other shards of the Diamond Blade—was in the hands of the enemy, on the march to gods knew what end.
Makasa shifted, laying Drella’s head gently on the soft earth.
“We need to make camp, find something to eat, regroup.” She wouldn’t let the dryad’s sacrifice be in vain. Makasa had to lead now; she had to be strong and sure, and not let them all go to pieces. Not that it was easy, not that she wanted to start barking orders, but someone had to pull them all back together. What was it her brothers had once said? If you keep on a path, if you just move forward, it keeps things from catching up with you.
“And we need to … We need to bury her.”
“I’ll find a place,” Galena murmured, rising slowly. She drifted solemnly away, and Makasa could hear her crying softly as she went.
“Hackle no understand,” the gnoll said, taking in a deep breath and watching the tauren go. “Galena not know Drella like us.”
“She’s a druid, Hackle. Dryads are sacred to them. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I think Master Thal’darah wanted her to protect Taryndrella. Just … leave her be. She’s going to take it hard.”
“We all take hard,” Hackle added. “Drella protect us. Drella make crowns, make music. Drella friend.”
Murky stayed with Drella the longest, refusing to leave her side. Makasa let him, patrolling through the battle-torn camp. A few weapons had been left behind, and so she gathered those up, and found the most weatherproof tent, then decided against it. What if the Hidden just took a portal back and finished them off? No, they would have to move, and move soon. Her bones ached with exhaustion, her hands jittery. Aram … How could they even begin to find him?
The last of the day’s sun bled across the horizon, illuminating the camp briefly, the dying rays touching on something shiny in the mud. Makasa squinted, thinking maybe it was just a bit of blade that had broken off in the scuffle. But she knelt, examining it, digging around it in the muck until she could pry it loose.
She gasped, holding it up to
the dwindling sunlight, turning it back and forth. A bit of brass, a tiny gear. It must have been part of Aram’s compass, falling out after he broke it in the fight. But there was no sign of the rest of it, and Makasa nearly chucked the find over the cliff. Instead, she pocketed it. That was all there was to find. Just a useless scrap. Otherwise, they were down to just a little bit of food and fresh water, a camp they couldn’t use for fear of reprisal, and Aram’s abandoned pack. Makasa took one last look around, just to be sure she hadn’t missed anything, and rounded up their things, carrying the packs and weapons to the edge of the cliff, where the path cut into the hillside dipped down.
Galena was just coming up from the valley below, her shaggy brows knit with worry.
“I—I think I found a nice place to bury Taryndrella,” she said.
“That’s fine,” Makasa replied. “That’s good, but what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The tauren gulped and pointed downward, and then Makasa heard it, a strange, low groan, like someone waking up from a tremendously long nap. What in the world … ?
“There’s something you should see,” Galena whimpered. “Someone you should see.”
* * *
Makasa had to laugh. A dry, humorless laugh, but one nonetheless. The fall from the top of Northwatch Expedition Base to the valley below had not been kind to Valdread. The Forsaken had shattered like an egg, fragments of his body strewn about the bowled-out base of the mountain: a hand there, a booted foot here, and nestled against a shrub, the mercenary’s head, still somehow attached to his torso. Someone might call it a miracle, but Makasa only felt it was a curse. Sure, it had been cold and cruel of Malus to have Ssarbik send him spinning off the cliff, but she hadn’t anticipated grieving over it; Valdread and every single one of the Hidden had to be dealt with eventually, and the mercenary’s early demise might have been a win for them.
The Shining Blade Page 11