Heart of Farellah: Book 1

by Brindi Quinn

  At this, Nyte stiffened. It was the same reaction he’d had the other times I’d brought up Druelca, only now there was nowhere for him to run. His obvious discomfort worried me, but no one else noticed.

  “She is a mystery,” said Scardo. “Indeed, we have yet to verify what she even looks like.”

  Grotts nodded. “You see, her guards do all the dirty work. She just commands ‘em.”

  “You have yet to see her?” said Rend in a scoff. “How can you be certain such a woman even exists?”

  Grotts growled at her assumption of incompetence. “We didn’t say we never saw ‘er. We just can’t determine what she looks like fer certain ‘cause she’s always wearing a long black veil.”

  “A long veil?” It sounded creepy.

  “Yes,” answered Scardo. “She stands at the top of her castle, watching over her kingdom, clad in black. Although her face is always hidden, our latest report suggests that she is most likely an Elf.”

  That was puzzling.

  “But if The Mystress really is the Heart of Havoc, isn’t she a Sape? Aren’t all songstresses Sapian?”

  “Indeed,” continued Scardo, “it is one of the mysteries regarding The Mystress. She appears to possess the power of both an Elf AND a songstress, something we’ve never seen before.”

  Was that the reason Nyte was so uncomfortable talking about Druelca? Had he somehow known that one of his brethren might be the organization’s commander?

  I tried to discern it, but his face was stern and difficult to read.

  “An Elf? Impossible. An Elf would never wage war with other Elves. We are a noble and peaceful people.” The fierceness in Rend’s eyes did little to help her argument. If anyone in our group was fitting to stand at the top of a fortress in a black veil it was her.

  Reading my thoughts, Kantú chittered.

  We continued to discuss Druelca’s queen, but Nyte, maintaining an unreadable expression, found a diversion in searching the ahead shadows. Squinting, he pressed his face to the edge of the barrier, if only to separate himself from the conversation, and after a few minutes, he unexpectedly exclaimed,

  “What is that!?”

  I followed his line of sight.

  “Is that . . . a person?” I could scarcely make out a man walking dazedly toward one of the chime trees. “Out there?!”

  “What?!” yelled Grotts. “Naw. Can’t be.” He peered through the rim of the bubble and then realized, “It is! And he’s mesmerized!”

  Now everyone ran to the edge.

  Kantú let out a squeak, began shifting her weight from foot to foot in anxious dance, and cried, “But those suckers are gonna get him! We – we have to do something!”

  “Yeah!” I said, pleading with Scardo. “Let’s go help him! But what can we do?”

  But Scardo only shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, voice somber. “If we go out there, we will share his fate.”

  “Regardless, we cannot just leave him out there!” Nyte pulled his fist back in preparation to plow through the edge of the bubble, but Rend grabbed his collar and restrained him.

  “Are you a fool, cousin? Once again your compassion gets the best of you. Do you wish to die for that imbecile?”

  Still, Nyte struggled in her grasp. My mind raced for a solution.

  We can’t just leave him out there!

  The next train of events happened much too spontaneously for their own good. I’m not sure why I did what I did in that moment. Certainly I didn’t want to see the man get eaten by the suckle, but did I actually think I had the strength to combat the deadly song? It wasn’t something I even considered. I didn’t give a thought to what might become of me on the other side or what my plan was at all as I impulsively pushed my way out of the barrier.

  I heard Nyte yell when I stepped through the bubble, but his voice became stifled by Rend’s spell as I reached the outside grove. Kantú pressed a horrified face to the barrier’s edge.

  I felt bad, but I ignored the group’s frantic gestures and called to the man. Maybe I could reach him before the song affected me.

  Tink . . . tink . . . tink . . .

  It was then that the deadly melody reached my ears.

  A most delicate twinkling sounded filled the grove, like dozens of wind chimes dancing in the breeze. I wanted to run to the man but found myself instead drifting towards two large purple eyes that peeked out of a nearby tree. The tree’s boughs reached out to me when I neared – like they were welcoming me into a warm embrace.

  I closed my eyes.

  What’s that sweet sound? A chimbree?

  I was back on the beach the night of the Rite as the priestesses twirled their chimbrees about in the air.

  I’m a songstress; I should sing along.

  Yes, why not sing along? That stupored logic would turn out to be my salvation.

  I started humming along with the chimes, quietly at first, but then growing louder as my head started to clear.

  What was I doing?

  Walking towards those lovely purple lights, of course.

  I should keep going. But wait, wasn’t there a man?

  The humming grew into a full-fledged song, and my head continued to clear.

  “Juniper, Juniper for whom do you cry?

  Willows will echo, boundless in time,

  Juniper, Juniper for me you do sigh . . .”

  I took a step back from the eyes.

  That’s right . . . I have to save that man!

  But don’t you want to stay with the purple shine?

  No, it’s dangerous!

  I took another step back, and the Song of Juniper’s Cry resounded through the grove, muffling out the chimes and completely breaking their hold over me.

  Ah! That was so close! How stupid of me! I have to keep singing or else . . .

  I started to the man, and the branches stretched out after me, angry that I’d escaped their grasp, but my song didn’t falter. I quickened my pace. The man was almost at the tree now, but his steps were laggard enough that I just might be able to reach him. I pressed myself.

  I got closer and saw that there was something sticking out of the man’s britches. A Squirrelean?

  Yes, it was a graying tail. Kantú would be thrilled!

  “Willows will echo, boundless in time . . .”

  I came right up next to him and pulled on his arm, trying to draw him away from the tree’s outstretched limbs, but he only let out a high-pitched whimper and continued toward the tree, still under the chimes’ spell.

  “Juniper, Juniper . . .”

  Luckily, just as the limbs began to reach around him, my song started to break through, and he quit resisting. That’s it!

  But I was a little too late. One of the branches hooked onto his pack, and the flowers became sucking leaches as they latched onto his arm. The purple eyes within the tree grew wide with hunger.

  I tugged on him, but the tree was stronger, pulling the Squirrelean back into its branches.

  No! Give him back! But it was no use. The branches kept pulling.

  It was too late. I was too . . .

  Just as I was certain I was going to lose to the tree, a gleam of silver caught my eye. It was the moonlight reflecting off Nyte’s blade. He’d come to our rescue, sporting the same sword he’d used against the Feirgh.

  “Keep singing!” he yelled, slashing precisely at the branches.

  R-right!

  “Boundless in time . . .”

  He cut one of the stretching branches off, and it writhed on the ground like a dying snake before burrowing into the earth below the tree. He proceeded to cut off the rest of the attached limbs, each sword swipe controlled and accurate. One by one, they slithered into the earth.

  As the final limb was cut, the Squirrelean fell back.

  “Come on!” Nyte threw the man over his shoulder, grabbed my hand, and ran back to the bubble.

  We sprinted, and the furious trees reached for us, but Nyte was swift. He darted between them, cutti
ng off any that got too close.

  “For me you do sigh!”

  With one final line, we pushed through the barrier and crashed to the floor. The trees around us shook violently in defeat.

  We were welcomed by a flurry of voices.

  “Miss Heart! What were you thinking? You could have been killed!” Scardo was pale. He quickly helped me up and with trembling fingers, turned over my hands, examining me for scrapes.

  “Holy smokes, ya had us sweatin’!” Grotts patted his hairline with a yellow rag that looked suspiciously like the one that had been tied around his knee earlier that day.

  I bit my lip. “Sorry. But I couldn’t just leave him!”

  Rend shot us a cold look. “Foolish to the core,” she said, but as she studied Nyte, her eyes carried a hidden look of relief.

  Having passed Scardo’s inspection, I was now free for Kantú to fling her arms around.

  “You did it!” she cried. “You saved- Oh! He’s a Squirrelean!”

  Everyone turned to the Squirrelean, who was rubbing his temple, lightheaded.

  He was a short, plump man, clad in tan overalls that looked like they could use a good washing. He sported a large grass hat, in which he’d cut two small holes to accommodate his gray furried ears.

  We stared at him and he stared back at us; then all at once, he erupted into an outpour of questions with a voice even higher than Kantú’s.

  “Was that some kind of spell? Those bells? What’s this thing we’re in? Who are y-”

  “More importantly,” interrupted Scardo, “what were you doing wandering around in the Wanzyr Grove with no protection?”

  “M-m-me?” he stammered. “Why, I’m a trader from Astenberry! The road to Benro was closed, so I decided to take this shortcut instead. I didn’t know there was any danger here.” He gulped and scanned the hordes of purple eyes. “Had I known, I never would have entered!”

  “Oh?” Scardo eyed the man with suspicion. “And why was the road to Benro closed?”

  “Because! There were guards in black robes patrolling the roads. They wouldn’t allow me to pass, even though I explained I was just a traveling-”

  “Guards!?” Grotts lurched at the man, suddenly as fearsome as he’d been on our first encounter. “Who were they? Wha’d they want?”

  “I don’t know!” The Squirrelean cowered and batted at Grotts with his tail.

  Growling, Grotts backed off and turned to Scardo. “We shouldn’t chance it.”

  Scardo nodded. “We will have to take another way.”

  They lost no time planning a new route. Scardo pulled a map from his pocket, and the two of them began to study it fervently

  Guards in black robes? Could Druelca really be that close? The thought turned the unease I’d felt all through the grove into a heart-pounding panic. In an attempt to push it away, I gestured to the timid man, and trying to keep my voice steady, asked,

  “What’s your name?”

  He straightened up and adjusted his pack. “I’m Toll Garrich.”

  I was about to offer mine in return, but Nyte shook his head, a warning to keep my identity secret. “Right,” I said, not yet used to my fugitive status.

  “Wow!” Kantú poked the newcomer’s tail. “It’s been so long since I’ve met another Squirrelean! Are you of the Northern Tribe?”

  “Northern Tribe?” Toll scratched his ear. “I’m not from a tribe. As I said, I’m from the city of Astenberry.”

  Kantú looked confused. “You don’t have a tribe? You’re tail doesn’t look very big, so for sure you can’t be off on your own . . . .”

  “What does the size of my tail have to do with anything?” he asked, offended.

  Kantú’s jaw dropped, stunned by Toll’s response. How could this foreign Squirrelean not understand the importance of tail size? She furrowed her brows and studied the man, who squirmed under her intense gaze.

  With an ‘ahem’, Scardo folded the map and tucked it away. Then he said, “You may accompany us to the end of the grove, but once there I’m afraid we must part ways. You are to tell no one you encountered us.

  “Why-”

  But Grotts shot Toll Garrich a threatening glare that quickly turned the question into an eager nod of compliance.

  We continued onward through the grove, and the mood was awkward. Kantú scrunched her face at Toll. The others studied him suspiciously. Unable to take it, I sought for a topic to lighten things up.

  “So, what’s Astenberry like, Toll?” I asked. Maybe I could use our accidental meeting to find out more about the world outside of Farellah.

  “Oh!” He brightened at the mention of his hometown. “It’s a perfectly bustling city! The noblewomen stroll the square, looking positively lovely under their pastel parasols. Old men, be they Squirrelean or Sape, share pipes as they watch over the grazing shepsheps. And there is a big brass bell in the center of town that tolls every hour on the hour. The mekanix of it are quite magnificent!”

  My eyes widened. Mekanix? Shepsheps? Brass? It sounded so exotic!

  “And the best part,” he continued, “is the market. New shipments from the coast are delivered daily. Yes, business is good in Astenberry. My wares are ever changing, ever more fascinating.”

  “What sort of wares do you trade?” I asked, eager to find out more about these ‘fascinating’ things.

  “I have all sorts of fine wares from around the world,” he said animatedly. His words became rehearsed as he turned from traveler to salesman. “Silver hand-mirrors of the finest quality, imported from the Crystallands; Elven travel slippers, hand-woven for your enjoyment; necklaces beaded from one hundred percent real glass. I’ve got boxes and bobbins and something for everyone. Care to take a look?”

  “We’d love to! Right Kantú?”

  Kantú still looked a little put off by the Squirrelean stranger’s mannerisms, but her curiosity got the best of her. She peeked over my shoulder when Toll opened his pack.

  His wares turned out to be quite interesting indeed, and we spent the remainder of our trip through the grove examining the odd array of items. There were dainty white gloves made of an odd fabric called ‘sylk’, jars of strange elixirs, and even a comb made of zebron horn, which I stuffed back into the pack before Rend could see, certain she wouldn’t approve.

  Kantú fell in love with a small spinning top carved out of a piece of driftwood from the great ocean – or so Toll claimed it to be. The top made a whistling noise when spun, entertaining Kantú to no end.

  Grotts purchased the toy for her, since neither Kantú nor I had anything of value along. “It’s payment fer carin’ for my knee,” he told her and handed Toll something small and sparkly.

  “Thanks, Grottsy!” She squealed in delight.

  Just as Toll tucked the sparkly payment into his pocket, we reached the end of the grove. Rend dropped the barrier once we were safely out of the deadly chimes’ reach. We were surrounded by the gentle hum of nighttime insects. It was a welcome break from the bubble’s silence.

  “Head straight to Astenberry,” said Scardo, voice thick with warning in preparation of parting ways with Toll. “Tell no one of our encounter.”

  Toll chittered nervously in agreement before saying his goodbyes to the rest of us. He saved mine for last, and upon shaking my hand, he placed something small into my palm and whispered, “For saving me,” before tipping his straw hat and scampering away.

  I looked down at the peculiar black bead he’d set in my palm. What’s this? A pearl? It was extremely cold and didn’t warm when I held it. I studied it a moment before silently slipping it into my pocket. Weird.

  “Where are we going next?” asked Kantú.

  “We’ll camp here for the night before continuing on,” said Scardo. “We had planned to travel through Benro, but that is no longer an option.”

  “Is it really Druelca?” I asked.

  Grotts nodded. “Black cloaks are sorta their thing.”

  My pulse quickened. They were clo
se. “Which route will we take instead?” asked Nyte. Grotts and Scardo exchanged wary glances.

  “The Mud Sea,” they said.

  The Mud Sea? Kantú lifted the left side of her lip in disfavor.

  I stared into the night and watched the traveler’s silhouette as it faded into the distant darkness. I yearned to follow after him, certain that his road home would be much easier than mine.

  Chapter 8: The Mud

  “Just how muddy is the Mud Sea?” I’d asked Scardo after departing Wanzyr Grove, hoping for the best.

  “Unfortunately, it is very muddy and too shallow and thick to take a boat,” he’d answered, a queer expression of longing upon his face. Over four days had passed since our conversation, and I now fully understood the expression because it was at present reflected on my own mud-speckled face.

  A boat . . . if only.

  The sea of mud we trudged through was endless; not a living thing in sight. With no solid ground for us to set up camp, we had no choice but to continue ankle-deep in mud, ready to collapse from our day and a half long trek. The barren brown sludge that stretched on for miles in every direction was more of a mud desert than anything else.

  My stomach grumbled. At least real seas had fish.

  “It should be less than a half day’s trudge farther,” said Scardo to answer my stomach. With the tails of his tuxedo drenched in mud and trailing behind him like a tail, he fit in with the surroundings better than the rest of our party. He was so salamander-like himself that I wondered if his homeland had been similar to this mud pit.

  “Scardo?” I said. “Where are you from?”

  “A place in the mid-region of Rendalt,” he answered. “A town known as Temsa.”

  “Really? Huh.” That wasn’t what I’d expected – Nyte had mentioned that Rendalt was known for its dry grasslands.

  “Filthy zebron herders,” muttered Rend.

  But the mutter was loud, and Scardo heard the comment, just as she’d intended. He responded,

  “Ahem. Does the sorceress have something to say, or was I mistaken?”

  Though his words were polite, his tone was wholly irritated.

  “I simply do not appreciate those that would consume a beast as graceful and delicate as the zebron. Surely something so heinous cannot be forgiven.”