The fairy folk still crowded beyond the radius of the seven root pillars were looking on anxiously, with fidgety and nervous expressions. Vanx could only imagine what they were thinking. He couldn’t hear them, and Thorn assured him they couldn’t hear what was being said on the dais unless the speaker had his palm on the interpreting orb, and then everyone in the Underland would hear.
Thorn stepped up beside Vanx’s thigh and followed his gaze. “The oracle,” the elf exclaimed, “Elden Grank.”
“Yes, it is I,” the ancient pixie rasped as he came fully into the nexus’s field with them. “Without the power of the queen’s blood among you, your bickering found its way to my ears.”
Vanx saw that the oracle’s eyes were milky white.
“Nux Vomica Toyon, you may be the oldest member of the Troika, but you are a child compared to some.”
He shooed away the boy that had helped him up into the heart of the nexus, and then confidently turned to face Vanx.
“These youngsters speak in haste,” he rasped. “There will be another queen, or maybe a king born, if the Heart Tree survives. There is hope for your friend.”
The old pixie gave a disapproving nod toward the seven members of the council. “Mighty Chelda will not age while she is among us. When the new monarch of the Lurr matures, Chelda Flar can be granted her freedom from the Underland.” The old pixie’s milky-eyed gaze fell on Thorn then.
“There is another way as well, but it is unclear to me at this time. My gift of seeing is a gift from the Heart Tree, but without a queen the tree is struggling and all is dim.”
The oracle looked at Vanx then, with empty white eyes.
“Once you reap the vengeance you desire, Emerald Eyes, there is no doubt the tree will regain its strength. But you must not only succeed, you must come away from the deed clean and untainted.”
“What do you mean I must come away clean?”
The oracle’s smile wasn’t a pleasant one.
“You are a bridge of sorts, Vanx of Malic. You are god-touched, an impossible mixture of bloodlines. You are a singularity in this world. You share the blood of the Zyth and fae, the blood of man and witch, the blood of Draca, and even the cold, blue blood of the sea runs in your veins. There is another aspect to your life’s flow. I can see you teetering on the cusp of light and dark, a place where the slightest of nudges can send you falling in either direction. The dark one works in many ways to draw a powerful soul to his side. Some paths that lead his way are obvious, but some are subtle and hard to detect. To kill Aserica Rime could be one such path, but it must be done. You will have to use her evil to end all of this, for only you share the witch blood and have the heart to oppose her. How easy it would be for you to fall the wrong way in that time.”
The oracle coughed, shuddered and nearly fell to the dais floor. Only Thorn’s quick reflexes kept the pixie upright.
“You should rest, old one,” Elva Toyon advised. “You are spending too much of yourself just being up and about.”
“Bah,” the oracle waved her off, but accepted Thorn’s support.
“There is no time to rest.” Focusing his empty gaze back on Vanx, he continued. “How easy it would be to fall the wrong way while killing your own? While killing for vengeance?” The oracle smiled then, and it was a genuine and hopeful effort.
“I have hope, and all of you should, too. It’s clear this bringer of death is not out to take over the Hoar Witch’s domain and continue poisoning us. I’d wager he hasn’t thought much about himself at all in this. His only concerns have been to free another from an unfair binding, and to avenge the death of those he held dear. Those are virtuous designs in the eyes of Babd. If he follows his heart and the Rotted Root Way, we might just stand a chance.”
Thorn glanced at Vanx, and the look on his little face showed as much fear as concern. Elden Grank hovered away from him on far steadier wingbeats than those with which he had arrived.
“The Rotted Root Way is forbidden,” Elva Toyon said with a horrified glance up at Vanx. He couldn’t help but feel like a giant among these people.
“There is evil most foul in those caves and tunnels,” she finished.
“The creatures there see in the dark and drink the blood of those they kill,” said another of the Troika Sven.
“We sealed those ways off centuries ago. You will unseal them for the emerald-eyed bringer of death and General Posy-Thorn,” the oracle snapped sharply.
“Then you will seal them back. Those caveways lead into Rimehold’s lowest depths. The Hoar Witch has many spies in the forest, but what need has she to snoop her own dungeons? General Posy-Thorn will take the Glaive of Gladiolus as his weapon, for this is the time of our greatest need.”
“But we were going to let Captain Moonseed lift the glaive against the horde above. It is more a blade of healing than of murder, and our wounded fighters need its power,” argued Elva Toyon. A few of the other members of Troika nodded and agreed with her.
Another of them added, “Moonsy was the one the queen gifted with her death wish.”
“Not a bad choice,” the oracle said as he nodded.
“The queen did save our brave Moonsy from certain death with her last burst of power, but the command to never give up was given to us all.”
Elden Grank stepped forward and clasped a hand on Thorn’s shoulder.
“It was General Posy-Thorn whom our queen sent after Falriggin’s shard. It was also Thorn who brought both mighty Chelda Flar and the death bringer safely to our aid. It is he I see, using the enchanted glaive to get Vanx through to Rimehold, so that he can do what he came to do.”
“So it will be done,” Elva Toyon said.
She nodded as she spoke. “Is there more that you see that may aid them before we unseal the forbidden passages?”
“Nay,” the oracle said, with a final bow.
“The oracle has spoken,” Elva Toyon said.
“General Posy-Thorn, how would you have us command those who have gathered here?”
She gestured to the crowds of fairy folk surrounding the dais.
“You are still the commander of our defenses.”
There were thousands of them gathered out there, from fingerling sprites, to waist-tall, furry-legged Satyrs. All of them looked nervous, yet eager to be doing something, other than waiting.
Thorn looked first to the oracle, then to Vanx. Then of all places, his eyes rested on Sir Poopsalot. The dog turned his head curiously and let his tongue loll out the side of his panting mouth.
“Put all of our troops under the command of First Captain Gloryvine Moonseed. Moonsy won’t falter.”
“And your orders for her, General?”
“Defend the Heart Tree by any means necessary, including mounting direct attacks to divert as many of the Hoar Witch’s beasts from the Shadowmane. And so they may have the chance to win back their honor, the members of the queen’s Royal Guard will fight in the Shadowmane, with mighty Chelda Flar.”
The Troika Sven seemed pleased with Thorn’s orders and after they conferred amongst themselves, they broke off into pairs to set things into motion. Alone, Elva Toyon stood before Vanx, Thorn and the oracle.
“Moonsy is being called down from above, General. Pixen Ruderal and Mar Boxthane are retrieving the Glaive of Gladiolus for you from the vault in Haven Hall.”
She smiled at Thorn, then up at Vanx; her grin faltered when she brought it back down to meet Poops’ lazy eyes and she took an involuntary step back.
“It will take all of us to open the forbidden way,” she finally said.
“If you would, General, show our guests to the Garden of Miora. There, all of you can rest and refresh yourselves before your dark journey. Attendants will come with food and necessities and I will send Sar Oxalas to see about any equipage you think you may need.”
“When will we go into this rotted root cave?” Vanx asked.
His tone made it plain that he didn’t want to linger any longer than necessary
. The battle berries still had him eager to get on with it.
“All too soon,” Thorn reassured him as he urged Poops to stand and then climbed onto the dog’s back. “Now come on. Let’s get something to eat and fill our skins. I have to find some more battle berries and eat at least a bushel of them, or you’ll never get me into that foul passage.”
Chapter Twelve
Cold words cut like a knife,
right through my heart they steal my life.
They tear my heart open wide,
until there’s nothing left inside.
– A Zythian bard’s song
Gallarael’s first instinct was to pause and consider the wrongness of the valley that spread out below her before she rushed down into it, but that wasn’t an option. Behind her came Darl on his ramma mount and behind them, the other ramma followed. Right on its tail was another of the freakish wolfen creatures. This one was covered in grey-blue scales, with a head that looked to be part horse, part viper. Swooping out of the sky was a vicious creature of talons and feathers. It was as big as a man and it might have been wolfen, too, but Gallarael’s eyes couldn’t hold it long enough to tell.
“Into the trees!” she yelled, and barely beat Darl’s ramma in a headlong charge down a semi-steep grade right into the Lurr forest.
What had given her pause about the valley was that it was green. It was rich with spring growth in the middle of a range of frigid mountains. A hazy, irregular dome hovered over the basin and even though snow fell all around and onto that invisible barrier, it didn’t build up, or allow anything to pass through it.
There was also the glittering crystal tower that jutted up through the treetops at the base of the valley’s crook. The valley eventually opened up into the convergence of a flat, silver expanse of water and more sharp, snow-covered mountains.
There was a sizeable clearing in the forest. Centered in this glade was a giant elm tree which towered over the others, matching the crystal tower in height. Before they encountered the canopy, Gallarael had marked that location as her intended destination and tried to lead Darl that way. It only occurred to her then, when she ducked and darted her way below the low-hanging branches and the open terrain between them, that the gargan was no longer behind her.
She stopped her momentum and spun back to search for him. It took her a moment, because she had come so much farther down into the valley than he had. Now it was as if the trunks of spruce, cedar, elm and oak sought to block her view, but she eventually found him and was off to his aid without a thought.
Darl sat on his terrified ramma mount, his left arm tugging down on…what? A rope? No. It was the lead lines to her ramma. She looked up to see part of it dangling from the limbs above.
“Let it go,” she called out.
She saw plainly the blue-tinted wolfen as it darted through the darker greens and browns of the off-seasoned forest. It was heading toward Darl, and gaining speed to make a leap at him.
“Your beast!” Darl yelled back. He hauled mightily down on the line and Gallarael saw the claws that were clutching her ramma when a shower of leaves and feathers came down around him.
A sound that was a cross between an eagle’s cry and a mountain cat’s roar filled the forest.
“Cut it loose!” Gallarael screamed, but her voice was drowned out.
She realized then she had no weapons. A bow would’ve been ideal, for she could at least have slowed the charging wolfen with an arrow. The winged thing wasn’t letting go of her ramma and Darl still hadn’t let go of its line. As much strength as her changeling ability gave her, she could do nothing from where she was, so she leaned into a quadrupedal lope and ran with all the strength her condition afforded her.
The grey-blue wolfen was but a streak through the trees now and it was closing on Darl with uncanny speed.
Gallarael pushed her limbs to the limits, trying to beat the creature to him, but she knew she couldn’t. Even as she closed to leaping distance, the scale-covered beast was in midair. Its slavering viper fangs were bared and all its substantial weight was coming behind it. She had to slow her charge, for if she pounced now she would get Darl as well.
“No!” she found herself screaming, as she flashed past the collision and spun to position herself to tear the beast off of her companion. She heard the ramma keen in terror and saw a kaleidoscope of scale and fur. Darl was rolled around where she could see the anguish in his face; then she was splattered by a misty spray of bright scarlet blood.
By the luck of the gods, Darl was pulling so hard on the lead lines to Gallarael’s ramma that when the leather strap finally snapped and gave way, he went toppling backward on his own mount. He avoided the claws and fangs of the wolf beast, but that was where his luck ended. His ramma was knocked sideways and splayed open by the sheer momentum of the attack.
Darl’s left leg was caught in the stirrup. Before he even hit the ground he was violently jerked around. His left ankle twisted to an impossible angle when he landed. Along his spine he felt a horrible crunch, as if he had landed on a pile of deadfall. He hadn’t even seen the creature that had nearly ripped his torso from his body, but he felt its strength as it yanked and shook the ramma with which he was still tangled.
Then Gallarael was there.
Darl tried to throw the dagger he held in his right hand up at the winged creature above them, but he couldn’t move. Luckily, it was trying to get up out of the high branches into which it had gotten tangled. It was still clutching the limp, bloody ramma in its talons.
Gallarael didn’t see Darl lying in the brambles. All she saw was glistening red muscle, fresh blood, and a mess of entrails and gore. Her rage sent her tearing into the wolfen.
She raked it along the side and found that its scales kept her from digging deep but didn’t keep her nails from penetrating, so she spun and jabbed, ducked and lunged and stabbed some more. When the beast got hold of her shoulder, she rolled free of it, breaking off one of its teeth and leaving it stuck in her uncannily durable skin. It didn’t matter, though, because in the span of five heartbeats her arms and face were covered in sticky life’s blood and fingernail-sized grey-blue scales.
Only after a savage, primal roar escaped her body did she notice Darl lying there, still in one piece. The rise and fall of his chest gave her hope, but his right arm was poised like a statue and his leg was twisted, in a way which spoke of breaks below the surface of the skin.
She used what was left of her coat to wipe the blood and scales from her face. Her elk hide pants were torn down the side on one thigh, but she welcomed the air that found her sweltering skin. As carefully as she could, she untangled Darl’s leg, laid it straight, and rolled him on his side. His bow was still intact but the gut string had snapped. Several of the arrows in the quiver he carried were broken and useless, but the majority of them were still good.
Darl moaned then and straightened his arm. A spray of spittle erupted though clenched teeth as the bone ground like gravel in his elbow joint. When he opened his eyes and saw Gallarael’s feral red gaze hovering over him, he screamed.
“Hush,” she hissed. “You’ll draw them to us.” But it was too late. The winged beast had betrayed their location to the witchwood trees and others, and they were all closing in.
“Help me,” a voice spoke from the side near another waist-high bramble. Gallarael looked up and saw Xavian standing there. He had a pained expression on his face and tears flowed freely down his cheeks. She rose and started toward him, but his face contorted and his eyes told her no.
“Run,” he said.
But then he convulsed as the whole section of forest came alive. She was nearly shocked stupid when she saw him, his lower half in the maw of a living tree, while the rest of him was wrapped snuggly in limb and branch.
Gallarael ducked a swinging limb and dove toward where Darl still lay. Roughly, she picked the gargan up and shouldered him, then she started down into the forest. Behind her the witchwood, with Xavian’s upper half h
anging out of its maw, moved halfheartedly to catch her.
Gallarael ran until her legs were rubbery and lathered with a foamy, horse-like sweat. She would have kept running but Darl began insisting that she let him down. He tried to walk and could, if gingerly.
“My arm is broken,” he said. “The ankle’s only been twisted.”
They hobbled along at Darl’s snail pace and Darl used his skill to their advantage. Twice he had Gallarael lead a false trail away. Finally, when he could go no more, Darl collapsed into a heap of exhaustion.
Gallarael slid down the trunk of a nearby tree to watch over him. She was exhausted, too. She had never been in her changeling form this long. The old wizard Quasar had warned her that prolonged exposure to this other self might cause more permanent changes to occur in her body. At the moment she couldn’t afford to care. She needed the keener senses and added protection her strange skin gave her. She had to find Vanx and help him. He had braved ogre clubs, and slave chains, and even the den of the great dragon Pyra when she was poisoned. She would do no less for him.
It startled her when Darl shook her awake some time later.
“Shhh.”
“Listen.”
It was dark and very little moonlight filtered down through the lush green canopy.
She heard them, though. Over the cicadas and the buzzing insects there were heavy wingbeats and the padding sounds of four-legged creatures. It sounded as if they were searching, but hadn’t yet found their prey. She heard something else too, a grumbled murmuring, but it faded as the searchers neared.
“Can you run?” she mouthed.
Darl nodded with a tight look on his face.
“I can smell where they are,” Gallarael rasped. “Follow me and we will sneak away.”
Darl nodded. It was a far better prospect than running. Even creeping lightly hurt him. Each step he took jarred his shattered arm.
They made it a good hundred yards away from their previous position and were about to switch from a crawling crouch to an upright walk when the horrible sound of the roaring knotholes erupted just a dozen paces behind Darl. From there it was a mad dash.
The Legend of Vanx Malic Books I-IV Bundle: To Kill a Witch Page 58