by Anne C Miles
They thought that he would free the Wyrm? Why?
He had so many questions. But first he had to get out of the reach of these men. He would wait, and try to escape under cover of darkness. It was his best chance.
Sara blinked. The park stretched, green and welcoming. Men and women ran to and fro around it, all of them bald and wearing white robes. Other shapes, ghostlike, flickered among the robed figures.
They looked like those monks in Nepal. They were looking for something. Like an Easter egg hunt.
Wide gravel avenues poked out from what appeared to be an enormous tree. Half of a mammoth tree? It was torn in two, each half standing. The middle, where the core of the tree should be, was bright red. Sara shivered, looking at it. It reminded her of an open wound. That tree was taller than a skyscraper. Tall as a mountain.
Someone on her left stood nearly shoulder to shoulder with her. He was tall and sported a shaved head, like the monks. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t wearing robes either. Ghostly images flashed thick around him. He seemed familiar. He had a long nose. He watched the monks intently.
“Hello,” she said.
The man nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked at her, slack-jawed in amazement. Now she could see he was hurt. He looked like he’d lost a bar fight. “Sara, what are you doing here?” he whispered. Without waiting for an answer, he motioned her away from the park. He reached to encircle her, drawing her toward the tree line.
“You know my name? Why are we whispering?” Sara whispered.
“Those men want to hurt me,” the man answered. “They might catch me if they see you.”
“Why do they want to hurt you?”
“They think I’m crazy,” he said. “I’m not, but they don’t know that. They think I want to destroy the world. I don’t.” He kept herding her toward the tree line. They were close now. The shadows reached for them.
“Can’t you talk to them and explain? Did they do this to you?” Sara’s voice grew louder with outrage as she pointed to his black eye and swollen lip.
“They won’t listen. They probably won’t give me a chance to say anything at all. But no, my friends did that.”
Sara harumphed and stopped. The long-nosed man’s encompassing arm passed right through her. She looked down at herself. “Those below shall be as above,” she said. Her voice chimed in the night air over echoes of haunting music. Why did I say that?
She gasped as a large man appeared behind her battered friend. The long-nosed man was so focused on her that he didn’t notice the new man. Sara didn’t have time to scream before the world went black.
Sara sat straight up in bed as lightning flashed outside her window, bright as day. Thunder cracked immediately. The worst of the storm was close. It matched her mood. Black and violent. She grabbed her journal automatically and wrote, scribbling quickly.
Monks. Big Tree split in half and still upright. Am I the tree? I feel broken. Why monks?
Her phone flashed, lighting up with messages. She reached for it, tossing her journal aside. Three voicemails from Peter. She pushed away shame and put the phone back on her bedside table next to Scott’s flask.
The flask sparked as the lightning flashed again. It was monogrammed, engraved with his fraternity symbol. She hadn’t noticed before. She picked it up and swished. Nearly full, it held enough to silence her anger, confusion and guilt. She opened it slowly and took a sip. Bourbon burned down her throat. She picked up her phone again and flipped it open to text Peter.
I’m okay, just went to bed early. Will call you tomorrow.
Sara looked at her clock. Eleven p.m. Scrambling up, she quickly changed into jeans, a Keep Louisville Weird tee shirt, and a black hoodie. She threw the phone and flask into her satchel. She ran through the rain and started the car. Classical music poured from the radio. Sara snarled, turning the dial. That wouldn’t suit her at all, not tonight. Tonight she needed rock-and-roll. Metal.
The rain made visibility difficult and though Sara hadn’t drunk much, she knew alcohol would be on her breath. She didn’t drink often. It would take very little to make her tipsy. She was extra careful as she pulled out. It was only a few blocks to her studio. She could walk back if needed. She was going to throw herself into her sculpture. Polly wanted to see her heart, her true soul? Well. Tonight Sara would make it happen.
She was raw. She was going to pour her outrage, every ounce of it, into her sculpture.
The main floor of the building was locked, but all students in the program had a key. Sara opened the door and took the stairs two at a time, to the fourth floor. Strains of music drifted down the long corridor. Others were here working late; she wasn’t alone. Quickly, she strode to her studio door and opened it, flipping on the lights. Plastic shrouded the figure. She tuned the stereo to the college station. Angry music poured forth with cookie monster vocals. Satisfied, Sara unveiled her sculpture.
The column was as she had left it, features still blank. Carefully she approached the figure and began to carve a face, eyes. She added scaly patches to the skin texture she had formed in her last session. Sara added slip and new clay as needed to build the features until they were part serpentine, part human. She moved quickly, working with passion. No thought menaced her now. The music blared, its rhythm fueling her. She drank as she worked.
Carving, drinking, carving. Finally she abandoned her tools and began to work with her hands and fingernails.
The slimy clay writhed under her fingers. The snake eyes she had carved gleamed wetly as she built ridges up around them. Thoughts stayed under the surface—but she could feel them there. Sara wouldn’t let them manifest. She refused to think. Still, she felt the truths in her deepest heart. She couldn’t escape them.
Marilla was gone. Mother had hidden it from her...but…she deserved this after what she did. Marilla was unconscious, but she the one who was drowning. It was all her fault. She should’ve been the one in a coma. Or dead.
She drank. The eye ridges were mostly formed now, so she attacked the ear area, smoothing the ear shapes down until they were imperceptible.
She had blown Peter off before she found out about Marilla. Why? For what? For a guy who was cheating on his smug, catty girlfriend. And the sick part was, she still wanted to see Scott. She shouldn’t. But there it was. She was just using Peter. She was selfish. Just like her dad. She cheated, just like him. But she didn’t have half his artistic talent. She was just a faker. Toxic.
Sara drank more. She felt a little dizzy now. Scott was a snake, she was sure of it. She wouldn’t see him again. All men were snakes. Her dad was a snake. Maybe all people were snakes. Maybe she was a snake. She looked at her Storm King. He was no longer a Storm King. He was a snake. A worm. A pathetic lowly belly-crawling lowlife. She was going to have it out with this betrayer, here and now.
“Snake!” she yelled. “You’re a liar and a snake. All you care about is YOU. You don’t care who you hurt. Selfish, evil, ugly snake.” Sara was filled with more fury than she’d ever known. She was angry at everyone. Most of all, she was angry with herself. She beat the sculpture with each word, punctuating. Then her fists pummeled the figure. She felt pieces crumbling as she raged.
The serpentine head didn’t turn and look at her, but a voice answered in her mind, scratchy and sibilant.
“Are you talking about me? Or are you describing yourself?”
The world began to spin. Then she was falling. A pit yawned beneath her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JAX WAITED FOR the Conclave and the chymaera, three otters at his side. They were coming.
The birds sang their dawn chorus, though light had not yet begun to reach into the eastern sky. Otter and beaver slides ran down the steep sides of the riverbank where their flatboat was moored, just south of the line of willows. The current raced, tugging it. The boat would have no trouble escaping once it received passengers.
Just north, a smooth stone outcropping with natural steps formed an inviting landing for the Conclave�
��s party. Just inland, nine large willows guarded the shore. The captives would have to be led through to reach the meadow beyond and the waiting skycart. The five deema waited within the willow’s sheltering branches, prepared for battle.
The Conclave vessels emerged from of the darkness, full of acolytes. Two chymaera stood in the front of the first vessel, with Aric. As they landed, a ramp extended to shore. The acolytes disembarked in a flood, fifteen or twenty men and women swinging incense burners. They Canted, spreading out to blanket the area with toxic fumes. The incense spread like fingers, tendrils of a fog. Jax gulped fresh air as the fog wafted closer. He was tempted to sink into the earth where it could not reach him. He dropped flat to the ground and held his breath. The fog rolled harmlessly over him.
He heard thuds as otters and beavers fell, unconscious.
Chesed and M’ra stood with Aric on the rock shelf waiting for the second boat’s occupants to disembark. It released twenty more acolytes and watchmen, with prisoners in tow. Bell was tossed over the shoulder of a burly bald man like a sack of meal. Two other men carried little Mary and young Jess. The fog remained outside a protective circle surrounding them, moving as they moved.
Jax counted quickly. All the deemling were there. He whispered to an otter crouched nearby and sent him on to Pezzik, signaling her to be ready. He took another gulp of fresh air and stood, knowing the fog would take effect quickly, but stepped forward to deliver his message. As he did, the Canting stopped. Muffled sound of thumps came from the trees behind him.
“Child of the Morning, have you listened to these prisoners?” Jax’s voice rang clear even over the noise of the small throng. Noorie appeared from under the nearest willow canopy. The other gnomes stepped out in turn, deema come to claim their own.
M’ra nodded and walked the line of those in chains, touching all who could walk on their own. Stu Callin, Jon Frenner, and his wife, Sal. Cap and Tera Planor. Hal and Fran Smith and their four children. Ben Hodges and his wife Cora with their young son, Trent. All were silent, unseeing and mute as they stood awaiting their fate. Each had been well dosed.
She swept down the line, walking quickly, and spoke to Aric. “These are not dewin. Release them immediately.”
Aric crossed his arms and regarded M’ra, his dark eyes shadowed. He said something in a low voice that Jax could not hear. Chesed, standing next to her, stiffened.
M’ra drew herself up to her full height and repeated. “Release them, or you shall see the end of our patience.”
The tree branches rustled and behind the gnomes, armored men with scarves tied across their noses and mouths appeared, bows drawn and arrows nocked to fly. More stepped from behind these, dragging unconscious acolytes, their empty incense burners bouncing. The soldiers dropped the acolytes in unison as their archers took aim. The largest of these soldiers stepped forward, his voice muffled by his scarf. He held up his right hand, palm out. Quickly he swept it down.
Jax watched this in wonder, dizzy from the effects of the fog. “By Lalo’s right hand, who are you?”
The soldier winked, gray eyes twinkling. He handed Jax a wet scarf, motioning him to tie it over his face for protection. “Friends with common goals, come to assist. Let’s help your villagers.”
Jax tied the scarf over his nose and mouth, considerably heartened, though his mind raced. He was glad of the help and muttered his thanks for the Storm King’s aid. This must have been His work.
Aric ordered the acolytes to release their prisoners. Tonk raced down the gentle slope to them, accompanied by two chattering otters. Pezzik and Popple followed. Together they herded their families down the riverbank, where their boat waited. A few of the mysterious soldiers broke off from the main group to escort them.
Popple peppered one with questions. “Where did you come from? Why are you helping us?”
M’ra bent, speaking urgently to Aric and gesturing to the three unconscious dewin.
Jax frowned. She was telling him the gnomes wanted to join them or get them free. They were going to take Bell away.
“Stop!” he roared, pointing stiffly at the acolytes who were gathered, prepared to carry Mary, Jess, and Bell. He wasn’t sure if the soldiers behind him were prepared to fight a gryphon, but he was willing to risk it. Arrows flew and landed in front of each acolyte, thudding into the damp ground with deadly accuracy in a long line that blocked their way forward.
Apparently, they would fight. The archers nocked more arrows. Jax smiled grimly.
M’ra stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “I have kept my word, gnome. You will not hinder the cantors further. I warn you. Take what you have been given and walk away, or face my wrath.”
Jax stood his ground, his cap quivering under the heat of her ire. The chymaera towered over him even in unwinged form. He gulped, raised his chin, and looked her straight in the eye. “Bell is my family and no threat to you or anyone else. If we can accompany them, there need be no blood shed today.”
Aric leaned forward, speaking to M’ra. He laid a hand on her shoulder.
M’ra softened at once and nodded. “Go with Chesed, he will escort you to the skycart.”
She stepped forward into the open space between the two groups, and with a loud eagle’s cry, her body shifted. She stretched, and her arms lengthened. Wings sprouted from her back as her legs thickened. Her face shifted, its angles and ridges sprouting feathers. She grew as she shifted, filling the space. A majestic ivory gryphon stood where she had been. With another cry, she launched into the air, circling, flying up over the willows to the marshy meadow beyond.
Jax, Dodd, and Noorie, and a few of their small otter friends, walked over to the remaining chymaera. Chesed waited for them, impassive. A row of soldiers broke off to follow. They remained a few paces behind. Chesed bent over Jax, speaking softly. “The Eldest is very displeased, and Master Aric will wreak vengeance if you go with him. I am sure of it. He has a darkness in his heart. My heartfire bids me help you escape. When we reach the trees, you must resist.”
Without waiting for a reply, the chymaera led the party toward the trees, following the three acolytes who carried Jess, Mary, and Bell.
The ring of metal on metal sounded as they passed through the first fronds. Acolytes wielded short swords and knives, attacking the other gnomes. Jax roared a warning and drew his own blade, stabbing at the robes of the acolyte that held Jess. Chesed splayed his hands, placing them over this acolyte’s eyes from behind. The acolyte slumped to his knees, Jess sliding from his soldiers.
“Noorie!” yelled Jax. “Take him!”
The two acolytes, both burly farm boys, ran toward the meadow. Bell and Mary flopped over their shoulders. Jax didn’t wait; he followed, shouting for the otters to trip them. Arrows flew, hitting one acolyte in the leg and the other in his buttocks. Both fell. Jax reached them as Bell tumbled off the acolyte’s shoulder. He broke her fall. Jax grunted and pushed Bell aside. He sat up in time to see Aric hold a blade to the tall chymaera’s neck.
“We can end them,” said a soldier.
“No!” shouted Jax. “Do not harm the chymaera.” Why didn’t he transform and rip that blackguard to pieces? Blasted gryphon.
“Drop your weapons,” instructed Aric, evenly.
The soldiers obeyed.
“You, carry the girls. Take them to the skycart. Quickly.”
The acolytes bent to lift the deemling. Chesed raised his hands and twisted in the bard’s grip. Aric’s knife slid, slicing into the flesh of Chesed’s neck. Blood began to trickle down his body, but Chesed fought to place his hands over the Aric’s eyes. The soldiers picked up their weapons, rushing forward to attack Aric and defend Chesed. Aric wrestled free from the chymaera, stabbing wildly.
Red stains bloomed like flowers on the Chesed’s flowing white garment.
Chesed fell.
Behind him, Aric was running, acolytes close on his heels. The girls bounced in their arms. The one carrying Bell shifted her on his shoulder.
Aric shouted, “Treachery! Chesed is dead, lady M’ra, fly!”
And Jax was up, running after them. The acolyte carrying Mary fell, downed by an arrow. Jax leapt over him and fixed his eyes on Bell’s limp form. She flopped over the shoulder of the remaining acolyte, who had gained speed. They reached the waiting skycart and dove inside. Aric slammed the door behind them. As the cart began to lift, Jax dove for the door handle. He caught it and held on, bracing his legs in the ledge formed by the doorway. He rose with the box as it lifted and risked a glance down to the meadow below.
The tall form of Chesed, dressed all in white, lay in a pool of blood and did not rise.
Pezzik watched the skycart, swinging gently as it rose, and the gnome-capped figure clinging to it, from her perch on the flatboat. Storm King, keep Jax safe and grant him wisdom.
The boat rocked in the water, as the others bustled, readying to launch. She faced the soldier beside her, who had doffed his scarf. Mustaches curled around his nose. They made him look older, but she guessed he wasn’t many years over thirty, still young. His short, immaculately groomed beard and calloused-but-manicured hands told her he was nobility before he spoke.
The man gave her a shallow bow. “Lord Gisle de Clelland, at your service. We have travelled long to make your acquaintance.”
Pezzik’s cap tilted forward in surprise. “My acquaintance?”
Gisle nodded. “Stories of gnomekind have been shared by the fires of my homeland, near Perrhil. Our forests no longer shelter your Burrows, I fear. Once, there were many. So we travelled to find you. We witnessed your exchange with the gryphons. Once we knew your need, we planned to assist you. Our mission is to rid this land of the creeping darkness of Conclave rule. We believe you can be of some assistance in this matter and came to seek your boon. There is only one thing I must know. I have traveled very far to ask you.”
Pezzik regarded the man, wide-eyed. “What’s that?”