Lord of the Forest

by Lord of The Forest (lit)

  Linnea nodded, smoothing her windblown hair and gown. “I am ready for anything the Fates have in mind.”

  “Have you gone mad, Linnea?” he asked softly. “I am beginning to be sorry I gave in and brought you hence, but—”

  “But what?”

  “You reminded of someone to whom I can never say no.”

  She waited for him to say who that was, but he didn’t. “I should not leave you. There is nothing you can do on your own to help Marius.”

  “I can try,” she said with bravado. “If he dies, then I will die with him.” She felt a flash of guilt when she remembered the old healer’s odd words on that subject. It is not only for ourselves that we live, Linnea.

  Gideon shook his head. His utter exhaustion was evident. “Shall I tell the others that those were your final words to me?”

  “Tell them nothing for now,” she said. “Give me your solemn promise.”

  Reluctantly, he did.

  “I would not have them blame you for obeying me. They will come if they can, when they can. But stay with me a little longer,” she said. “I will find food for you. You cannot make the return trip if you are weak. If something happened to you, they would blame me for that and rightly so.”

  “No. I must go,” he said in a low voice. “Rhiannon is waiting. And so are the others.”

  It was clear to her which of them mattered most to Gideon. She was touched by his devotion. “I see.” She turned to walk away, then stopped when his hand touched her shoulder.

  “Leaving you is wrong, very wrong,” he said, a troubled look in the depths of his eyes. “If anything happens—ah, me. I want you to know why I must force myself to go back without you.”

  “Tell me quickly,” she said. She was eager to begin her mission and find Marius, encouraged by Gideon’s assurance that the centaur was most likely alive. Still and all, even her rampageous lover might not survive another battle with a dangerous beast.

  “Rhiannon is with child,” he blurted out. “We had not told anyone of it, but if not for that, I would stay with you and fight with you. But I cannot risk the little life she carries for someone else’s. I am all she has, Linnea.”

  She stood stock-still, gazing into his eyes, burning with manly tears. A flutter deep in her own womb was her first response to his joyous news. Then Linnea patted his cheek. “I am happy for you. Rhiannon is blessed. Give her my love. Now go, and may the goddess speed your wings.”

  He reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “I will look for you in the tree pool if I can find that old oak again,” he whispered.

  “Thank you,” Linnea said simply. “For everything.” Then she turned and walked away.

  17

  Two days later…

  The lords of Arcan—minus the chief subject of conversation, Marius—sat gathered at Simeon’s table, their countenances stern. Even Lord Vane was paying attention to the solemn discussion of the danger that threatened them all. Gideon had returned from aerial reconnaissance.

  “The demons are still swarming in the Valley of the Great Death,” he said, “but they have gone no further. It was an effort to stay out of sight of their sentries, but I managed.”

  “I wonder why they stay,” Vane mused.

  “Because they are leaderless, as far as I can tell.” Gideon blew out a breath, still tired from his flight. “They mill about and fight in the open, without tents or shelter. I think that without Ravelle there is no one in charge.”

  “And your source has him still in the land of men?” Vane asked.

  “Yes, in the port city.”

  “Their restlessness could be dangerous,” Simeon said thoughtfully. “I posted selkies close to shore who said the same thing, Vane. The demons have nothing to do but quarrel, yet they do not leave the valley or enter the water.”

  Vane frowned. “Then they are waiting for Ravelle to return. Let us hope they do not get too bored and decide to loot and pillage.”

  Gideon gave him an irritated look. “Hope? Is that all we can do?”

  Vane slammed his hand down on the table. “It seems so. Unless we can destroy them all and quickly. We still have not done anything but watch and wait.”

  “For good reason. One of our number has been captured and taken to the land of men, and his lady has vanished. That is a problem that has not been solved. Rash action may cost the lives of both Linnea and Marius,” Simeon said.

  Gideon said nothing in response, keeping his vow to Linnea. He wondered how she fared, saying a silent prayer for her as he looked at the other men. “Marius would tell us to carry on without him and to be strong, I know that.”

  “Here on our islands we are strong,” Simeon replied, “but there, across the wide seas, we will be outnumbered by a hundred thousand, should Ravelle turn the ranks of mere men against us. And there is no counting the number of demons and the like in the Outer Darkness.”

  Vane only shrugged. “I have no doubt that demons have infiltrated humankind. Evil is always attractive and eternally tempting. Not to mention power. The two combined are highly seductive.”

  “You would know, o lord of fire,” Gideon said dryly.

  “Yes.” Vane grinned. “The prospect of battling so many does not daunt me.”

  “Your arrogance may be the death of you,” Simeon commented.

  “I don’t think so. And I have come up with plans while you two were talking.”

  “I am almost afraid to ask what they are,” Simeon said, sinking his head in his hands. “It is a good thing Rhiannon and Megaleen are not here to listen.”

  “They would have taken up swords and shields long ago,” Vane said indulgently, “if you two would let them. Women have a hidden ferocity and are quite capable of vengeance. To say nothing of hatred.”

  “They don’t like you, that is certain,” Gideon pointed out.

  “Too high-born for my taste, both of them. But,” he coughed and dodged the glares of the other two, “they are certainly spoken for. No matter. I am never without female companionship.”

  “Which brings us to Hella,” Gideon said to Simeon. “Who attacked Linnea in a fit of jealousy. What to make of it, I cannot say.”

  Vane gave him a bored look. “It was fun making Hella talk, wasn’t it?”

  “Shut up, Vane.” Simeon gave the lord of fire a hard look. “Can you not control a mere sprite?”

  “Hella is impossible to control. At least she was able to verify that Linnea was alive and with Marius on his island—is still alive, as far as we know,” he corrected himself.

  “Whereabouts unknown. Can Hella help us with that?” Simeon asked.

  “She might,” Vane said. “She moves more quickly than any living thing. And,” he added cheerfully, “she is prepared to make amends for her mischief.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do you want to hear what I want to do?”

  “No. But get on with it,” Simeon said with a sigh.

  “To begin,” Vane said with satisfaction, pleased to be the center of attention, “I propose sending every single one of the demons in the valley back to the Outer Darkness without hand-to-hand fighting or other pointless heroics.”

  “How will you do that?” Gideon wanted to know.

  “With my usual incendiary ingenuity,” Vane said. He took a small scroll from his tunic and let it unroll upon the table until the spindle end of it came loose and hit Simeon. The lord of the deep picked it up and toyed with it as Vane flattened the scroll.

  On it was a sketch of a catapult of monstrous size and other machines of war. He jabbed a finger at the catapult. “Using this, we send a fireball into the valley. The dry trees will ignite and do the rest.”

  Simeon and Gideon looked over the plans in silence for some time, reading the scrawled formulas for Arcan fire and volcanic explosives.

  “If it will rid us of so foul a plague as demons, then we should use it,” Simeon said. “But I cannot help thinking of the original conflagration that destroyed the valley. The blast that started i
t came from your volcano, Vane.”

  “What of it? That was eons ago. I had not been banished to my island.”

  Simeon rolled the scroll and shoved it back to him. “The valley is a place of spirits. Do we dare disturb them?”

  “Its dead lie unburied,” Vane pointed out casually, as if it didn’t matter.

  “Yes. And if we use this killing machine you have drawn, their innocent bones will be mingled with those of demons. When the risen dead of Arcan are called before Mica, the God of us all at the final judging, he will not be able to tell the good from the bad.”

  “Mica is a swear word, nothing more, and that is superstitious nonsense,” Vane growled.

  “Not to the beings of our various realms. When this battle is over, we will have to answer to them,” Simeon pointed out.

  “We will have to answer to them if the demons go any farther than where they are nor,” Gideon said. “The encampment in the valley is Ravelle’s advance guard and the forest isle is particularly vulnerable. The spirits of the innocent dead will forgive us for protecting the living. No one good goes there, Simeon,” the winged lord of air remonstrated. “It is a place of ill omen.”

  The depths of Simeon’s eyes flashed with dark light. “That is true. It seems that we must go, however. There is no telling what dark force we will unleash. But are we agreed?” He looked around at the other lords. The shadows of the fire flickered on their faces. Gideon’s face showed his uneasiness; Vane’s, only gleeful eagerness.

  Simeon rose and left the table, looking straight ahead. He did not want to look in the sea-glass mirror at himself.

  The overcast sky boded a storm of great strength when they gathered again a few days later, well above the valley. Gideon’s dawn reconnoitering had told them that the demons were huddled for the warmth in the lowest and narrowest part of it.

  The dark, leathery-skinned backs looked more than ever like a disgusting swarm of insects, heaving and shifting. Faint but harsh cries floated up to where they were.

  Vane’s soldiers and servants had built the catapult in pieces overnight and brought it all here. The last pegs were being driven in. His fire-master, a strange, singed-looking creature who ran on two legs but seemed otherwise inhuman, was stirring a concoction of boiling pitch that reeked of noxious chemicals. Other of the inhabitants of his island were preparing the great ball that would be saturated with the vile mixture and thrown.

  Vane strode about, overseeing the process.

  “Death and devastation come naturally to you,” Simeon said, observing the process. He seemed deeply uncomfortable, out of his element, and his eyes showed a trace of fear.

  “Someone has to be good at it,” Vane said. “You are lucky it is me, for I am far from entirely evil.”

  Simeon shrugged and looked again at the soldiers and servants. “It is not for me to say, perhaps.”

  “I would use the word energetic to describe myself. And excitable. But not evil. I do like to set things on fire, though.” He took a small sack from his pocket and drew out a flint and a piece of metal, striking sparks that flew off into the gloomy air.

  One landed on his callused knuckle and Lord Vane blew on it gently. “Come, Hella.”

  The fire sprite was soon straddling his thumb and then, growing larger, jumped down to the ground. Simeon gave her an uneasy look. She didn’t glance his way keeping her eyes on her master.

  “It is time, Hella. You are to run down that side of the valley and then up the other, setting fires everywhere you can. There are nothing but dead trees in it—the valley is a tinderbox and we want the demons in it to keep to as small an area as possible.”

  She nodded, running lightly to where he pointed and beginning with a twisted snag of white wood. It blazed up swiftly, followed in rapid succession by many more.

  There were cries from the demons, who, as Vane had predicted, moved together for safety. Simeon watched dispassionately as the fireball was loaded. It happened almost too swiftly to imagine.

  With a creak of timber and the groan of tautening ropes, the ball was loaded, soaked with the volatile mixture, and set on fire with a touch from the returned sprite’s slender blue finger.

  A nice touch, Simeon thought, as it was hurled into the air. In another second the whole valley exploded in towering, red hot flames. There would be hell to pay for what they had done soon enough unless they could kill Ravelle. And they were no closer to finding Marius or Linnea.

  Far away in the land of men, Ravelle felt the blast in his bones. A death blow had been dealt to his kindred, he knew it at once, for they were truly bone of his bones, all made from a particle of his indestructible flesh. The ones who’d disembarked at the Forest Isle had been the best of the first litters, descended from Ravelle himself and a pack of jackal-women that roamed the outer darkness. They were violent and fearless, a new breed entirely, young, strong demons who ate their enemies raw. But they were only the advance guard. Here, in the land of men, more were breeding. Demon spawn, once born, grew full-size in a matter of days. Their human mothers were not required to nurse them—their breasts would be torn to pieces by needle-sharp teeth if they did. No, they only had to mate again and grow more in their wombs for Ravelle’s army.

  And more.

  Whoever had slaughtered the demons in the valley would pay for it—and it would not be difficult to single out the culprits. He had planted any number of spies among the forest folk, paving the way for his conquest of Marius’s verdant isle.

  Its erstwhile ruler stood chained in a nearby stall, watching him with rolling eyes. Nary a scream or even a whicker. The centaur’s mouth was sealed with pitch.

  Ravelle turned his attention back to the owner of the amphitheatre. “You say you will not pit him against another lion?”

  “He kills them too quickly,” the man complained. “With his wounds and all. His hide has been ripped open more times than I can count and yet he vanquishes each one.”

  Ravelle disliked him for telling the truth. He disliked humans, if he were to tell the truth himself, hated coming down to their level, finding sport in molesting the women and scorching the hides of the stupider men until they all ran from him. But he would get his way. Each and every one of them would end up in hell—his hell. “The crowds must love it.”

  The man scowled. “They want to see him die. He appears to be unkillable.”

  Ravelle pondered that unpleasant news without speaking.

  “Take him back,” the man said. He took out a sack of leather and poured jingling gold coins in the center of the table. “Sell him to a mill. He can die in harness for all I care. Maybe I could sell tickets to that.”

  Ravelle gave him a narrow look. “Very well. I do not care how he dies. I only want to humiliate him before it happens.”

  “You’re a strange one.”

  The demon took the man by the throat and lifted him from his chair, setting him down when he heard a gurgle coming from his throat. “Yes,” he said, collecting the coins. “I am. You will say nothing of this to anyone.”

  “N-no,” the man wheezed.

  Ravelle lifted a claw and slit his throat anyway.

  Marius was manhandled into a cart with high sides and a roof, from which he could see nothing. The wounds in his hide were festering, which did not stop the hostlers from jabbing them again to get him to move.

  His shackles clanked as he kicked hopelessly at them. They had been, he realized after a time, imbued with a binding magic forged into the molten iron by the demon blacksmith. He could not break them.

  He rested his aching head against the planks of the cart as it began to move, jolting along the streets of the port until he was forced to stand up straight. Better for him to do so.

  Ravelle had not succeeded in obliterating Marius’s pride. Fighting lions bent on tearing out his throat had revived him in a strange way. He was prepared to go down fighting, if it came to that.

  Where were they taking him? Ravelle had said something to the man at t
he table before he’d killed him, but Marius hadn’t heard it. Too many flies buzzing in his ears, which rang anyway. His head had hit the stone stage of the amphitheatre when he’d fallen in the last battle.

  If not for the thought of Linnea, he would have been happy enough to die.

  The cart came to a juddering halt and he prayed as he often did that Quercus was keeping her safely hidden. Then an eye pressed itself to a knothole in the side of the cart and looked at him. Dully, shutting off the constant pain in his body and head, he looked at it.

  A lustrous eye, it was. With long, feminine lashes.