While the creature flailed trying to get its paws back underneath it, Chelda’s blade jutted out in three rapid thrusts, each of them sinking deeply into its vitals.
It went on like that, Chelda dodging the acidy rot melons and using her blade wherever it was needed most. She couldn’t go out into the forest and face the enemy, but plenty of the malformed beasts made it to her and met their end for it.
The sun finally started to disappear beyond the peaks. Chelda gained respect for the little folk’s ability to fight. She killed some more of the larger creatures that entered the Shadowmane, but in the forest and shrubs beyond that area there was a war raging. She could do very little about it.
The crazed trollamonks lobbed the melons on troops of brownies and gnomes, while bright scarlet and green snakes, and crow-winged lizards, snapped sprites from the sky with their beaks. Chelda was dragged out of a futile battle with an owl-headed fiend that kept hopping out of her sword’s reach on its rabbit-legged haunches. It soon lured her within range of the acidic fruit-throwing trollamonks. Luckily, an elf and a sprite kept her from going too far.
During a brief respite, she drank deeply of battle berry juice and ate freshly baked manna. She also shed her clothing and let a pair of gnomish girls wrap her torn, festering thigh.
She rejoined the battle at dusk wearing only her thick-leathered shin guards and knee-high climbing boots over her doeskin pants.
She savagely attacked some wild, antlered beast when it broke through, but the radiant glow of her blade kept anything else from coming close enough for her to engage.
“Chelda Flar,” a small, commanding female voice called through the evening.
“Chelda Flar, come to the tree and sheathe your sword.”
“Who commands me?” Chelda asked.
“It is I, Captain Moonseed. Reinforcements are coming up, and the glow of your weapon is hindering our night vision. Go down and have your wound tended below.”
Chelda backed toward the tree and slowly slid her blade into its scabbard. Suddenly she couldn’t see anything except the dark, jagged treetops and the deepening, star-spattered sky. But as her eyes adjusted, she made out hundreds of pairs of eyes gleaming in the darkness. The silhouette of First Captain Moonseed standing in the dark blue archway beckoned her.
“You fought well,” said Moonsy. “Come, while the passage is still open.”
Chelda started to comply, but a roar and a thunder of breaking branches split the night. She whirled to see a milky, slick shape reflecting the starlight. It was taller than Chelda at its shoulder, and it loped into the darkened clearing toward the Heart Tree itself.
Chelda’s blade came back out then, it’s bright blue brilliance shining just in time to see the creature. It had four limbs that were easily ten feet long and multi-jointed. Its body was oddly humanoid, but its head was all beady eyes and snapping like a turtle.
It raised up on its hind legs and grabbed the tree nearly fifteen feet from the ground, shaking it violently. On the limbs of the tree, little folk screamed as the wingless went tumbling. It was in those following seconds, just before Chelda made to engage this new foe that an undulating carpet of glittering ruby eyes swarmed through the barrier. There were thousands of them, all whispering and squeaking. Sitting on the largest of the rats was a little critter that resembled a tadpole.
At the sight of it, several fairies gasped and cried out. Chelda heard the name Pwca, or Puck, and in seconds, rats were everywhere, and the night was filled with the screams of the fae.
Chapter
Fourteen
Master Wiggins went a twirling,
and the twirling did go on.
When his spin reached its end
He found his hair was gon.
– A Parydon street ditty
Gallarael was shocked. She had no idea how to save Darl from the dark knothole that was about to consume him. She was too far ahead of them to get back in time and she had no weapons of range. As the dangling gargan was lowered face first into the horrible orifice, Gallarael scanned the ground for something to throw. It was all she could think to do.
A long-dead branch overgrown with toadstools and tiny white blooms lay at the base of the ridge off to one side. But it was too big, and she didn’t think hitting a living tree with a dead branch would do much good anyway. There were some thorny scrubs, and a head-sized boulder that she doubted she could lift and hurl more than two or three feet.
Starting to panic, she took two steps toward the rock to give it a try, and as Darl began to scream in earnest, she saw exactly what she needed.
She reached past the partially buried rock and snatched up a saucer-sized chip that had long ago flaked from it. Then with a spinning whirl she sent the chunk flying at the tree like a discus. It hit with a thump and fell away.
Darl let out what sounded more like a scream of determination than of panic, and he drew his sword. Gallarael’s stone bounced off the tree with a solid thump but did little more than chip away some of the beast’s barkish hide. This sent it further into its feeding frenzy, but Darl, as calmly as a terrified man could manage, simply put the length of his blade in the creature’s foul hole and shoved.
He was rewarded with the whiplash jerk of his entire body and then a flight into the harsh, leafy branches. He hit something high across his chest and shoulders and was spun, ass over ankle, until both of his shins erupted into knots of fire the size of goose eggs. All of this happened just before his head hit the soft dirt, ear to shoulder, and his knee smashed into his face.
He lay there trying to get air back into his lungs, feeling pain in so many places that none of them stood out any more than the other. As his vision went blurry and began to swim, he decided that his head was broken. Why else would he be seeing a swarm of colorful, tiny men and women, some with wings and as small as hummingbirds, swarming over the hill beyond Gallarael?
Several arrows went whizzing past Gallarael’s head from behind, some with tiny flames flickering at their tips. Then a stoppered clay bottle the size of a cherry exploded into flames against the tree just below where Darl’s sword hilt still jutted up from its gurgling hole.
A long, whip-like branch came snapping by and Gallarael had to jump back to avoid it. Her foot landed on something soft and wiggly and she took a tumble to avoid smashing it with her full weight. Within a heartbeat she was swarmed by foot-tall beings wielding barbed needles as pikes.
The tree beast was retreating now, being driven back by the flames and the fire-wielding fairy folk. It thrashed its long limbs about as it went, swatting sprites and pixies from the air. It snapped across a line of little men with slings and identical beards, but then it was gone, just a rustle in the distant leaves.
“You were fighting a witch tree?” a tiny boy–no, a man, but child-sized–with pumpkin-colored hair, pointed ears and bright amber eyes, asked. “Are you not one of her beasts, too?”
“NOOO,” Gallarael hissed in her rough changeling voice.
“THOOORN!” Darl’s voice called from the bushes. “We are with Posy-Thorn.”
“The changeling too?” the elf asked the unseen voice.
“She’s a... she is a...”
“I’m a shapeshifter.” Gallarael spoke even as her body was resuming its natural form. “Come to aid my friends, Vanx and Chelda.”
The astonished fairies gasped as her slick, dark outer skin broke up into pools of oily liquid and drew into the pores of her pale white human flesh. Her eyes and the shape of her face changed as well. Her red, oval pupils devolved into chocolate-colored human irises flecked with gold. Her long, ebony claws retracted into her bare feet and hands.
The elf before her was nervous, even though he had a heavy horn bow, fully drawn, with its arrow pointed directly at her heart.
“How did you get separated from your companions?” he asked Gallarael, then turned to a fairy who was half his knee-high size, but hovering near his head on gossamer wings.
“Ask the other on
e the same question out of earshot.”
“My companions thought I died when I was knocked from the frozen falls by some great serpent,” Gallarael said.
Trying her best to look harmless, she added a bat of her long lashes for effect then chanced to rise up onto her elbow. The elf took an involuntary step backward.
“His eyes are emerald green and he travels with a knighted dog named Sir Poopsalot. The hilt of his sword is encrusted with jewels and he is usually uncomfortably quiet.”
She paused for a breath.
“There was another with us, a mage, but he was taken by one of those tree creatures.”
“The one that barked at the Troika wasn’t none too quiet,” a small, fluff-bearded woman growled.
“Now, now, Merla, she got the rest of it right,” an even smaller winged fairy man chirped. “She even knew the proper name of Death Bringer’s beast.”
“Did she now?”
The brownie woman turned to face the fluttering fairy who zipped out of reach of the forked garden implement she was carrying.
“Did you know its name now? Couldn’t she have just made that up?”
“She was fighting a witch tree, Merla, and her friend is hurt.” This came from a gangly humanoid creature who looked like a puppeteer’s toy. “We’re not a mob. We’re under Sergeant Smilie’s command. What he says...”
“It’s Sergeant Smilax, blast you,” the pumpkin-haired elf said.
“Now those of you not chasing the witch tree; form up behind me and remain silent.”
“We were being chased,” Gallarael told Sergeant Smilax. “Not too far back you will find what’s left of some other foul witch-made beast.”
“We will check it,” Smilax nodded. The gossamer-winged fairy returned from its questioning with Darl and conferred with him in mousy whispers. Then the sergeant nodded again.
“Your companion has confirmed your tale, but he is wounded severely. After what happened with your other friend, mighty Chelda Flar, I cannot take either of you into the Underland. We will bring medikas up to give him aid.” He shooed away the fae folk who were still standing guard over her and helped her to her feet. Oddly, she found that she was not the slightest bit ashamed of her barely dressed body.
“The gnomish have the ability to repair almost anything. Hopefully he will be alright.”
Gallarael knew that Darl was as tough as they come. It was something else the elf had said that ate at her.
“What happened to Chelda?” she asked, fearing the worst. “Is she dead?”
“No... no, she’s still alive and well, I hope, and fighting to defend the Heart Tree in the Shadowmane,” the elf said.
“It’s just that she’s mortal and she is now bound to the Underland. Even if we manage to end all of this, she’ll never be allowed to leave.”
“Can you lead me to her?” Gallarael asked.
She made sure the sergeant heard the worry in her voice.
“I must sweep this section of the forest for witchborn or I would gladly take you. I would much rather be fighting in the Shadowmane with her.”
He scratched his chin, his expression grave. But then, like a child getting a great idea, he smiled at her.
“I can spare a sprite to guide you overland to the Shadowmane,”, but you will have to break through the enemy’s lines to get to your friend, for they have the Heart Tree surrounded.”
“Can the sprite run fast?” Gallarael asked as she shifted back into her changeling form.
“Streak!” he called out sharply. “Come here, lad. I have a task just for you.”
He turned to Gallarael, the hopeful grin still on his face.
“Run? Why Streak can fly.”
After a quick goodbye to Darl; Gallarael was off loping through the forest at a breakneck pace, trying to keep up with the lightning-quick, golden-haired sprite.
“So that’s where my worrisome warlock has gotten off to,” the Hoar Witch grumbled to herself as she pulled away from the image wavering on the surface of her viewing pool.
“Into the Underland. He will have to come out of there, though, to get to us, unless... those clever little turds!” She whirled, an angry glimmer in her cold, black eyes. “Clytun. Clytun, attend me now!”
A few moments later the minotaur appeared, clad in a dull black, but perfectly formed, breastplate and matching gauntlets, boots, and tightly strapped thigh plates. The armor had finger-long spikes above the knees, shoulders, and elbows, and belted to his waist was a pair of black leather sheaths. The heavy-handled swords were short and designed especially for close combat. His horned bovine head, though, needed no helm.
“Oh,” the Hoar Witch smiled her broken-tooth grin at the sight. “I see you’re ahead of me. Are you reading my thoughts now?”
Clytun made a quick, confused shake of his head. “No, Aserica, the armor is a precaution I always take when I have to deal with that snappy-jawed Skryker.”
“Oh, he is wreaking havoc,” she clapped her hands together like a proud old woman speaking of her grandchild. “That gargan wench’s sword is all that stands between him and the tree. She is already growing weary. Soon she will falter and Skryker will take advantage.”
Clytun nodded.
“At least he is following orders. What of your little devil?”
“He and his rats are keeping the rest of those vile little tweeks busy while Skryker does his damage. Some of Pwca’s sneaky rodents got into the Underland already. I do hope they are having fun down there.”
“What if Skryker destroys the Heart Tree? Won’t his power be useless to you?”
“We want him to take it to the verge, Clytun. Then I will nurture it back to full bloom with my blood.” She darted her eyes about and cackled gleefully, but only until she remembered why she was calling Clytun in the first place.
“We have another problem, my son. I think there is a way from the Underland into our lower levels, or maybe into the caverns in the dungeons below us. That warlock is coming to kill me and the mirror showed he is coming from there. Use your natural skills, Clytun. You are a true minotuar, not one of my creations. Never forget that, love. Had I not purchased you from Glone, you’d be imprisoned for eternity protecting his mazes. I trust you to kill the warlock before he gets to me.”
“There is no way into the lower dungeons, Aserica. I know them far too well, and I’ve seen nothing of the sort down there. If a way exists, it would be in the caverns. But what of the dark one’s wish for you to train the warlock? Would you thwart him again?”
“I can’t very well train him if he comes and kills me, fool,” she snapped.
“Take him alive if you can, but don’t go out of your way for it. I’d just as soon have his head in a jar than have to fuss with him.”
Her anger slowly subsided into a more persuasive demeanor. “The dark one doesn’t have nearly as much power over us as he used to. Most likely, he wants the boy to kill me. I must defend myself. After all, once we have the power of the Heart Tree, not even the dark one will be able to impose his will on us.”
“I understand, Aserica,” Clytun gave a short bow. “May I have a drop of the stuff that will keep Sissy from sinking her stinger into me?”
“Of course, my son, and you can have a potion of silence and stealth as well. You must remember your quarry is as much Zythian as he is anything. He will see well in the dark and hear and smell as well as any animal.”
“He’ll be no match for me, Aserica,” Clytun boasted. “Not if I can lure him into the dungeon, for I know it by heart, and if he gets caught down in the caverns with Sissy he’ll wish he had met me first.”
Chapter
Fifteen
As we sail across his sea,
we honor Nepton’s crown.
For if you cross old Nepton,
his waves will take you down.
– A sailor’s song
Not long after the passage was sealed behind them, Vanx noticed that the white gold leaf hanging at his chest had
ceased its glowing. Exactly when it had stopped he wasn’t sure, but he knew it had been glowing in the nexus, for the oracle had informed him that it was a cutting from the silva tree, not a Heart Tree leaf. The old pixie went into a fit of coughing before he could elaborate. Vanx guessed its glow had extinguished when the magical barrier between the Underland and reality had been reestablished as the passage was sealed. Or maybe the place they were in now, the dark, damp, lifeless cave, had drained it of its power.
It felt that way, as if their surroundings were leaching away at them somehow. The place was just wrong. The humid air was acrid and felt oily on his skin, and the darkness was unnaturally substantial. They carried no torch or lanterns, for all three of them were easily able to make their way in normal darkness, but the bleakness of this place was anything but ordinary.
There were large patches of a slick, spongy slime along the walls and floors of the hard-packed earthen passage. Seep water dripped from the ceiling and oozed along the floor in a greasy sludge. To Vanx’s eyes, everything was tinted silver. Either shadow or darker shadow, as if no color existed in the lightless place. There were no signs of animal life, not even the insects you’d expect to find in such an underground tunnel. Vanx wanted to call the place putrid in his mind but that didn’t quite cover it. Sinister or evil described it better, but he settled on malignant, for the place itself wasn’t causing sorrow or distress. It wasn’t even weakening his hope and resolve, but it was corrupted and disgusting, and more than a little foreboding.
A cobweb that Thorn apparently rode under, broke and slightly pulled at Vanx’s skin as it melted into the sweat beaded on his face.
“Ahghhh!” He batted at it spastically. The touch startled him, for it was unseen and unexpected. His sudden heart-hammering unease caused Poops to bark and whirl around, nearly unseating the equally rattled elf.
“It’s alright. It’s alright,” Vanx hissed rather loudly. “Just a spider’s web.”
That Frigid Fargin Witch (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 4) Page 9