by Alex Aguilar
“Darling, you either put your arms around me or you’ll fall before riding the first mile.”
“I’ve ridden with men before and I was never dropped!”
Hudson grabbed Syrena by the wrists, threw her arms above him, and tucked his head between them. Then he looked into her stunning eyes and admired their beauty for a half-second before saying, “You’ve never ridden with me, dear.”
He kicked the horse’s ribs, letting out a loud “Hyah!” and they sped after the rest of the crew. John Huxley rode closely behind them, followed by the Davenport brothers and then the three recruited soldiers.
Syrena found herself holding on tightly to Hudson’s neck as his horse began to run faster than any of the others. It caught up to Jossiah Biggs and then left him behind. It caught up to Viktor Crowley and left him behind. Hudson, however, appeared displeased. With a half-grin, he kicked and yelled to make the horse run even faster.
Syrena couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by it all. It was the fastest she had ever ridden in her life. She could feel the warmth of the thief’s breath on her cheek, but realized it did not bother her. The thrill of it all was quite new to her. It was rather interesting. Exciting, even. With her hands in chains, she was defenseless, yet she realized that she couldn’t be safer riding with anyone other than Hudson Blackwood.
It’s true what they say, she thought to herself. It’s not the horse that matters, it’s the rider.
The nymphs in the trees began to catch up with them. They hopped from branch to branch above them, at the same pace and some even faster than the horses. As their hunger grew, so did their aggression.
John Huxley dodged the trees like arrows. Each tree would appear out of the fog at the last second and he had to pull his horse in the right direction before it slammed against the trunk. He managed to reach the knights but struggled to keep their pace.
Both Viktor and Jossiah had their weapons drawn and swung at the nymphs while riding.
Now that, John thought, is skill. He tried to catch up to Hudson and Syrena but they were a good distance ahead. All that he had to guide him was the blurry black figure of Hudson’s hat and the witch’s legs swaying on the right side of the horse, and they were getting smaller and smaller by the second. He was getting left behind in the fog, the nymphs hopping after him.
Behind him, the farmer heard a man screaming. He tried looking back and from the corner of his eye, he saw Martyn Davenport being pulled up by 3 nymphs into the trees, his horse speeding away in fear. As the nymphs held on to each and every one of Martyn’s limbs, vines began to crawl out of their arms and they wrapped around the man, tightening and cutting off his bloodflow. More vines wrapped around his neck and did the same, choking the life out of him as his skin turned a pale shade of blue.
There was no hope. Martyn Davenport was dead in a matter of seconds.
Further ahead, Hudson had ridden past everyone and he was the very first to come across the split. The path was divided into two very different routes, the trees and the fog making it impossible to know where they led.
Syrena, however, knew exactly where they led… She knew the Woodlands like she knew her palms.
One path, the one on the left, led to the trail along the Spindle River. The path on the right would lead them deeper into the Woodlands and towards the Copperstone bridge.
“Left!” she said. “Go left!”
Having mere seconds to react, Hudson pulled the rein on his left, and the horse just managed to make the turn. The fog, however, blinded both Viktor and Jossiah.
“Shit… shit!” hissed Viktor. Without a free hand to guide it, his horse stuck to the wider path, the one to the right. Jossiah Biggs followed him, sheathing his blade as best as he could. Thaddeus Rexx, Cedric, and finally Wyll Davenport appeared out of the fog, following Jossiah’s horse on the wide path to the right of the split. The rest of the soldiers had been taken by the nymphs. Only a few were seen falling from their horses, the rest were pulled up. All of them, however, were certainly dead.
As the thief and the witch rode deeper down the path, the fog began to clear. Hudson could hear the sound of the flowing river in the distance, and he slowed his pace as he saw an opening that led them out of the trees. They had made it. The river was mere yards away.
Hudson came to a halt, dismounted his horse, and helped Syrena down.
He looked back at the foggy path and heard a trotting.
Shit, he thought to himself. He figured the knights had been left far behind. He even hoped some of them had gotten lost. Not eaten, perhaps… Just lost. But there was no such luck. One horse managed to trail them.
“Is it the chief?” Syrena asked.
Hudson’s eyes squinted. There, riding in the distance towards them, was John Huxley.
The thief grinned at first; not a happy grin, but an amused one.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “The mate’s tougher than he looks.”
As the fog cleared all around him, John could just about make out the silhouettes of the thief and the witch standing by the river. He felt the tension leave his body, even smiled for a moment.
And then a thick wooden arm reached down and grabbed him by the shirt.
He was hoisted up into the trees, leaving his horse scared and alone.
Then the panic came… He reached for his blade and began swinging, but the creatures’ vines began to wrap around him. Syrena’s eyes widened as she saw John’s legs kicking the air as he was being dragged up, disappearing into the leaves. She had seen that same image before, the very last image of any man before she never saw them again. Only this time it was no stranger, but the kind farmer that opened his doors to her, whose mother had shown her an unconditional kindness, even brought her clean clothes and blankets for the cold. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him behind… She wanted to run towards him. But there were about a dozen tree nymphs lingering in the path, staring in her direction. It was useless. Without her powers, there was no way she could save him in time.
Suddenly, however, she felt a tug at her wrist, followed by the sound of clinking metal. She looked down at her wrists and saw that her cuffs had been unlocked. The ogreskin leather hung loosely on her free hands. Her chains fell to the dirt and she saw the thief standing in front of her, holding a bronze key that he had hidden in his inner coat pocket. She realized he must have stolen it from Viktor Crowley while the knight slept.
She looked up at him, at the very same man that had freed her twice.
“Fetch the farmer,” the thief said, and then he drew his blade and charged daringly towards the nymphs.
She followed him, throwing the ogreskin on the mud and grinning with relief. The nymphs were hissing and growling, but it did not stop the thief a bit. He swung his sword, cutting off the heads and limbs of any nymph that got too close.
Syrena ran and stood underneath the large willow tree. When she looked up, she saw the farmer squirming, trying desperately to shake off the vines that had wrapped around his limbs. A vine was blocking the bloodflow on his right arm but John was far too stubborn to let go of his blade; his grip was as strong as his will to survive.
Syrena took a moment to stare at her free hands as they began to turn a bright shade of pink. Sparks began to form at the tips of every finger, one by one, as if they were candles. She smiled.
A roar of fire shot upwards at the nymphs and they began to scatter away like flies, hissing and screeching in fear at the sight of the flames. John felt the pressure in his limbs dying down and he started swinging his sword again, and vines were sliced in half and wooden limbs fell to the ground. He fought carelessly, however, soon realizing the vines were the only thing holding him up. He fell, fast and heavy, before a wooden arm grabbed him just before he hit the floor.
A nymph shrieked right at his face. And John cut its head off.
Then he fell on his back against the dirt.
It wasn’t a very high fall, but the farmer felt a mild crack in his back all the same. Hudso
n had by then killed over a dozen nymphs, and the rest of them cringed away in fear of Syrena’s magic. Now that the ogreskin had been removed, they could sense all of it. And they wouldn’t dare come near her.
John, on the other hand, was not close enough to the witch to be safe.
One last nymph, a ferociously large one, hopped down from the tree and climbed on top of him. He tried to crawl back, but the pain in his back wouldn’t allow him. The nymph was growling viciously as it too began to summon its vines. John had escaped death only to stare at it in the face all over again.
Then he noticed something odd…
The nymph’s hollow eyes began to glow, not the usual green but a bright orange.
And then the rest of him began to glow just as bright.
Smoke fumed out of its head and there was a foul smell, like that of rotting leaves being burned. And then the nymph’s head caught on fire, killing it instantly.
John realized Syrena was standing there, with her hand on the creature’s head. It fell forward next to him, dead and stiff and smoky. And Syrena was panting heavily as if the magic had taken a toll on her.
The nymphs scattered into the trees, never to bother them again. And Hudson put his sword away and walked towards them. John breathed, slowly in and out, feeling his body grow tired and numb. He saw the two dark figures of the thief and the witch standing over him. Clear at first, then slowly blurring…
There was no time to rest, John knew, but his body told him otherwise.
His mind slipped away, his body with it, and he fell into a deep unprecedented sleep.
* * *
Young Robyn’s eyelids were heavy and dry.
Her conscience returned before her vision did, and instantly she felt the throbbing gash in her head, almost as unbearable as the dryness of her throat.
The cold wind had blown dirt all over her, and so she groaned, using what little energy she had to wipe the muck from her face. For a moment, she had forgotten where she was. She’d been dreaming that she was safely back at the farm, waking up to the warm sunlight in her face and the pleasant smell of vegetable soup boiling in the common room.
She was safe and so was her brother John, away from the horrors of the Woodlands.
As her mind slowly crawled back to reality, the haunting images of the tree nymphs began to hit her. A rush of fear made her forget about the pain and exhaustion, and she sat up with an anxious gasp. She realized the life amid the trees had died down. They were still moving, though much calmer now as if dancing with the wind.
She breathed. It hurt her.
She longed for a drink. It didn’t matter what it was, so long as it relieved her parched tongue.
I did it, she thought to herself. I’m alive… For now, at least…
She blinked, and somehow a vivid image returned to her mind in that half-second of darkness.
The crow, she remembered. There was a crow… It came to me. I was nearly dead and then it… helped me.
Suddenly there was an unexpected sound. Her head throbbed; she had had more than enough unexpected sounds for the night. Someone hissed at her from the trees, not a nymph, but someone resembling a person…
“Psst!” it called.
She blinked, over and over again, as if making certain she was fully conscious. There was blood dripping down her temples and some of her black curls had been encrusted with dark red. And she realized then that she must have been unconscious for nearly an hour.
“Hey!” she heard the voice again.
She hadn’t imagined it… Something above was calling for her…
“Pssssst!” it hissed, but somehow she found she was not quite startled by it.
If it were anything that wanted to kill her, it would have already done the deed. She lifted her head, felt dizzy and overwhelmed, and her blurred vision made it difficult to make out what exactly was lurking among the leaves of that massive oak tree.
“Psst!” she heard it again, this time louder, followed by “Over here!”
She cleared her arid throat as best as she could.
“Someone there…?” she called. She was on alert for any moving shadows among the branches, but everything above her seemed to be in motion with the wind. It was considerably less dark, but not light enough for her weary eyes. “H-Hello?” she called again.
“Are you hurt?” the deep echoing voice spoke again. It sounded like it belonged to a man, possibly in his thirties, and she could detect a hint of his urbane Vallenghardian accent.
She hesitated to reply. For a moment, she thought perhaps the gash in her head was so deep that the bold voice she would usually hear in her mind had somehow enhanced and she was now able to physically hear it… Except her voice sounded very much like her mother’s and nothing like what her ears were hearing now.
“Hello?” the voice called again.
“Y-Yes,” she stammered. “I-I mean, no! No, I’m not hurt…”
This time there was no response. She waited a few moments, sitting up and struggling to find the proper words to say. She crawled towards the nearest tree and sat against it, keeping her gaze up, the night wind blowing against her humid black curls. “Who are you?” she asked.
She heard the voice again, though this time it was nothing but a stifled mumble.
“Y-You shouldn’t be out here,” it said.
Her interest had peaked.
Could it be a tree nymph, she wondered. Do nymphs speak?
“Come down from there,” she said.
And the voice released something like a scoff.
“Y-You need to go,” it said. “Return to where you came from!”
But it was too late. Robyn’s tenacity overcame her, and the girl had plenty of it. She lowered her brows and with a vivid poise she said, “I’ll leave if you show me your face.”
After what her eyes had seen, she knew not what to expect.
Is it an elf? They are expert climbers after all… Or perhaps a gnome? Or a pixie?
She envisioned a thousand things except what actually came next.
From the leaves of the oak tree, a dark shadow flew out… With a swift flapping, it soared down towards her and landed on the dirt a mere three feet away.
It was the black crow.
As it landed, it shook and ruffled its feathers like a wet dog. And then Robyn’s eyes widened as the crow opened its sharp beak and she realized the voice she’d heard belonged to no man at all.
“You know,” the crow spoke. “The next time you decide to do something this stupid… You should at least make sure you’re well prepared.”
Robyn’s jaw dropped. She found every single muscle in her body had gone numb. She’d heard many tales about the wonders of Gravenstone and beyond, but nothing could ever prepare her for this. In the span of one night, the girl felt she had seen her fair share of wonders for a lifetime.
“Are you all right?” the crow asked. “You look rather pale…”
“Heh,” Robyn shivered and crawled away, around the base of the tree where she’d been sitting. She was blinking rapidly and her brows were arched. “Sh… Shit…” she whispered to herself.
“Oh… Right,” the crow remarked and nodded his head in a most unnatural manner. “Pardon me, I had forgotten the effect I can have on people. Shall I, uh… perhaps give you a moment?”
Young Robyn had dreamed of leaving the farm for years. She dreamed of seeing all that she could see, visit every city and village, and meet every being dwelling within, human or otherwise. She did not, however, envision herself ever speaking to a bird…
“Y-You’re… talking,” Robyn finally said, trying hard to grasp the veracity of the situation, her dry mouth unable to close from the shock. She crawled back faster, but the crow seemed to catch up with very little effort, taking tiny steps on his claws as he rested his ruffled feathers.
“Careful now,” the crow said. “Watch where you crawl… I didn’t save you from a mob of tree nymphs only to have you sink into a pit of quicksan
d.”
“Quicksand?!”
“These are the Woodlands, girl,” he snarled. “Did you honestly expect it to be a peaceful stroll?”
Great, she thought to herself. A crow that not only talks, but now mocks me as well.
She turned and crawled away on all fours, so as to not stare at the crow any longer.
“Damn it, damn it all to hells,” she hissed at herself.
“Come now,” he said calmly. “There’s a river nearby. You need water.”
Robyn turned her head again in a flash. The more she tried to convince herself that she was hallucinating, the more her eyes and ears deceived her.
“S-Stop,” she hissed at him, fighting through the knot in her throat. “Y-You’re a crow… Crows don’t talk.”
Much to her surprise, the crow not only spoke again but he let out a soft chuckle as well, “You’ve a wonderful skill at observation.”
“H-How hard did I hit me head?” she asked, caressing the gash on her scalp with her fingertips.
“Quite hard, I’m afraid,” he answered. “But I can assure you this is very real.”
“N-No,” Robyn said, her mind clinging to any reasonable explanation it could find. For a moment she was talking more to herself than to the crow. “No, it’s that plant, isn’t it…? Yes, I-I’ve heard the stories! That plant, it sprays out a dust and it makes you see things that aren’t there! What’s it called?”
“There’s no such plant,” the crow said rather assuredly. “There is however a flower that sprays out a poison that blinds you. Now settle down!”
“Oh…” she said, her eyes wide and agitated.
Great. As if I needed more to be anxious about.
The look on her face amused the crow, so much so that he kept chuckling under his breath. “You’re quite an unlikely one, you know?” he said. “You have the courage to enter the Woodlands, a place where death lurks around every corner, all on your own and yet you fret about a talking crow… Tsk tsk.”
He flapped his wings and sprang forward, landing on Robyn’s boot, almost as if to pester the girl.
Robyn froze once again and said nothing, on alert for any sudden movements on the crow’s behalf.