by K. J. Hargan
The wailing madness of the snow hurricane let up a little as they ran as best they could between the towering trees of the Weald. The trees were black with the wetness of the snow and mostly bare of leaves. But the top branches of the forest were heavy with snow and obliterated the night sky. A crescent moon shown a little light through the bower of tangled, heavy white overhead.
Here and there, the green of the holly, the ivy and the evergreen showed the world was sleeping and not dead, and waited to awake in the spring.
“Conniker!” The elf yelled, but no reply came.
“Conniker!” The Archer bellowed, but the only sound was the moaning of the storm dusting the tops of the trees high up above. “We’ve lost him,” the Archer said with frustration. Then he softened for a moment. “Iounelle,” he said, “that kiss we shared at the home of Alrhett...”
“We were under the influence of magical powers beyond our control,” the elf brusquely said. Then, she stopped and leaned against a tree, hoping the Archer wouldn’t see her heart breaking in the shadows of the night.
The elf suddenly recoiled from the tree she was touching.
“There’s something here,” she whispered.
The Archer cracked a flint against a stone, and lit a small hand torch he always carried in his belt pouch. The Archer let the torch breathe, then lifted the flame to reveal the tree that had disturbed the elf.
Words in old script were carved into the tree.
“What is it?” The elf asked.
The Archer read the words:
Bonasine Family
Hanaree 52 summers
Lathalee 54 summers
Ronell 12 summers
Mathclan 26 summers who gave his life at the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands.
The last was freshly carved.
The Archer lifted his torch and saw that every tree in sight was so carved.
“This is the cemetery of the wealdkin,” the Archer said with reverence. “They bury all of their family members under a certain tree. Then their body’s nutrients are then taken up into the tree, and then they all become one in the spreading branches.”
The Archer stumbled on dug up earth. He moved his torch to see a gruesome old foot, decomposing, leg bone still attached, partially eaten.
The Archer nearly slid down into an unearthed grave. He passed his torch and saw the desecrated, gnawed corpse that had been uncovered. It was an older man who appeared to have died from a severe head wound. The corpse’s decomposing skin was green and jellied from decay. It’s large, sickening eyes pled to be reburied. There were large bite marks on the corpse’s torso. The bite marks were from some animal larger than a wolf or bear.
The Archer lifted his torch higher and saw that several more graves had also been violated, the unearthed bodies sprawled and all had been partially consumed.
“Could the wolves have done this?” The Archer asked with disgusted wonder.
“This is not the work of anything natural,” the elf said with a shiver. “Let us leave here,” she said with an uncharacteristic nervousness.
“The wolf’s tracks go through here,” the Archer said, following a fresh spoor in the snow.
They followed as quickly as they could over the tangle of the huge trees.
“What were the wolves in the camp saying?” The Archer asked.
“They were howling- They were saying ‘bad things’,” the elf quietly said.
The Archer and the elf pushed as far as they could, as fast as they could, on, on into the center of the old, old woods.
The elf’s sharp ears heard the hissing of Baalenruud and pushed the Archer aside as the massive black snake coiled in the cathedral darkness of the forest.
“Go back,” Baalenruud lisped.
The Archer and the elf quickly drew their swords.
The black arrow shaped head of Baalenruud softly moved from side to side in the shadows.
“I sorry for biting you,” Baalenruud whispered to the Archer. “I was trying to get the leeth. And you can hardly blame me, can you?” Baalenruud’s huge yellow eyes stared without blinking, the irises infinite slits of blackness.
“Where is the boy?” The Archer demanded.
“Oh, he’s gone” Baalenruud said, her black coils turning in the darkness. He was so much larger now. When the elf had seen her at the citadel she was the size of a normal black adder. Now the aesir, in his battle body as a snake, was the size of a dodern.
“What have you done with him?” The elf circled the aesir.
“I do nothing,” Baalenruud indignantly said. “He goes on. He’s gone.”
“Then let us pass,” the Archer said raising his sword.
“I save your life,” Baalenruud said. “Go no further. He is here.”
“Who is here?” The elf said with rising dread.
“You know why the elves never come to the Weald,” Baalenruud hissed. “Not all trees are trees. You have gone the wrong way. Even the wealdkin go around this part. But you were drawn here, weren’t you, leethchel? You were told as a little one. The trees that once lived-”
“-form a black ring,” the elf finished Baalenruud’s sentence. “There in the dark comes the black thing. From far, far away, without any light, nothing can stop it from bringing the night. Stay out of the Weald. Stay out of the Weald.”
“You remember the old lesson,” Baalenruud hissed. Then Baalenruud held very still, then winced as if he had been reproached by an invisible master. “I go. You go. Live.” The huge black snake twisted away into the obsidian night.
The elf moved quickly to the Archer and gripped his arm. She held her finger to her lips. The Archer shook his head in confusion, but stayed quiet.
The elf held still listening, turning her head to find the sound. Quietly, she drew the Archer on. Into the shadows of the Weald, the Archer and the elf followed the growing sound of a man whispering.
The sound of the storm overhead was completely muffled by the dense snow cradled in the tangled branches of the tree tops.
The elf motioned for the Archer to put out his torch. He quickly snuffed the flame in the icy snow packed beneath their feet.
The Archer caught the elf.
“What did he mean, ‘the trees are not trees’?” The Archer whispered.
“Long ago there were other... things,” the elf whispered. “They looked just like trees. You would have walked right past them, thinking they were trees. But they moved and spoke.” The elf checked to see if they were still alone.
“There was a legend among my people that a group of the Not Trees got lost. Some tell the legend... they were led astray... on purpose. The lost group of Not Trees died, entangled in each other’s arms. But, the circle of Not Trees retained power. Great power. And this power was corrupted. The circle of Not Trees became very, very dangerous.”
The elf checked once again to see if they were still alone. “Elves were told to never go into the Weald. The Weald is only the remaining portion of a much, much larger forest. This part of the forest remained to hide the ring of darkness created by the lost tree things. Rumor has it that an elf will be drawn directly to the ring. Elves who went into the Weald never came out.”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” the Archer whispered. “Let us return to New Rogar Li at once.”
The elf sharply turned as though she heard something, but the Archer heard nothing.
The elf rose and quickly stalked through the woods. The Archer desperately limped after her, trying to stop her.
The elf stopped with her back to a massive, black oak. She roughly pulled the Archer next to her, into the shadow of the monolithic tree.
The elf motioned for the Archer to look behind the oak on the right side. She moved to the left side.
From the edge of the ebony winter oak, the elf saw a small halo of glowing, blue, unnatural light.
A man without arms stood before a tangle of black branches that formed a portal, his empty sleeves gently turning in the slight breeze.
The branches were part of several trees with human characteristics, wooden faces twisted in countenances of painful, horrific death; feminine arms writhing in desperate last moments; empty, dark eye sockets whose last sight was of an infinitely evil blackness.
The elf pulled back. The Archer joined her.
“It’s Deifol Hroth,” the elf whispered as quietly as she could.
“What’s he doing?” The Archer asked.
The elf just shook her head.
The Archer pulled an Arrow of Yenolah. The elf’s look of firm agreement cemented their understanding.
“I could not hit him in Lanis,” the Archer whispered. “He moved too fast.”
“Then I must distract him,” the elf desperately whispered, knowing the suicidal danger of her mission. They started to move, but then the elf pulled the Archer back.
The elf passionately kissed the Archer.
“There was no magic in that,” the elf said.
“Maybe not for you,” the Archer said with a smile, that quickly faded as they then moved in opposite directions to attempt their grave assault.
The Archer could see the wizard with no arms standing before the dark circle of branches. The air in the circle shimmered. Deifol Hroth was muttering, saying something. The Archer could barely catch what the Lord of All Evil Magic incanted.
“...poagnah floqurrahhinne,” Deifol Hroth was focused on the portal. “Thillinaa Mahanaa Eegreth Ininifvir... aillngrah poagnah POAGNAH!” He said with rising volume.
Shoot now, the Archer told himself. Shoot now!
The Archer watched in rapt horror as the air in the middle of the circle of branches seemed to ripple, darken, and shine as though it were a vertical pool of water.
“Thillinaa,’ Deifol Hroth said with affection. “Come through.”
“You know I canth not,” a sweet, dangerous voice said in the dark. “You havth not killed enough. The rip isth too small.”
Then the Archer saw the form of a beautiful woman reflected in the space, as though her image were reflected on the other side of the strange vertical pool of water.
“You musth kill more,” the voice in the dark sweetly lisped.
“Do not think to command me,” Deifol Hroth indignantly said. “I am first among the fallen. I am greater than you.”
“But you canth not topple yourth master without me,” the voice in the dark smiled.
“No,” Deifol Hroth admitted.
The elf was astonished at the vision. She wondered why the Archer hadn’t shot while the Dark Lord was so engaged.
Then the elf looked closer at the reflection of the beautiful human woman in the portal. Iounelle seemed to be pulled to the dark pool. Behind the reflection, in the deep darkness, she could see two enormous eyes struggling to peer through the portal, like a lion trying to spot a mouse hidden inside a knot hole.
The elf caught her breath. The creature had to be as big as a castle, or even larger. Its snout was severely scarred from an old fight. In the darkness, through the portal, Iounelle could see wyrm like forms squirming at the titanic beast’s feet, its children.
Iounelle could feel the beast’s eyes boring into her. The creature was from far, far away. Its eyes pulled her to the portal. She had to go to her.
“Lahn (yes),” the voice lisped. “Kalkót oren. (Come to me)”
“Who are you talking to-?” Deifol Hroth said turning. “Come out!”
“Leeth (elf),” the voice in the dark whispered. “Iosilli sortadr. Kal’a! (I am hungry. Come!)”
“Come out of there, elf,” Deifol Hroth growled.
“I am coming,” Iounelle said with tears streaming down her cheeks, the Moon Sword of Berand Torler glimmering in the dark. “I am coming to kill you.”
“She has the Allmen!” The voice in the dark cried in warning.
“She has only half of the Allmen,” Deifol Hroth said with anger as he advanced on the elf. “You should be dead, little elf. You should have died with your kin when I took your city. You are dead, little elf, only you won’t accept the fact that you are already dead.” Deifol Hroth’s eyes were wide with an eerie, impending violence. His face a slack mask of murder.
“I will return to the Water of Life when Dâniei Wylkeho wills it,” Iounelle said with rising fury, “and not when some vile wizard without arms says I must.” With that Iounelle tensed and took a vicious swipe at the Dark Lord of Magic.
But Deifol Hroth was quick and moved out of the arc of the blade with supernatural speed.
“Shoot now!” Iounelle cried. “Shoot now, Derragen!”
Deifol Hroth looked at the elf with puzzlement, then snapped his head back with a blur as an Arrow of Yenolah embedded itself in a tree trunk where the Dark Lord’s head should have been. The Dark Lord looked at the arrow and sneered.
“Killth them. I am go,” the voice in the dark lisped. The vertically reflected pool dissolved into thin air.
“No, wait!” Deifol Hroth cried. Then he turned on the elf with eyes afire with anger. “You have disrupted my affairs for the last time!”
From behind, with a war cry, the Archer leapt, slashing overhand with Bravilc, at Deifol Hroth.
The Dark Lord of All Evil Magic spun, kicking his foot up in the air at a breathtaking speed. Bravilc flew out of the Archer’s hand and embedded itself in a tree trunk.
The Archer reached back for an arrow and gripped his bow, but Deifol Hroth threw up his leg again and kicked the Archer so hard that he flew back and thudded against a thick tree. The Archer shook his head trying to desperately keep from passing out.
The elf thrust with the Moon Sword, but Deifol Hroth moved so quickly to a spot ten paces away, it was only a blur of motion.
The elf slowly advanced, her sword out before her.
“I have no time for this,” Deifol Hroth growled. Then he opened his mouth wide.
Iounelle was unsure of what he was doing, but she rushed him while swinging her sword.
A blinding light flashed from the Dark Lord’s mouth. Iounelle ducked just as a bolt of crackling energy lanced over her head.
“Derragen!” Iounelle cried.
The Archer stumbled to his feet. Deifol Hroth turned to face him.
The Archer rolled out of the way just as a lightning bolt cracked out of Deifol Hroth’s mouth and scorched the earth where he had just lain, slapping down like a chain of pure power and light.
Iounelle slashed again at the dark wizard, but once again he moved to a spot ten paces away in a startling blur.
Deifol Hroth opened his mouth even wider. His armless body shook, and his face corrupted, and seemed like a corpse. His gaping wide mouth unleashed a bright, sustained lightning bolt. The lightning continued to pour from his mouth as if he himself couldn’t control it.
The lightning bolt whipped about, exploding wherever it touched down.
Iounelle leapt, dodged and turned, just out of the reach of the crackling snake of white hot power.
Deifol Hroth shook more violently, his mouth stretched impossibly wide, his face a rotting mask of green decomposition. The lightning bolt streamed out of his mouth and whipped his head around with violence.
Iounelle reached the Archer and pulled him to his feet. Together they vaulted away just as the lightning hit the tree the Archer was leaning on. The wood of the tree fiercely exploded. Iounelle turned the Archer and shielded him from the deadly rain of flying debris.
She screamed in pain as a large splinter of wood slashed her arm.
The lightning stopped.
Deifol Hroth advanced.
He stepped near them with disgust, his face slowly recovering a healthy hue.
“Iofi herralhrod naskreim (I will now destroy you),” Deifol Hroth said in elvish, without any emotion.
“Tákk- Tákkeg (please)” Iounelle said as she huddled next to the Archer who was breathing heavily in pain.
Deifol Hroth stood over the Archer and the elf.
Iounelle looked up through the snow laden trees and coul
d see the crescent moon in the winter night sky. In that instant, she felt a connection.
“Hínn! (No!)” She cried as Deifol Hroth opened wide his mouth. The elf swung the Moon Sword, vertically, in an arc in front of her and the Archer. A pulse of yellow energy emanated from the sword as Deifol Hroth’s lightning crackled from his mouth.
The lightning cracked and sparked to no effect against the protecting globe of soft yellow energy that enveloped the elf and the Archer.
Iounelle squeezed her eyes tight. She could hear Deifol Hroth scream in rage. There was a gust of wind, then all was silent. When she opened her eyes, he was gone. She was alone with Derragen. The orb of protecting energy dissipated.
“How did you- What was that?” The Archer weakly said.
“I don’t know,” Iounelle said. “But it saved our lives.”
A soft crunching sound made them struggle to their feet, ready for battle. But, the gentle, yellow eyes of Lanner, the grey wolf peered at them from out of the night’s shadows.
“Thank the Great Wolf, I found you,” Lanner said in wolfish.
“Can you lead us away from here?” Iounelle said, understanding the speech of animals.
“As quick as you can,” Lanner said. “Did you see Conniker or Arnwylf?”
“No,” Iounelle said.
“Then they are lost,” Lanner huffed. Then the grey wolf turned in horror. “Look!” He barked.
The Archer and the elf turned to see black wriggling forms crawling from the portal of the black ring of dead trees.
“Bad things,” Lanner growled.
“Coooome to meeeee,” a red vyreeoten lisped.
“I will kill you, unnatural thing,” Lanner growled, baring his teeth and lowering his head.
There were now twenty or more vyreeoten squirming among the black winter trees.
“Yoooou are sssso littttle,” the red vyreeoten hissed.
“But I am many,” Lanner said. The elf turned to see thirty wolves advance out of the dark.
“We have to destroy that door,” the Archer said.
“Light your torch,” the elf said.
The wolves and vyreeoten growled and hissed at each other, looking for an opening.
The Archer relit his small hand torch with a quick, deft motion. The elf took it from him.