Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2)

by Chris J Edwards

  “Princess, princess… I ask but a small thing in return for such advantageous knowledge. Our enemies are the same… the Witches think the Shade theirs to abuse, as if it is their own domain. The Disciples detest the Shade, stopping at nothing to wipe it out and, ultimately, to consign the world to oblivion. These are positions I simply cannot endure, princess. I too am at odds with the Twin Pillars of Woe, just as you…” he said.

  I was starting to understand. It should have been obvious. The Wizened Eye used Shade magick, just like the Witches.

  “So you use the Shade too, then?” I asked.

  “But of course. It is merely a tool, dear princess. A means to an end.”

  “Then it seems we’re at odds too,” I replied. “Just because we have the same enemies, doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

  Bildurog grinned at my defiance. A deep laughter emanated from his broad mouth, like as a drum deep within a cave. It echoed balefully and was met by a myriad of hushed snickers from his corrupted legions.

  “I would never suggest a thing so preposterous. Night cannot exist without day. A division is necessary. But I am very aware that eternal night would destroy us all – and I am eager to remain my own master. I will not bend to the Witch tyrants – the Wizened Eye is mine alone! I wrote the Book in the Dark!” he grumbled, croaking at random between words. “I and I alone!”

  The hidden small folk mirrored his sudden irritation. They squeaked and squealed and gnashed their teeth and stomped their little feet.

  Lyrèlie was right after all; Bildurog was neither good nor evil, neither benevolent nor malevolent. He was just a petty tyrant who lived for his own reasons.

  He simply wanted things to remain as they were – I guess that’s what everyone else wanted, too. Neither of us wanted this world to slip into the Void. Neither of us wanted the Witches to devour the land little by little, year by year.

  “Alright then. What do you want in return?” I asked.

  Bildurog regained control of himself and the small folk hushed.

  “Mm, mm. A small thing, a very small thing. Do you see the state of my beloved tree?” he asked.

  I looked up to the roots, to the wood; it was all very old. Black sap leaked out in some places. I had noticed, when I was still outside, that the branches had long fallen off and the tree all but dead. The Blighted Tree really looked the way it sounded – blighted.

  “My home is rotting, turning to mud. But you, daughter of the woods – you know of these things, of trees. You can attest my home is dying.”

  “Yes. It looks like it is,” I replied.

  “Then perhaps, good princess, you can repay the secret I have given…” he said in a low, almost furtive voice, “by bringing me an acorn from the Amber Bower…”

  I furrowed my brow. It was a strange request – I wasn’t sure if I could accept it. The Amber Bower was the heart of Céin Urthia; the Sacred power was strongest within its mighty groves. Taking a seed from there and transferring it here would be tantamount to sacrilege. The Orders would never allow; the court would be in uproar.

  But what other choice did I have? Bildurog had already given me the way to the being who watches from the cleft in the rock.

  “Why don’t you just send one of your fae?” I asked out of curiosity.

  Bildurog chuckled.

  “A seed stolen from a Sacred place cannot grow. I have tried many times with many seeds from many Sacred groves… no, a seed must be given, or else it will wither where it is planted.”

  So he wanted to regrow his tree. I did not know how he expected to do this, nor where. It was an easy enough trade, so long as it remained a secret. But I had to be certain I wasn’t being misled.

  “That sounds like a deal. But I can only give you an acorn from the Amber Bower once I’ve found the being who watches from the cleft in the rock. I need to be sure you showed me the right way,” I said.

  Bildurog smiled and laughed. The sound rumbled throughout the cavern.

  “Most wise of you, princess. Most wise…” he said.

  As he spoke, a group of pixies burst from one of the adjoining tunnels high above us. They darted down to Bildurog’s lectern and collapsed before him, panting.

  “Interlopers! A Void-worshipper is approaching the Blighted Tree!” cried one of the pixies in between gulped breathes.

  A cold shiver ran down my spine. Were they after me?

  A wave of panicked whispers rustled through the cavern. Bildurog frowned and huffed.

  “Interlopers? Here? None could brave our magicks. None could find this place,” he said, folding his arms.

  “They have a Void Stone, Grand Master! We cannot mislead them, we cannot make them afraid! They won’t turn back!” squealed the pixie.

  “Preposterous…” he said, then stopped short.

  “You… you! You led them here!” Bildurog bellowed, pointing a long finger at me. “They’re after you, and you have brought ruination upon us!”

  The glowing fungi seemed to dampen their light. Shadows grew long and thick inside the cavern; a hundred angry whispers swelled all around me. I backed away, toward the tunnel through which I had crawled. A sluggish root tightened around it, blocking my path.

  “I didn’t lead them here! Why would I?” I cried. “Please, you need to let me go!”

  “Let you go? If I let you out, they will come down for us. They will destroy my precious book,” warbled Bildurog.

  “But my friends are up there! They’ll be killed!”

  Bildurog frowned. He didn’t seem convinced. He just closed up his book as a swarm of small folk ran and flew all around me in the unctuous darkness.

  I pushed through the maelstrom and stood before Bildurog. He was ignoring me, muttering to himself.

  “Bildurog,” I said in a level voice. “Please. You must let me go. They won’t leave until they’ve found me. And if I’m down here, they’ll find a way in.”

  “Nonsense. Nonsense,” he slurred. “There’s no way in, no way out. I’ve sealed the exits… we’re safe here. The Book in the Dark is safe, completely safe…”

  But I could tell he didn’t quite believe his own words.

  The light was fading; the shadows were growing all around us. I looked up to the darkness above.

  Ortham and Herace were up there.

  I ran back through the dark to the edge of the cavern, searching the walls by touch alone.

  I needed out – I needed out. And I wouldn’t let this old toad stop me.

  43

  Ortham

  I didn’t like this place, and Herace was on edge. He was trying not to show it, though, and doing a pretty good job; but I could tell. I couldn’t blame him – the ride in had been awful. I knew it was fae magick. I knew it was. But I still couldn’t shake the oppressive dread, the senseless terror that had descended upon me; as we rode deeper into the vales, some unplaceable sense of horror seemed to hang over our surroundings like a dense fog.

  Now that Dawn was in the tree, however, the fright had settled into a pall of unease. Our surroundings were vague and dim, but not sinister; just brambles and fungi and the network of high rock shelves that surrounded the clearing.

  Nothing to be afraid of, I reassured myself.

  Nothing to be afraid of…

  Herace walked around the tree as the dark-winged faerie watched us from her perch.

  The tree itself was rather foul looking; the trunk was swollen beyond any sane proportions, like a snake that had swallowed far too large a meal, and bulbous knots of hard fungus grew in the crevices.

  I wanted to sit down somewhere, but the ground was loamy and damp. I felt a natural aversion to the tree, of course, and wouldn’t dare sit down there.

  Herace came back from around the tree and leaned in conspiratorially.

  “Not just fae magick here. Shade too,” he murmured, opening his hand to show me something.

  I looked down. Resting in his palm was a t
orn leaf; but instead of water coming out of the tear, a fine tarry substance seeped out.

  “Can’t say I’m not surprised…” I muttered back, keeping my eyes on the faerie sitting in the branches.

  “I’m just worried there’s more of it in there,” he said, nodding to the Blighted Tree. “Not the best place to send Dawn… what with the Witches and all…”

  “You’re right… but I don’t think Lyrèlie would send us here if there was that much of a threat,” I replied.

  Herace sucked his teeth and pulled a wry face.

  “I dunno, the fae aren’t exactly logical thinkers…”

  He left it at that, walking away to the edges of the clearing. I took one last glance at the hole through which Dawn had crawled, then followed after him. Standing around wasn’t helping anyone – certainly not her.

  Herace squatted down beside a cluster of broad-leafed plants. They were green and violet, with cylindrical petals and veins running through them. Tendrils of spiny vines coiled around their base. Herace touched one of the petals with the back of his hand.

  “Hm. Never seen a flower like this before…” he said under his breath.

  I squatted next to him.

  “Think it’s poisonous?” I asked.

  “Probably. Look at this place. I barely want to breathe the air, let alone eat the plants.”

  Looking around we noticed that most of the plants were strange, even unfamiliar. Not even the brambles were entirely consistent with what one would find in the world beyond these dank ravines. The flora was as subtly unpleasant as the flora in Glenn Mereillon was subtly pleasant; opposite sides of the same spectrum.

  I stood up and turned to the faerie seated in the crooked limbs of the Blighted Tree.

  “Does this plant have a name?” I asked.

  She fluttered over to the dismal grove we were inspecting. She lighted upon one of the bristled coils.

  “None that is remembered, ur-man. Not by any folk as young as yours…” she said. “And even the most ancient walkers of this world have since forgotten…”

  I had to refrain from rolling my eyes. It was always so cryptic with the fae. Never a straight answer - or worse, an answer to a question never asked.

  “I see… but do you remember the name?” I asked.

  “The true name is written in the Book in the Dark – as are many. Just as your names are, Mister Morath…” she grinned, walking behind one of the plants before re-emerging on the other side. “… or is it Ortham now?”

  I furrowed my brow. How did she know about my old name? Better yet, how did she know my name at all?

  Herace turned to me confused.

  “Mister who?” he asked.

  “Morath,” I groaned. “It was my mercenary name. Most of us took new names.”

  “Really? That’s strange.”

  “That’s strange? Herace, you’ve gone through three name changes that I know of. Herace the Rising Star, Herace the Shamed, Herace the Redeemed…”

  “Well now, those are epithets. Entirely different,” he replied with a sniff. “Although, I’m rather impressed you remembered all three…”

  I turned back to the faerie.

  “Say, you seem to know our names. But we don’t know yours,” I said to her.

  She lounged on one of the outcropping petals, tucking her stave under an arm, seeming not to hear me.

  “It’s been a long time since anyone has asked me my name. So few folk are awake when I pass by…” she sighed despondently.

  Her despondence sounded genuine – but as before, one can never be too sure with these folk. Especially this one.

  “Estra Venn is my name. Harbinger of Bildurog – Mistress of the Blighted Tree,” she said. “I have taught many generations of the Wizened Eye over the decades… they all count me as their mother.”

  I found that odd. I was under the impression that the fae had short lives – some lasting only a few years. And this Estra Venn seemed youthful in every way but in her manner of speech.

  “Decades? How old could you possibly be?” Herace asked.

  “Decades. Many decades. I traded much for such longevity…” she sighed, looking down to her insectoid legs with a certain sadness in her eyes. “It was a costly bargain indeed; but I have no need for legs, when I have wings…”

  I couldn’t help but feel a little sick at what she was suggesting. A gift of long life for a curse of an insect’s legs… it was a wretched thought. And not one I wanted to dwell on – the implications were too vile. I had to quash my morbid curiosity.

  But of course, Herace didn’t.

  “What? Are you suggesting you traded your legs just to live longer?” he asked in disbelief. “I – I could never give up a limb!”

  Estra Venn stood up and looked to Herace with a grim resolve.

  “Even if you knew you would die? Even if, knowing what you know now, that you would die in a meagre five summers? Five jubilant springs, five hallowed autumns? If that was all you were given to live in this world?” she asked in a whispery voice.

  Herace didn’t reply. Neither could I.

  Estra Venn’s moment of melancholy honesty ended. She flew back up into the stunted limbs of the Blighted Tree, pale as bleached bone in the moonlight.

  “Nice going,” I said to Herace out of the corner of my mouth.

  Herace stood back up and so did I. We wandered aimlessly around the clearing. There wasn’t much to look at; nothing pleasant, at least. We inspected a few of the nameless plants that pushed up from the rich, gloom-soaked soil; a leathery, round fungus in particular caught Herace’s attention. He put his toe to it – and suddenly it puked out a plume of thick dust. We both backed away in disgust.

  “Wow, this place is truly foul,” Herace said aloud. “Even the mushrooms are nastier.”

  “I hope Dawn comes back soon,” I said, looking back to the whited oak.

  We walked back around to the hole through which Dawn had crawled. Through the obscurant gloom I could make out the winding ravines which fed into this low place.

  As Herace and I whiled away our time, staving off the general sense of dread and ennui that hung over the unfriendly fae enclave, a shadow darted overhead.

  A pixie landed on one of the branches; then another, and a third. Estra Venn looked over too, alerted by their apparent panic. The pixies didn’t slow; they dove into a small opening in the oak’s bark.

  After a moment the Blighted Tree groaned; the sound of creaking wood and sucking mud emanated from its trunk. We both looked down in horror as the hole through which Dawn had crawled was slowly being covered up by its bloated roots.

  I leapt toward the tree without thinking, diving into the muck on my hands and knees; the roots were sluggishly constricting around the opening.

  “Hey! Hey, what’s going on!” I cried, hesitating before the muscular roots, not wanting to reach in and be crushed.

  Herace drew his blade and swung at the roots; it bounced off the ancient bark as if made of stone.

  I looked up to Estra Venn, who was standing on a nearby branch. She looked just as confused.

  “Open it back up!” I shouted at her, my hands covered in mud.

  Estra Venn cast a glance around the clearing. Then, just like the three pixies, disappeared into a crevice.

  “Damnit!” Herace cursed as his sabre deflected harmlessly off the roots once again. “Hard as a rock…”

  I got to my feet. Dawn was trapped in the tree – I had to get her out.

  I flexed my hands. If they wouldn’t let her go, I would have to convince them.

  “Estra Venn!” I cried up to the stunted branches. “Come out or I’ll burn this tree down!”

  “Are you mad?” Herace exclaimed. “The princess is in there!”

  He was right. But the fae didn’t have to know I cared; they wouldn’t call my bluff.

  I levelled my hands to the trunk of the tree and prepared to cast when I hea
rd an all-too-familiar pop, followed by a whoosh. I felt my energy drained from my reservoir.

  “Don’t you dare,” came a quivering voice from just behind me; I swung around, hand at my degen hilt.

  But I was too slow for that, too. I only caught a glimpse of Estra Venn’s dark wings as she fluttered out of reach, back toward the Blighted Tree. Herace made an admirable attempt at catching her with his bare hands but she slipped away just in time.

  Blades drawn, we stood before the great tree. I cursed silently; I had no magick left. Estra Venn had drained it all. I was impressed. She had a lot of soul for such a small creature. I should have been watching my back.

  “Estra Venn!” Herace shouted. “Open up this tree!”

  There was silence. His voice echoed into the dim beyond, lonely and desolate.

  Just as I opened my mouth to make another challenge, her small form appeared from behind an ivory branch, silent as a shadow.

  “Not until it’s safe,” she whispered.

  An ominous feeling crept over me, dampening my futile anger. I lowered my blade.

  “What do you mean, safe?” I asked.

  But she was gone. Herace cursed aloud and slid his sabre back into its sheath.

  “Well, dammit anyway,” he groaned, putting his hands on his hips and looking up to the tree. “This couldn’t get any worse…”

  44

  The Slave

  We were already moving as the sun rose a thumb over the horizon, floating like a brass kettle above a sea of green pasture.

  I followed along behind Daz. She was moving with an unyielding determination and had not spoken to me yet. She must have taken offence from my words last night – I had not meant to insult her honour. I simply wanted to open her eyes. I took no pleasure in seeing her mutilate her soul, feed her blood to that infernal stone tablet – if only I had let it sink to the bottom of the sea!

  She did not have to be a slave. I only wanted to wake her to the possibility of freedom, but in trying, my intentions were lost and she was instead stung by my words. This morning she shaved her head. And now she strode ahead, almost at a run, her shoulders and waist bare, covered only by a strip of silk – she seemed an aspect of a gladiator. Her sword and buckler clattered upon her belt.