by Kel Kade
“Yes,” Aaslo said, “do you need to see it to cast the spell?”
“Unfortunately,” Magdelay replied.
While Magdelay worked her magic, Aaslo pulled a burlap sack from his pack. He had intended to use it for gathering useful plants and herbs along the journey, but he supposed it would do for a head. Only once the head was placed inside did he realize how heavy it was. He grumbled, “A burlap sack is a poor burial shroud.”
Magdelay’s gaze was distant. “It is no longer of consequence. We are all dead and buried under the shroud of this prophecy.” She pointed to the trench and said, “Do not bury him with his sword. It was a gift from the council.”
“He needs a sword,” Aaslo mumbled, barely able to force his voice past his lips.
“What’s that?” she huffed.
Aaslo swallowed hard, his voice rising in anger. “He needs a sword. He needs his head, and he needs a sword.” He gripped the bag against his chest and again muttered, “He needs a sword.”
“Then bury him with yours,” she said testily.
Aaslo had nearly forgotten about his sword. During the battle, he had used his axe, as it was his preference. Mathias had given him the sword because he had wanted a training partner. Aaslo supposed it was only appropriate to give it back. He removed Mathias’s sword belt and wrapped it around his own waist before placing his sword in the pit with the rest of his best friend’s body. Magdelay covered it over with dirt, and then they both stood in silence. After a few minutes, Aaslo began dragging the creatures’ bodies into the woods where they wouldn’t be easily found, while Magdelay continued to stare at the fresh grave.
Finally, she said, “We must go.”
* * *
Myropa watched as the two shadowy figures disappeared into the darkness. She would find them again; but, for now, she had another task. She studied the fresh dirt piled over the young man’s headless body. It was a shame. He had been a handsome man with great potential. Still, he wasn’t the first to die in this war, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. She turned her gaze back to the dark road. Was it coincidence that she had been sent there—at that very moment? Two of the travelers had been unknown to her, but the third she would have recognized anywhere. Never had she thought that one person could drive another to such madness, to lose herself, to utterly destroy her entire being until not even her soul was her own. Was it fate or destiny that had driven her back onto that path?
Turning away, she moved fifty paces into the forest with little more than a thought. On silent feet, she followed the iridescent path that twisted between the tangled branches rendered black by night. She felt neither dread nor thrill on the gloomy trek through the untamed wood. Long past were the days of threats by forest terrors. If only she had felt so dispassionate while she lived, she would not be in her present state.
The rich aroma of roasted meat tinged with the sour scent of charred hair and bone prickled her nose. While the taste of a savory meal or delectable dessert was denied to her, the scent of death was all the more pungent. It was a special torment for her kind, and a torture overshadowed only by the persistent, aching chill that suffused her body. She could feel the heat radiating from the wood still burning at its core, but never would her flesh be warmed.
She knelt on the sooty leaves, though they did not crackle beneath her—proof again that she was only a trespasser in this world. The wizard was dead. Well, he would be in a moment. A talented healer might have repaired enough of his scorched body for revival. It was too bad for him that none were present. She leaned down to whisper in his ear, and then he was standing in front of her, a luminescent man-shaped figure wrapped in a shroud of swirling light.
“Myropa,” he said—a single word tainted with accusation.
She smiled with indulgence. “Disappointed? Trust me when I say that this is all my pleasure.”
“Put me back, Myropa. You have gone too far.”
She held her hand out to the charred mass of flesh on the ground. “You wish to go back to that?”
“What is this?” he shouted in alarm. “That woman! What has she done? It is impossible. She could not have bested me. I am far stronger than she.”
Myropa tsked and said, “Obriday, you were always so arrogant. I told you it would be your downfall.” She pointed to the ashy remains of the tree beside his corpse. “You killed yourself, actually, blew yourself up, to be precise. You should not have lit a flame near a fiergolen tree.”
“What is a fiergolen tree? Bah, never mind that. Put me back and take me to Byella for healing.”
“You know I cannot do that, Obriday. It is your time. You are marked.” Myropa dragged one finger along the iridescent tether that bound her to him. “It will not break until you are delivered to the Sea—if it will have you.”
“There has been a mistake. Pithor would not allow it. I am an incendia.”
“Well, you certainly are now,” she said wryly. “Remember, I do not work for Pithor.”
Obriday curled his lip. “You should have more respect for the Deliverer of Grace and be grateful to His Mighty Light for assigning you to this team. It is likely your only chance for salvation, should you serve him well.”
Myropa plucked the iridescent cord between them. “Yes, I have seen his light. Pithor may be a deadly force in this world, but he is nothing to me. He came begging on his knees for aid from Axus. He will pay a heavy price for my services.”
“It is not a shame to subjugate oneself to the gods. Pithor is the Blessed Chosen. While others scoff with skepticism, he knelt at the feet of the temple’s idol. With unmatched and undeniable faith and humility, he prayed for aid, and it was granted. Axus, the God of Death, demands you serve Pithor, and Pithor wants me alive.”
Myropa brushed her long, dark curls over her shoulder. “I was not sent by Axus. I am here at Trostili’s behest. Axus may be the God of Death, but he does not make the rules.”
Lifting his chin, Obriday said, “The God of Death, the God of War—what difference does it make? They are both on our side, and theirs is the will of the gods.”
“Are you so sure about that? Axus stands to gain much power from Pithor’s war. I am not certain he has the other gods’ approval.”
“What do you know of the gods’ desires? Most are just as eager as Pithor to see this world cleansed. The others don’t care. Tell me, did any of them interfere in the realization of the prophecy? Did we succeed? Did we kill the Lightbane?”
From the dozens of thumb-sized marbles dangling on black cords at her waist, Myropa selected one that glowed with a pale blue light. She twirled it in the air before him and said, “Yes, he is dead.” She indiscriminately grabbed a handful more and said, “So is your team.” Dropping them back to her side with a clatter, she manifested a clear, empty orb in her open palm. With the vessel pinched between her finger and thumb, she placed it in the path of light between them and said, “So are you.”
“Wait, you must inform the deliverer that the Lightbane is dead. He must know that he has already won.”
Myropa hummed a slow tune, one tiny vestige of her past, and said, “You are not listening, Obriday. You are dead. The concerns of this world—Pithor and his plans—no longer matter for you. Have you nothing of yourself to remember?”
“I cannot be dead! I am an incendia. I am to lead our troops against the darkness that infests the hearts of man. I will help bring His light into the world.”
With a deep inhale, Myropa activated the tiny sphere. “No, Obriday, your tasks are done. Now, you go into the Afterlife.”
CHAPTER 5
Aaslo and Magdelay walked along the rugged road for hours without a word. Aaslo was tired. He had spent the entire day tending the forest with Mathias, and now he was leaving the forest with Mathias’s head in a burlap bag. That thought alone was enough to stay any complaints and keep him walking. It was a mindless task. He didn’t think about his aching feet or windburned face. To keep from thinking about the burden he carried, he f
ocused his entire attention on the sounds and motions of the forest.
“We’ll stop now,” Magdelay said, breaking the crisp barrier of reticence between them. “You need to rest as much as possible, for you have a long journey ahead. I’ll keep watch until the dawn; then I must leave you.”
“What do you mean, leave?”
“We are nearly to the crossroads. There we part ways.”
Aaslo didn’t like the idea of leaving the forest alone. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the forest at all. What he liked no longer had bearing in his life, though. “First, tell me—what were those things, and where did they come from?”
“I don’t know,” Magdelay said. “I’ve never seen nor heard of them before tonight. The magus was human, though. He didn’t speak, and I didn’t recognize his spells. His clothes were strange, and he wore his hair longer than usual for a man. I think it’s reasonable to conclude that these people are not from any of the known lands.”
He was unsatisfied with the answer but accepted that it was the only one he would receive.
“Don’t you need sleep?” he asked.
“Do not concern yourself with me. My magic can sustain me for a time.”
Aaslo nodded, then dropped his pack. He stretched out on the ground, not even bothering with a tent or blanket. Worried that an animal might run away with his best friend’s severed head, he wrapped himself around it and fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep. In that sleep, he was sure he had found madness.
* * *
He woke before dawn as usual. A small fire was crackling in a pit, and half of a roasted rabbit was on a leaf in front of him. Aaslo sat up and collected the welcome food.
“You look different,” he said as he wiped sleep from his eyes.
Magdelay had never looked her age. Although she was supposedly in her sixties, Aaslo had thought she looked to be no more than forty-five. Now, despite a sleepless night, she looked closer to thirty. The white streaks in her hair had disappeared, and where fine lines had marred her flesh, her skin was now smooth and vibrant.
“Magi are long-lived,” she said. “We cast spells to rejuvenate our bodies. It would have appeared strange had I not aged while caring for Mathias, so I didn’t cast the spells.”
“How old are you?” Aaslo said. He knew it was rude to ask a woman’s age, but she was the one who brought up the issue.
Magdelay replied with a smirk. “I’m one hundred and nine years old, so no matter how old you and Mathias get, you’re both boys to me.”
Her gaze fell on the burlap sack beside him, and she cringed. She tossed the map tube into his lap. He had no idea where it came from, since she hadn’t had it the previous night after her horse escaped. He caught the small purse she threw next, then stared at her, his anxiety rising.
“Spend that wisely. I’m sorry, I don’t have much on me. The rest ran away with the horse. I’m leaving now. Make your way to Tyellí as quickly as possible. There’s a letter of introduction in the tube. If you have any trouble with the guards, show it to them. No matter what, Aaslo, don’t lose the head. Make sure it gets to the king.” She glanced toward the lightening sky and mumbled, “Not that it’ll do any good.” She gave him a withering smile, and he thought she might have wanted to hug him. Instead, she said, “May you ever walk in the shade,” before she turned and strode away.
Aaslo couldn’t find it in him to hurry through the simple meal, so he savored every bite. Then he kicked dirt over the fire and stomped on it to make sure it wouldn’t spread to the forest. No matter his new responsibilities, he was first and foremost a forester.
What would have been a three-day ride to the next town became a five-day walk, and only because he took a few shortcuts. He ducked off the road once when a wagon passed, presumably on its way to retrieve lumber from Goldenwood. Since he didn’t know if the enemy had spies, Aaslo wasn’t taking any chances. He didn’t even know who the enemy was, besides the fact that they dressed oddly and possessed strange creatures that bled white.
After days of trekking through unfamiliar woods, Aaslo abruptly stopped in the middle of the road. This was the moment he had been dreading. He stood between the last two trees of the forest halfway down the last foothill and gazed across the open land to the town in the distance. For as far as he could see, it was nothing but a flat plain with the slightest rises and dips, like a wrinkled swath of golden carpet. Here and there, tiny copses dotted the landscape, and nothing obscured the horizon, where gold met stormy grey. Aaslo had seen this scene once, from far atop a mountain. At that distance, though, the plains had looked like a tiny blotch on an incommensurable landscape. From here, it appeared that his despair would last for an eternity.
With his bow, axe, and pack strapped to his back, a sword at one hip, and a severed head at the other, Aaslo took his first step beyond the tree line. When his foot struck the ground, somewhere deep in his mind, in his heart, a bell tolled.
Shut up, he said to himself. It’s only a field.
He nearly tripped twice as he walked the rest of the way down the hill. No longer was he surrounded by the haven of the trees that comforted him like a blanket. His gaze painted the sky in paranoia. There was too much of it—so much emptiness, so much unbroken blue and grey. He wanted dearly to crouch among the grasses that barely reached his knees. Out on the plain, he was exposed. Anyone—anything—could see him from miles away. It was a predator’s dream. No longer did the branches crack and the leaves rustle. His mind was filled with the drone of grasses shifting in the wind. Worse yet, he was still a half hour’s walk from Mierwyl when the sky broke open.
Aaslo shivered. He slogged through the mud. Alone. For five days he had been alone, and now he would drown under an open sky, cursed to walk beneath the clouds and sun. He was wet and cold, but at least he was somewhat obscured by the pouring rain.
“They can see you in the rain, too, you know.”
He spun around, looking in every direction, but there was no one—no dark figures in the rain, no lumps crouching in the grass.
“Who said that? Who’s there?”
No one answered. Thunder rumbled across the sky. Aaslo shook his head and continued sloshing through the puddles. It had to be in his mind.
“You’re dreaming about me too? That’s just sad, Aaslo.”
The voice was followed by hollow laughter.
Aaslo paused and gripped the burlap sack tied to his belt. It hung heavier than all of his other gear combined. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms stood on end, and the scent of metal and mint filled the air just before a silver bolt from the sky struck less than twenty yards from him. Rattled by the concussion that reverberated in his chest, Aaslo picked up his pace. He couldn’t remain exposed in the storm now that he was the tallest of anything between the forest and the town. He considered that it might be smarter to lie down and wait it out.
“We both know if you do that, you won’t get back up.”
“Shut up,” he told the voice. “I’m not an infant. I won’t drown in a field.”
“You’ve never liked the water. I thought you were drowning every time Grams made you take a bath.”
“I was five,” he grumbled.
“Eight.”
“I’m a grown man. I bathe regularly.”
“Then you should invest in new soap. Yours must have soured.”
The laughter that followed was too familiar, too painful to hear.
Aaslo stopped and jerked the sack from his belt. He shook as he held Mathias’s head in his hands and pulled away the burlap. Clear blue eyes stared up at him, framed with the dark lashes that caused the girls to giggle, and perfect golden locks curled around his cheekbones. When they were younger, Aaslo had made fun of Mathias for being too pretty; and, in return, Mathias had laughed and told him that his mother must have been a bear.
“What did you say?” Aaslo yelled. “What did she do to you? Are you still in there, Mathias? Say something!”
But the head was silent. A
nd the voice was silent. And Aaslo was alone, on a road, in the plains, during a lightning storm, yelling at a severed head.
The rest of the trek toward the town was quiet, save for the sloshing of his boots and the cadence of the rain. If he didn’t think about it too hard, it almost sounded like leaves rustling in the wind. Of course, just before he reached the edge of town, the rain ceased. Mierwyl was a small town, according to Magdelay; but to Aaslo it was massive and overpopulated. A dozen streets crossed the main road, most of them cobbled, and those had streets crossing them as well. On every one of them were at least a few people. He wondered how so many people could exist in one place, and why they would want to. The buildings were all constructed of wood, wood he and his folk had helped to grow. He decided it was fitting that this forest’s death should surround him in his time of despair.
“Don’t be so morbid.”
“Said the talking head,” Aaslo snapped. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, but everyone was too preoccupied with their own business to concern themselves with a muddy traveler. He spied a man pinning back the shutters of an inn. Aaslo wanted badly to request a room, but he had little money and greater priorities. “Excuse me, sir, where might I purchase a horse?”
The man turned to greet him with a boisterous “Hello! Are you sure it’s a horse you’re wanting? It looks more like you could use a bath.”
“Bwahaha! He’s not wrong.”
Mathias’s laughter nearly made Aaslo jump, but the man didn’t seem fazed as he continued his pitch.
“For two bits you can have one. It’ll be ready in no time”—he waved with a flourish toward his establishment—“right in there.”
Aaslo frowned and scratched at the scraggly beard that had erupted from his face during his five days without shaving. “And the soap?”