Unchosen Mage (Legend of Ravenwood)

by M Norton

  It took three tries before Krys was able to produce a light. “We’ll never make it to the castle at this rate. We need to avoid these plants.” He held his glowing hand above his head and noticed that the growth receded. “Hey, watch this.” He repeated the motion. The vines and limbs pulled away further.

  “First time I’ve ever seen plants avoid light.” Navashay glanced around the growth above her head.

  Releasing their light balls into the air, the orbs joined the other one hovering above their heads. They continued their trek through the gloomy forest. Large drops of water fell from the branches above. Within minutes, all three were drenched, their hair and clothing plastered to their bodies.

  Water trickled down Krys’ face, mixing with the perspiration caused by the oppressive humidity of the forest. He felt sticky and miserable. The stale air did nothing to help evaporate the moisture, and it carried the strong odor of decomposing plant matter, musty and old. He wiped a drenched sleeve over his forehead in a futile attempt to dry it.

  Navashay surveyed the bases of the trees, then their branches. “Other than the plants, nothing seems to be alive. No insects, no birds, no frogs.” She shook her head. “This is some curse.”

  Krys glanced back in the direction they had come. It seemed even more oppressive than before; a chill shot up his spine. “We better keep moving,” he said as he took the lead and fought his way through the tangled growth. Thorny brush jabbed into his arms and legs, making his skin feel as if it were on fire. The fabric of his clothing was shredded in places. He looked back and found Peter and Navashay doing no better than he.

  A brighter area of forest replaced the dark segment they fought to get through. Krys stopped and looked to the canopy. Small patches of blue sky penetrated the dense foliage. The tension in his shoulders ebbed some and he drew in a deep breath. He searched the ceiling of leaves far overhead. “Look there.” He pointed at a bird. The animal hung in midair, wings outstretched in motionless flight. “And there.” He pointed at a group of bats hanging upside-down from a high branch. He searched further and found an owl, its big, yellow eyes staring trace-like at the ground.

  Peter drew in a deep breath and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “What are you doing?” Krys grabbed his friend’s arm.

  “Seeing if the bats are awake.”

  “Do they look like they’re awake?”

  Peter bent down and picked up a stick instead.

  Oh, no! Before Krys could stop him, Peter threw it at a limb where several sleeping bats hung. The stick hit within inches of one of them, splintering when it hit. A loud crack echoed through the canopy. None of the bats even stirred.

  Krys folded his arms over his chest and looked at Peter for several silent moments.

  “What?” Peter whispered in a bewildered tone.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Krys whispered back. “I don’t want to attract the attention of anything that may be lurking in here.”

  “Does it look like anything is lurking here?”

  “I don’t want to take any unnecessary chances,” Krys said. “This curse has been active for two hundred years. There’s no telling what else we’ll find here.”

  “Sorry.” Peter glanced around.

  Krys dropped his gaze and shook his head. He noticed something at the base of the tree. He cautiously approached it. A squirrel, statue-still, held an acorn in its mouth. Krys nudged it with the toe of his boot. It didn’t move. “This place is getting odder by the moment.”

  “Look!” Navashay cried as she pointed past the bats.

  Something high in the canopy moved.

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  Chapter 8 - Terror

  Krys, Peter and Navashay stared upward. A small creature flew, in ever-tightening circles, toward them.

  “How can anything here fly when everything else is so still?” Navashay’s hushed tone did nothing to quell Krys’ fear.

  He shook his head. “What is that?”

  Navashay reached out and grabbed the wrists of Krys and Peter. She backed up, pulling both of them with her, away from the small creature that landed on the loamy ground ten paces in front of them.

  With a quick second glance, Krys identified the animal. “Falunsaar!” It was Wizard Crillin’s dwarf dragon. Krys blew his breath out, releasing pent up tension with it. He shook the healer’s tight grip loose and took a step toward the small dragon.

  “What are you doing?” said Peter. “That dragon hates everyone!”

  Krys faced Peter. “It’s okay. Falunsaar and I have—” He locked gazes with the dragon. “—an understanding, now.”

  “You what?”

  Krys raised his palm to Peter. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll explain later.” He turned and crossed the open area. At half-a-pace in front of Falunsaar, he stopped, dropped to one knee and extended his hand.

  Falunsaar waddled over and climbed into Krys’ outstretched hand.

  By the snapping of a few twigs and the padding of feet on the spongy ground, Krys knew that Peter and Navashay had approached. When they came to a halt, one on either side of him, the small dragon sank, as deep as his scaled body would allow him, into Krys’ palm, stiffened and glanced from one intruder to the other.

  Krys leaned his upper body toward the dragon and whispered, “It’s okay, these are my friends.”

  Falunsaar raised a wing slightly. With quick glances at the two strangers, he pulled something white from underneath. He held the object out to Krys with his sharp teeth.

  “A feather?” Peter said. “Dragons don’t have feathers.”

  “I think—” Navashay leaned over and peered at the object.

  Falunsaar backed up so quickly, he tumbled off Krys’ hand. He hopped back to his feet, ruffled his scales and crawled back onto Krys’ proffered hand. He shook his head violently, glared at Navashay and spit out a small ball of fire.

  Navashay receded a step.

  The small dragon hopped into the air, spread his tiny wings, and flew almost straight up, disappearing into the thick canopy overhead.

  “I think it’s a quill,” she said when Krys met her gaze once more.

  “A quill… for writing?” Krys said.

  Peter gazed into the canopy. “I wonder how that little monster got in here?”

  Krys shrugged. He’d given up trying to make rhyme or reason of this forest.

  Navashay took the feather from Krys' palm and ran her finger over the chiseled tip. A thin line of ink appeared where the quill had touched. She rubbed her finger and thumb together. “Looks like it has a supply of ink.”

  Krys massaged his temples, not quite able to wrap his mind around the significance of the quill. “Why did Falunsaar bring that to me?”

  “I’m sure there’s a good reason,” Navashay said. “Hmm.” She looked down at her inky fingers. “It’s warm.” She shook her hand vigorously. “It’s burning!” She winced and her eyes glistened. “It won’t stop!” She dropped the feather.

  Krys took her trembling hand, careful not to touch the ink. The flesh of her forefinger and thumb was blackened and blistered.

  “Let me see,” Peter said.

  Navashay extended her blistered hand to him.

  “Lassiwal basti-sori.” Peter passed his hand close to her injuries.

  Almost immediately the raised blisters receded and the flesh pinked up. Soon her skin appeared as it had before her injury.

  She studied her restored flesh and exhaled a ragged breath. “Thanks, Peter.”

  Krys grabbed her hand, turning it in all directions. “Wow, it worked.”

  Peter nodded with a grin. “You had a doubt?”

  Krys shook his head, but knew his friend’s competence in magic. He realized he still held Navashay’s hand. They yanked them away from each other at the same time. Heat prickled at his cheeks. He picked up the strange feather, careful not to touch the ink, and tucked it into the journal.

  Navashay turned in the direction they had been mov
ing and cut away several vines blocking their path.

  The trio moved deeper into the brush.

  A thick patch of brambles barred the way. Krys looked ahead and noticed a mellow glow in a hollow at the base of a large tree. He hacked through the vegetation and approached the odd recess. He searched the ground and found a short stick. Carefully, he placed the tip into the glowing hole. Nothing happened.

  He glanced over his shoulder at his friends, then dropped to his hands and knees and peered inside. Three crystal globes were nestled within. Suspended in each was a tiny person. All three were still. As they drifted in quiet slumber within their globes, their delicate gossamer wings changed in color from violet to blue to gold and back again. “Amazing!”

  The scent of lavender wafted from the hollow.

  “These must be the fairies of the hollow.” Krys moved sideways to allow the others a look.

  “Maybe,” said Peter.

  “They’re fairies,” Navashay said. “Wood fairies.” She gazed into the hole for several seconds.

  “This is incredible!” Krys leaned closer to the beautiful creatures. He could feel the tightness in his chest ease as his heart rate returned to a more normal rhythm. He looked at Peter and Navashay and found that his friends seemed calmer. Navashay’s brow was no longer drawn and Peter’s shoulders had relaxed.

  “Wood fairies can be found throughout Lanterra,” Navashay said. “They are very helpful creatures.”

  Krys pushed an encapsulated imp aside. “There’s another globe in here.” He pulled it from its haven. Inside, he saw a key. He held the globe out to his friends.

  “That must be what we’re looking for.” The glow from the key illuminated Navashay’s face.

  Peter took the globe from Krys’ hand and raised it above a sturdy root growing out of the ground.

  Krys grabbed his outstretched arm. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “We can’t use the key while it’s in the globe, can we?” Peter brought it down hard and smashed it on the root before Krys could say or do anything to stop him.

  A tremendous explosion erupted and purple smoke burst from the shattered globe. Tiny stars rushed outward in all directions, some blasting dirt into the air when they contacted the ground.

  Krys flew backward a dozen feet, and in his periphery, saw Peter and Navashay do the same. He landed hard on his back, atop a tree root, knocking the air from his lungs.

  A strong, burnt scent wafted through the air.

  Krys shook his head to regain his thoughts and crawled back to the tree, followed by Peter and Navashay on hands and knees.

  “That wasn’t very smart.” Navashay picked debris out of her hair and off her vest.

  “There had to be a better way to get at the key.” Krys kicked a fragment of the globe away from his foot. “That sure wasn’t it. Why didn’t you simply use an opening charm?”

  Peter shrugged. A grimace plastered on his face.

  “Don’t you remember what Wizard Crillin has always said?” Krys stared at Peter.

  “I know. I know. Never mess with magic you know nothing about,” Peter recited.

  “You think smashing it wasn’t messing with it?” Krys blew out a sputtered breath. “And you say I don’t think!” He shoved Peter sideways, then picked up the key and shoved it into the pouch with the journal and feather.

  They crawled to their feet and brushed the dirt from their clothing. Navashay recovered her hat—knocked off by the explosion. They resumed their journey through the rough vegetation.

  A guttural roar and a shower of leaves stopped the trio in their tracks and urged their stares to the treetops. Krys shuddered when he heard another roar. But he saw nothing.

  He strained to study the entire canopy, but couldn’t see the origin of the noise.

  “What was that?” Navashay said.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not waiting around to find out.” Peter bolted past Krys and Navashay and ran into the darkness at a sprint.

  “Peter, wait!” Krys yelled.

  Krys and Navashay looked at each other briefly and wide-eyed, and then chased after him.

  They crested a knoll. Krys peered into the shadowy trough before him. It was even darker than the surrounding forest. They ran down the small hill into near blackness, following Peter’s vague outline ahead.

  Peter screamed.

  Krys’ heart jumped to his throat.

  Rushing into the darkness, Krys skidded to a halt when he found his friend suspended in midair, his arms and legs thrashing against an unseen captor.

  As Krys inched slowly forward, the strands of a massive web came into view. He ducked under a string of silk to get in front of Peter.

  “Do something!” Peter’s serrated breaths pierced the air as he struggled to free himself. The more Peter thrashed, the more entangled he became in the thick silk. He tried to shake his arms free. “What is this stuff?”

  “Quit fighting,” Navashay rushed up behind Peter and reached for the silk. “You’re caught in a giant web.”

  Krys took handfuls of silk and pulled. No matter how hard he and Navashay tried to free him, Peter remained trapped in the stretchy, sticky threads.

  Peter’s gaze shot around the web. “Hurry! I don’t want to meet the spider that made this thing!”

  Krys raised his hand and pointed at the silk that bound one of Peter’s arms.

  "You know maybe magic isn't the best option for—” Peter said.

  Navashay stared at Krys. “I’d gotten the distinct impression you don’t do magic well.”

  “I can do it.” Krys’ voice trailed off. “Sometimes.” He blocked Peter and Navashay out, concentrated, and yelled, "Avadalor roaknii."

  A small puff of smoke popped from his fingertips, nothing else happened. He dropped his hand to his side. “See.”

  “It was a good try, Krys,” Peter said.

  Krys pulled his dagger and hacked away at the web; Navashay cut with her own. In time, they freed Peter’s legs and worked, with frenzy, to remove the remaining silk that held Peter’s torso and arms captive.

  Drenched in perspiration and breathing in deep gasps, Peter fell to the damp, spongy ground. He jumped up and sprinted a few feet away.

  “I didn’t even see the web in the darkness.” Peter looked toward the trap with wide eyes.

  “You’re safe now,” Krys said, stooping at his friend’s side. “We’ll just have to be more careful.” A shudder coursed through him.

  “We need to keep constant watch.” Navashay nodded. “Nothing is as it seems.”

  Krys looked around; his heart beat like a tympani drum in his chest. He forced his feet to move and trudged forward. The trees appeared to lean toward him, groping with craggy fingers. The suffocating darkness pressed inward. Chills ran through his body and his hair felt like it stood on end; death seemed everywhere.

  He moved on with greater urgency, cautious of his surroundings, his senses heightened. Indeed, this whole forest was not as it had seemed from outside the barrier. Everything about this place was bad, but the silence was the worst, it was deafening.

  They fought their way through another carpet of capture vines, kicking and stomping the twining runners from their legs. Ahead, something large and still lay in the shadows.

  Krys moved toward it, his dagger extended ahead of him. The gloomy darkness seemed to close in. His breaths came in short gasps. He brushed up against something soft and hairy. He jumped back and stared into the multiple eyes of a gigantic spider.

  He turned to run, crashing into Peter and Navashay, who stood right behind him.

  “W-What is it?” Peter stammered.

  “A sp-spider. A b-big sp-spider!” Krys pointed a shaky hand.

  All three took a hurried step backward.

  Peter conjured a large light ball and launched it into the shadowed spot.

  It illuminated the eight eyes, staring straight ahead.

  The spider did not move. Its eyes held no focus.
>
  Krys stared at the beast. “Is it alive?”

  Navashay took a step toward the eight-legged terror. Krys grabbed for her arm, but missed as she moved out of his reach. “I think he’s alive, just asleep like the bats.”

  Krys and Peter stepped closer.

  “Nothing awake should be found in this forest,” said Navashay.

  “What about Falunsaar?” asked Krys.

  “That little dragon came into the forest after the curse, just like we did.” She pointed at the spider. “Since this thing isn’t moving around, I’d say he was here before Grimm’s curse.”

  “You mean this thing wasn’t indentured by Grimm?” Peter looked at Krys, then back at Navashay. “It’s natural to this forest?” He took another step back. “I won’t be coming back here again!”

  They stepped around the spider, giving it a wide berth.

  Krys’ apprehension grew. His pulse hammered in his temples and his gut churned; he tried to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry. His eyes, in constant motion, scanned the trees for more danger. It seemed that shadows pursued them. Even though stagnant and muggy, the forest chilled him to the bone.

  Well over an hour later, Krys hacked through an almost impenetrable growth of vegetation. He looked over his shoulder at his friends. They struggled through the oppressive growth a dozen feet behind him. Krys pressed forward. He strained against the whirling sprigs of woody stem that barred his motion and barreled through.

  He found no footing on the far side of the brush and plummeted into an abyss.

  A scream burst from his open mouth. His head spun as his feet found nothing but air beneath them.

  Panic surged through his body as he grabbed for anything that would provide a handhold to cease his rapid plunge. He was light-headed from the sudden descent and he fought the urge to scream again. His hands grasped a hefty vine covered with rows of short spines. He slid down the vine, ripping the flesh of his palms as he fell.

  His shrieks of agony rose from the depths. He tightened his grip and steeled himself against the excruciating pain. His downward motion stopped. He looked down. The carpet of vines, ten feet below his boots appeared thicker and studded with huge thorns. More sadistic than the ones he hung from, they seemed to reach out for him. He knew he would surely die if he let go.