Jerrad's eyes tightened. "But I don't..." Reality dawned on him. "The wood didn't move my stakes—not to this place. They did it."
"Every trap has its bait." Kiiryth shrugged. "In this case, you supplied it yourself."
I'm just a mouse in a trap. Jerrad's stomach collapsed in on itself. His left hand opened and the stick fell to the ground, not even heavy enough to beat grasses into submission. He dropped to his knees. "Help me, please?"
When silence answered him, Jerrad looked up. Kiiryth had disappeared. Slowly, inevitably, the fey closed in.
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Five
Not As Simple As It Seems
The fey swarmed over Jerrad. Sprites blinded him with intense flashes of light. Other creatures tripped him and pounced upon him. They didn't treat him as roughly as the goblins had, but they bound his ankles tightly with woven grasses. His wrists they tied to a length of pole, forcing him to hold arms at right angles to his shoulders. A second pole ran beneath the first and snagged his ankle's bindings.
Finished with trussing him up, Jerrad's captors lifted him from the ground and his head lolled back. All he could see of the creature holding one end of the pole by his head was shaggy, goat-like quarters, though from belly up he appeared human enough. Actually, Jerrad only saw a bit of his lower body, but the goat-scent couldn't be mistaken for anything else.
Utter hopeless wrapped chains around Jerrad's chest. He sank within, letting despair drown any notion of resisting. He had no idea what the fey intended to do with him, but killing him would be a mercy. If they kill me, I won't have to endure my sister's criticism.
While they appeared to want him alive, they really didn't care how beat up he got. Bound in that awkward cruciform position, he wasn't easy to transport through the forest. His captors twisted him left and right, up and down, squeezing him between trees and dragging him over rocks. From their grunts and groans he gathered Echo Wood wasn't happy to give him up to them, and so made their job far more difficult than they had anticipated. He couldn't understand the things being said, but tone and vehemence conveyed a great deal. They snarled and cursed at the forest in general, visiting none of their ire on him.
He focused on their discomfort, and that started him thinking. If the wood doesn't want them to have you, little Mouse, it might help you escape. He focused even harder, drinking in every bit of information he could. Water splashed as they walked through a stream, feeling cool and tasting clean. Though he saw everything upside down, he caught sight of herbs and flowers. As if to reward his effort, even the sun came out, imparting color to what had previously been a gray world.
Jerrad's shoulders and wrists hurt, but he pushed past the pain. At some point he realized he wasn't scared any more. His situation hadn't become any less dire, but his understanding of things had increased. As long as I'm thinking, I don't have time to be scared.
That thought brought a smile to his lips. He might not be his father's son. He might not have a warrior's skills or strength. His only weapon might be the ability to think, but that was a most potent weapon against fear. It occurred to him that in many stories, courage is counted as little more than a refusal to panic. Even if he didn't have courage, he could still stave off panic.
A brave little mouse I will be.
Their path squirmed between trees and wound around hills, so Jerrad had no real idea how far they'd come from the meadow. Even when they reached the fey encampment, the sun refused to be cooperative in hinting at time traveled. Jerrad had the impression they'd not come that far. Their camp provided him few clues as to where he truly was.
The fey eventually put him down, cut him loose and stuffed him into a wicker-walled hut that more closely resembled a cage than it did proper shelter. The thatched roof would keep rain from dripping down in, but if the wind whipped raindrops along sideways, he might as well be standing out in a field during a downpour.
Rubbing his wrists, Jerrad surveyed his captors and their domain. They made their home in deep forest, with thick-boled pines in a semicircle on one side. On the other, the camp had carved tiers into a hillside. Burrows provided homes for some creatures, while smaller homes hung from branches of younger trees. Circles of blackened stones marked where fires would light the night, and the unnatural shadows between some of the trees suggested where some others might live.
The myriad dwellings spoke to the varied nature of the band. Sprites occupied the elaborately woven homes. Slender diminutive creatures with bright red caps appeared to live in the burrows. Satyrs and fauns gathered on grassy stands, while nixies splashed in a stream to the southeast. The band's leader, who appeared to be elven, disappeared into the shadows, but did so casually. Everyone in the band appeared to pitch in for work, and Jerrad felt certain the armload of wood dumped near the main fire was composed of wood he'd gathered.
Part of him took pride in being able to identify his captors, but putting a name on them didn't help much. All he knew of them was information gleaned from old books and folk stories. He considered both sources of equal reliability, though recalling the most dire tales did send a shiver through him.
Look as he might, he couldn't find any sign of Kiiryth. He'd though the half-elf had sold him out to the fey, but he didn't seem to be one of their number. Kiiryth had risked injury to save Jerrad from the wolves, then abandoned him with no recompense. I don't see the sense of that.
Kiiryth's departure was really the smaller of the mysteries Jerrad needed to solve. Even before the archer had intervened, something odd had happened. Jerrad had said aloud that he wouldn't let the wood defeat him, and things immediately became threatening. The day had darkened, the landscape shifted, the wolves came for him, and the fey waited in case he survived.
Jerrad checked himself. The fey had been there first. They'd moved his stakes. They'd set a trap for him. They'd intended for him to end up where he was all along. It was only after I said I'd win that the wolves came to spoil their plan.
His mouth gaped for a moment as the various implications warred in his mind. The first and most spectacular was that Echo Wood had some level of consciousness about it. Jerrad's experiment had been intended to detect some sort of natural process, like the tide or the wind. He thought he'd found that, but when he'd vowed to win, things changed.
But how did they change? Jerrad's despair at seeing his stakes transplanted had been what prompted his oath. But the wood had not done the transplanting. Had it reacted to his oath because it was disappointed that he blamed a fey action on it? Was his transgression less a matter of being defiant than it was of underestimating the subtle beauty with which the wood could act? Stupid Mouse.
The answers to either question had implications that could change forever how he saw the wood. Or if the wood will forgive me. Part of him shivered, wondering at the wisdom of imparting that high a level of consciousness to the wood. Even so, it can't hurt to imagine it to be that wise.
Jerrad squatted and pressed both palms firmly against the cage's dirt floor. "I'm sorry for offending you. I only wanted to understand."
It had to be a trick of the light, but something flashed off to the northwest, between trees. Sunlight off water, maybe? The nixie stream wound round and flowed generally in that direction. The lake, then. I could follow the stream to the shore and on home.
Deciding to hope he'd reached some sort of peace with Echo Wood, Jerrad considered the fey band. Because they'd laid a trap for him, they clearly had some use for him. Kidnapping usually resulted in ransom demands. His heart sank. The Vishovs hadn't come away from Ustalav with much. Despite his mother's negotiations with Baron Blackshield, they weren't likely to get much more any time soon. Even a modest demand would tax the settlement beyond its ability to pay.
A faun female trotted up toward the cage. She thrust a feathered cloak and cap between the slender sticks which made up the door. "Put these on. Now."
In her hands the cloak an
d cap shone with brilliant greens and blues, and the hint of red here and there. As he took them from her, they shifted to dull pigeon gray and sparrow brown. The thinly woven cloak provided no warmth, and the feathers stunk of a soiled nest. Jerrad imagined mites and midges crawling beneath the feathers and shifted his shoulders uncomfortably.
The faun smiled. "Now crow, cockerel."
"What?"
"Crow!" She withdrew a step and raised her hands. They began to glow faintly. "Do it or I'll make you do it."
"Cock-a-doodle-do?"
"Louder?"
"Cock-a-doodle-do!"
Various of the fey ceased their labors, looked up toward him, and laughed.
"Crow again, and flap your wings. Strut, cockerel, strut!"
His face burning, Jerrad folded his arms with his hands in his armpits and crowed while flapping. He got up and strutted around the cage. He met every demand, scratching at the earth, pecking at it until his face was brown with dust. Throats grew raw—theirs from merriment and his from harsh calls.
"You're a horrible cockerel. How ever did you amuse those goblins?"
A sprite flashed over in a hum of wingbeats. "They had mud. He was a mackerel for them, not cockerel for us."
The faun turned toward the nixies. "It's not feathers we need, but scales. Fit the mackerel-cockerel out!"
The nixies giggled, then plunged into their pools. They went deeper and stayed under longer than their pools warranted. Jerrad wondered about that, but didn't wish for their quick return.
Why are they doing this to me? Just for fun? Is there something more?
The promise of future amusements alone seemed enough for the faun. She turned from him with a disgusted snort and galloped back over to her patch of green. The others, too, ignored him, save for a tiny bearded man who paused in the entrance to his burrow every so often, plying a whetstone to a wickedly curved blade. He'd stare and nod once, then turn away and keep working.
"The redcap won't harm you, Jerrad."
Jerrad came around and found Kiiryth crouching in the shadows between the trees and the cage. Hope made his heart pound, but then he noticed that Kiiryth's quiver hadn't been refilled. "You aren't going to help me. You betrayed me to them."
"No, I saved you for them."
"I don't see a difference."
"They would have let the wolves have you. I couldn't stop the fey, but my stopping the wolves amused them."
"I don't like their humor."
"I'm not too fond of it myself." The half-elf held up empty hands. "There were too many of the fey, and they were united in their goal. I couldn't have prevented them from taking you."
Jerrad chewed his lower lip. He didn't like what he was hearing, but he couldn't fault the archer's logic. "There's more of them now. Why are you here?"
"They're no longer united. The fauns have had their fun. The redcaps won't until the depths of the night when they can terrify you. In between we might see about getting you out."
"You don't have any arrows."
"This isn't a problem we'll solve by killing." Kiiryth's eyes tightened. "I can get you out of the cage, but then..."
The youth jerked a thumb toward where he'd seen the flash of light. "The lake's that way."
"How did you...?" He stopped, then smiled. "Ah, clever boy. You've amused the wood."
"Does that mean getting out of here will be easier?"
Kiiryth shrugged. "Won't be harder."
"The fey don't want me dead, do they?"
The archer shook his head. "Unlikely, but if you die, no tears will be shed."
Jerrad wasn't certain how he was supposed to react to that news. It didn't particularly surprise him. If the redcap slipped and fell on his own knife, Jerrad wouldn't be the least bit upset.
He frowned. "Is this your home? Are you one of them?"
"No and no."
"Then why were you out there?"
Kiiryth half-smiled. "Blame it on the wood. I set out to find something curious. One of the Vishov invaders was curious."
"We're not invading. We've come here to live. We'll make the place better."
"Those words have echoed down through the ages." Kiiryth's light chuckle barely made it to Jerrad's ears. "If the fey had come to Ustalav to make it better, would their action be an invasion?"
"That's different."
"It always is." Kiiryth's head came up. "Quiet. Ellesaara comes. I'll be back."
In the blink of an eye the archer dissolved within shadow. At least, that's how it appeared to Jerrad. Not wanting to betray Kiiryth, he forced himself to turn in the direction the half-elf had been looking.
The fey leader had returned, having shucked her armor. In its place she wore a black skirt of wool and a sleeveless leather vest. She'd tucked a dagger into her belt at the left hip, and wore black leather boots. Her raven hair framed a pale but beautiful face, though the grim expression robbed it of its full effect.
She approached the cage and studied him with golden eyes. "You are the Vishov scion."
"Yes, my lady."
The elf laughed. "We have no titles here among us. We would not be so arrogant, nor would we vest power in something as meaningless as a title. Why encourage the greedy to fight and scheme?"
"Your pardon. I meant no offense."
"A statement offered by those who believe the errors of ignorance spill less blood than willful actions." Her nostrils flared. "Do you pride yourself on your ignorance?"
"No." Jerrad glanced down. "My circle and cross were meant to help erase it."
"But instead, they revealed the greater depths of your ignorance." Ellesaara tucked a lock of black hair behind her right ear. "You have been taken as a prize, not a prisoner. There are things which must be understood by your community. Your mother needs to comprehend some very important things. Therefore, we needed to get her attention."
"And you've done so, Ellesaara." Tyressa stepped from between two ancient trees. An older woman flanked her. "And now that I have your attention, you will free my son this instant. If you don't, your ignorance of the Vishov way will spill blood, and that's a reality that will benefit neither of us."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Six
Dance And Diplomacy
Tyressa fought to keep her expression stern and gaze hard. She looked past the fey leader to the bramble cage in which they'd trapped her son. The cloak, the cap... he looks so small. She wanted to run to him, free him and hug him tightly. Though Oreena had assured her that she couldn't have prevented his being taken, guilt still sank claws into her heart.
"Steady, Lady Vishov." Oreena patted her left forearm and moved forward. "I had thought, Ellesaara, you had grown past mischiefs."
"If that's what you perceive this to be, then you've grown into senility, Oreena." The elf opened her hands easily. "She brought her children here. She placed them in jeopardy. Had we not watched her son, greater mischiefs could have befallen him."
Jerrad stood within his cage. "I'm not hurt."
You say that, but I know there are unseen bruises. "You said, Ellesaara, that I need to understand some very important things. These would be?"
The various fey emerged from their homes and approached. Most came slowly, forming a crescent behind their leader. A few sprites darted in close enough for the breeze from their fast-beating wings to buffet Tyressa's hair, but she made no moves to fend them off.
Ellesaara spread her arms wide. "You should understand that there is a balance struck here in Echo Wood. A delicate balance. It allows the wood to survive. We are part of that balance. We maintain it. Your presence upsets it. This our council has decided."
"How does Silverlake do that?" Tyressa looked about, meeting fey gazes openly. "You speak of balance. I understand this from Mother Oreena. You do not address capacity. You suggest our arrival upsets the balance, but Echo Wood is capable of providing a home for all of us. As you live in balance, so shall we."
<
br /> The elf's eyes sharpened. "A claim for which there is no support, and plenty of evidence for condemnation. Have not lumbermen and their wasteful ways devastated vast swathes of the wood?"
Oreena leaned on her staff. "They've learned."
"And have to relearn." The elf pointed toward the northwest. "What of the travelers along this so-called Crusader Road? They've corrupted that artery, and the Broken Men are proof of this poison. This Vishov settlement will encourage them to establish more camps. Their venom shall kill the wood."
"That's the last thing I want. It's the last thing I'll permit."
"You presume, Tyressa of the Vishovs, to have greater control over your people than any before you."
Tyressa stepped forward into the heart of the fey camp. She turned slowly, not surprised to see more fey had appeared and surrounded her. Some were creatures that only existed in fable as far as the courts of Ustalav were concerned. Others only lived in nightmares.
She should have been frightened. They want me to be. Tyressa refused to succumb. She would not have Jerrad see her afraid, and even a hint of fear would lose the day.
"I presume, Ellesaara, because I do not come here as others have. They come to Echo Wood to escape, or to find treasure. They come to take. I come to build."
"And destroy while building."
"Now you argue from a lack of evidence." Tyressa pointed toward her son. "You watched him, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh. What did you see him doing? Noting, planning, yes; but killing, destroying? No. He sought to understand the wood, to understand the balance you say we're here to upset. But we aren't. We're here to live, not to take and take away. We know that means we must become, as are you, agents of the balance."
"Humans have not been such before." Ellesaara bowed her head. "You being an exception, Oreena."
Tyressa shook her head. "Humans are not always the agents of upset, either. Southwest of here, at Glow Water Lake, ogres destroyed the town of Mosswater."
The elf snorted. "A human town."
"But its destruction had nothing to do with balance." Tyressa had studied all she could learn about Echo Wood, and the vicious attack which laid waste to the town two generations previous had almost decided her against traveling east to secure her family's future. She had no doubt that the accounts she read—all of which came from survivors—were longer on hyperbole than fact. Even so, were one to study the slaughter as emotionlessly as possible, the horror could not fail to elicit shivers.
Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road Page 5