Landmoor

by Jeff Wheeler

  Cropper had sagged down with the blow and shook his head, trying to rouse himself. Thealos twisted the Shae weapon out of the folds of his tangled cloak. He let the sodden weight of the cloak drop as he felt the Silvan magic explode inside him, reacting to his need. It made him gasp. Fire rushed through his arm into his chest. It was a beautiful weapon – with a leaf-shaped blade and silverwork hilt. The blade came down on its own, a living thing. The pain in Thealos’ leg vanished, numbed by the rush of magic. Cropper howled with fear and agony as Thealos cut him down. Blood spattered on his hands and face, warm and wet. He tasted it on his lips. Trembling, Thealos stared at the dead man at his feet. The magic swept through him like a whirlwind. He felt no guilt.

  Jurrow jumped down into the gully behind him. Thealos turned like a shift in the wind, meeting the cleaver polearm with a flash of Silvan steel. The metals clashed with a hiss of sparks. Then Jurrow went down, cut through by the power of the weapon, the blade of a Crimson Wolfsman. Thealos felt the rush of the magic intensify, felt his thoughts dance and tremble with joy. He loved it, the tastes and fears and deliciousness of it. Some part of his mind told him that his knee was throbbing, that he was bleeding, but he ignored it. The Silvan magic roared like a hearthfire inside of him. He no longer feared Tannon’s band. He wanted to kill them all. He would enjoy killing them.

  Beck and Hoth met him in the mouth of the gully, free of the pond at last. He saw Tannon in the heights above him and Tomn just beyond their shoulders. Four against one.

  “Should have killed you yesterday,” Hoth said, holding his sword defensively.

  “Yes,” Thealos agreed. “You should have.”

  “I get the sword,” Beck announced.

  Thealos charged him, ready to slice him from navel to throat. His leg collapsed beneath him, unable to support the weight any longer. Panicked, he struggled to free himself of the mud that hugged his shirt and pants. Hoth’s boot stamped on his wrist – he felt his bone snap. Beck tried prying the blade from his fingers, but Thealos tightened his fist, screaming. He was losing control of the magic. Pain crowded into his thoughts. He didn’t want to face that pain.

  “Hit him! Kill him!”

  On his knees, Thealos struggled against the two, but he felt his grip loosen. His leg screamed from the dagger wounds. Hoth and Beck were fighting each other to get the Silvan short sword away from him. Desperately, Thealos used his free arm to jerk a knife from Hoth’s belt. Tomn screamed, shoving at Beck to grab at the sword. When Thealos raised the dagger against Hoth, he felt Tannon’s knife in his back.

  His grip slackened and the world crashed in on him, pain and agony and despair. His wrist was broken, his leg cut into ribbons. He’d never felt so much pain in his life, all charging in at once. He tried to grab the dagger out of his back, but he couldn’t reach it. Slumping into the gully water, he watched in a daze as Tannon joined them from above. He was going to die. They would kill him for sure and toss his body in the river.

  “My father…will pay you,” Thealos whimpered, struggling to drag himself away from the soldiers who fought to claim the blade. “He’ll pay you…” Nausea turned to fear, cold and silent in his stomach. Tannon scattered the others and turned them against him.

  “Too late, Shaden. He’ll never know what happened to you.” Even Tomn’s eyes were pitiless. Beck and Hoth glowered at him.

  “No,” Thealos whispered, too weary to move. He cradled his wounded wrist. Terror washed into him, deeper than any knife. Spots danced in his eyes as the shock settled into his bones. He was going to faint. What have I done! What have I done!

  “Kill him,” Tannon spat.

  A subtle movement flickered in the corner of Thealos’ eye. He collapsed as the killing began.

  X

  It was the pain that brought Thealos awake. Hungry, screaming, bone-throbbing agony. He shuddered and crouched beneath the folds of sleep and waking, fearful to slip too far to either side. The feeling of being alone, abandoned by the gods, was almost too much to bear. But he wanted to live, not die in the swamp like the Crimson Wolfsman had, his body left to rot with worms. Cautiously, he let himself drift closer to the source of his life, preparing for the damaged body he would meet. It hurt to move, to breathe. Light stabbed his eyes, and he wondered how he could be feeling the sun in the depths of a gully.

  Something wasn’t right. Instead of damp mud with poking roots and hard pebbles, he was lying on a warm wool blanket. He smelled fresh cinders and the tang of a wood fire. It took a moment of struggle to open his eyes.

  “You’re alive,” the man told him in a gentle voice.

  Thealos blinked. He tried to move his arm to scratch his face, but it screamed with pain and wouldn’t move. It was bound tightly to his body by a cloth sling. Glancing around, Thealos saw a small grove of twisting oak, free of the death and ugliness of the scarred maple forest.

  “Here, let me help you sit up,” the stranger suggested from behind. He felt strong arms cradle his neck and lift him up. He wanted to sob with pain. Looking down, he saw blood spattered on his clothes.

  “Sweet Vannier. The blood! Is it all mine?”

  “No,” the stranger chuckled, coming around in the light where Thealos could see him. With his tanned face and wider shoulders, the man was certainly human, but his eyes were classically Shae – grey with streaks of ice and green. His dark hair with gold tints was cut just above the shoulders. He was of medium build and had a handsome face with a cynical twist to his mouth. He was clothed only in black. A long tapered sword was belted across his hips with a curious symbol etched into the steel pommel. An identical symbol hung from the stranger’s neck – a bronze medallion of an offset cross within the borders of an octagon. Thealos looked from the stranger’s hands to his face. The cowl of the cloak was down. He gave off a comforting smell, something akin to a cedar chest and well-worked leather.

  “Have you had a good enough look yet?” the stranger asked pointedly, aware that Thealos was staring.

  “I’m sorry,” Thealos stammered. Distrust welled up in him instantly. “How did you find me?” He didn’t know whether Tannon’s Band had left him for dead or not. Something nagged at his memory, but it was hazy now. They should have killed him. Why hadn’t they?

  Behind the stranger, near the fire, Thealos saw the polished blade of Jade-Shayler and the Crimson Wolfsman shawl. There was also the dagger, still stained with blood. He looked at the stranger warily.

  The stranger followed his gaze. “I saved those for you,” he said. “You may need them where we’re going.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I saved you from those soldiers,” the stranger replied. “I think you owe me something for that.”

  “They took all my money,” Thealos answered. His shoulder throbbed.

  “It’s over in that pile.” The man pointed to another heap. He saw glittering Aralonian pieces, the hoppit doll from Arielle, even the gown that Tomn had showed him. “I don’t have any need of those things. I have need of you.”

  “Who are you?”

  The stranger smiled. “You ask that in the same way you’d ask a pirate. I’m not going to hurt you or ransom you. My name is Jaerod.” He looked deeply in Thealos’ eyes.

  “Am I your hostage then? You said I was going with you.”

  “I don’t take hostages,” Jaerod replied. “Have you ever been to the Shoreland?”

  “Only to Jan-Lee. Is that where you are going?”

  “No, I’m on my way to Sol.” He smiled, but Thealos didn’t trust him. “I’d like you to come with me.”

  “And why would I want to go with you to Sol?”

  Jaerod’s eyes said more than his mouth. He looked at Thealos as if he’d known him for a long, long time. It was a strange…familiarity. “Because I know something your Silvan queen would want to know. Information her council and the Sunedrion would value.” He smiled wryly. “But I don’t think she would believe it coming from a human, do you?”

  “And
why would I want to give King Silverborne a message for you?” Thealos demanded. “He’s the ruler of Avisahn, not his daughter.” He was grateful that the stranger had saved him from Tannon’s Band. But he didn’t feel any more certain that he was free.

  The reply came in perfect Silvan. “Silverborne is a doting old fool who can’t even remember his name anymore. It’s quite obvious to anyone with sense that his daughter is the one who truly rules. But you already knew that. They would listen to you if what you knew could save them. I’m doing this because I’m a friend of the Shae.” Jaerod’s dialect was fluent. “Or should I say, I’m a Shaefellow. What is your name?”

  “Thealos Quickfellow.”

  “Thealos Quickfellow,” the other whispered. “Now that is a proper Silvan name. Is it from your father’s or your mother’s family?”

  “If you know so much about my people, you should already know that,” Thealos answered. The dialect was fluent, but that didn’t increase Thealos’ trust. “Quickfellow. It comes from…”

  “Your Correl’s naturally,” Jaerod finished. “But that’s not how it was done before Ravindranath. Back then, the father’s name split with the mother’s – if they were both noble blood. Silvermere became Silverborne. Only between nobles though.”

  Thealos stared at him curiously. “You know the Shae well for a human.”

  Jaerod looked at him blandly. “I’ll try and take that as a compliment.” He squatted low in front of Thealos, examining the cuts and bruises. “If I’m finished impressing you with how well I speak your language, perhaps I can help you. You won’t get to Sol very quickly in this condition, so we’d better do something about it.”

  Thealos hadn’t promised to go with him yet, but he held his tongue. “Are you a healer?”

  The stranger nodded and went to a damp pouch at his waist. Thealos watched the quick fingers untie the strings. He stared apprehensively, expecting to see the flat brown leaves of tobac-flower wet with stinging juttleberry juice. It made a salve that stung worse than hornets but it was effective in curing most wounds. Instead, the stranger turned over the pouch and withdrew a dripping clump of green moss. It was green with streaks of blue and even violet. Thealos had never seen moss like that before – not in the darkest forests of Avisahn.

  “Are you ready, Thealos?” Jaerod asked, holding the clump.

  “What is that?”

  “Show me your hand.”

  Thealos leaned forward, grunting with the pain in his ribs. He extended his grubby palm towards the stranger, curious. Jaerod took the moss and pressed the cool wet mass into Thealos’s hand.

  Silvan magic. There was a whirlwind of sound and color that rushed through Thealos’ senses like a storm. His back arched with the jolt and shock of it, as if tongues of soothing fire caressed him. It didn’t burn his skin – it burned inside his heart hotter and hotter. He felt the Silvan magic penetrate him, seeking and twisting through his marrow and joints, playing across his back. It was wonderful, tantalizing. The buds of the moss smelled like flowers and fresh thyme. The crooked break in his arm fused itself whole, the gashes and stab-wounds of his back knitted closed. He watched with astonishment as the cut in his leg closed shut, leaving no trace, no scar. The chorus swelled in his ears, music unlike anything he had heard. He savored it. Relished it. Feasted on it! He could not have spoken his own name if he had wanted to. Gasping for breath, Thealos felt the magic heal him. Even the spot on the back of his head where Cropper had clubbed him. He no longer remembered the pain.

  It lasted only moments. The savory rush winked out, banished back into the colorful moss. It shriveled with the efforts. But Thealos stared at it in his open palm, feeling the power hidden within its damp spores.

  Jaerod uncorked a flask of water and poured it out over the plant. It was fresh river water, cold and icy. Thealos’ fingers went numb, but he stared at the magic he cupped in his hand. As the water drenched the buds, they slowly quivered, sending out fresh little shoots. It was smaller than before, but it was still living, still growing.

  Jaerod cocked his head. “Now are you ready to listen to what I have to say?”

  “This is Silvan magic,” Thealos said in awe, looking at him anew.

  “I know. The Shae brought it here.”

  “Here?”

  “To this world,” Jaerod explained. “It is the strongest of the Earth magics from the world the Shae came from. And it thrives very nicely here too.”

  “What is it?” Thealos demanded.

  “Its name is the same in both tongues. We call it Everoot.”

  “Everoot.” He stared down at the colorful moss. It still tingled in his hand, whispering to his Shae senses comfortingly. “The magic is still there, I can feel it.”

  “I know,” the stranger said with a nod. “And I knew you would.” He opened the small sack and brought it closer for Thealos to look within. There was more of the Everoot inside.

  Tilting his hand, Thealos dropped the small bud back inside. “Where did you get it?”

  A wry smile passed over the stranger’s face. “And just a moment ago, you weren’t all that interested in what I had to say. As I told you, I think your little queen would want to know about this. It’s growing down in the Shoreland – west of Sol near the fortress of Landmoor. That’s where I am going. And you, if you’ll come with me.” He twisted the knots and fastened it again to his belt. Rising, he brushed off his black pants and rested his hand on the pommel of the long tapered blade.

  “Do I really have a choice?” Thealos asked, studying him. He untied the cloth sling and stretched his arm. The bone was completely whole.

  “I won’t force you, Thealos,” Jaerod replied. “I’m not a mercenary. I’ll not kidnap you and drag you after lost treasure. I am a messenger, in a way. And you are part of that message. The way I look at it, you owe me your life, but whether you choose to honor that debt…I will leave that to you. The gold coins and Wolfsman magic,” he nodded to the leaf-blade short sword, “they mean nothing to me. If you do nothing else, tell your queen that you met someone who possessed Silvan magic and knew where a grove of it could be found. Maybe she’ll find that useful enough to act outside of Avisahn for once.” He shrugged. “But I don’t think so. There is so much she doesn’t know.”

  “If I follow you, what then?” Thealos asked. “I’m still not sure what you want me to do. You may use our magic and speak in our tongue, but I don’t know you. I don’t even know what you are.”

  “There is really only one way to find out then, isn’t there? Why don’t you come with me as far as Sol and let me explain along the way why I need you. Besides, you don’t really think you can go back to Avisahn right now, do you?” Something in his voice told Thealos that Jaerod knew exactly how little choice he really had.

  * * *

  In the end, it wasn’t the small loaves of spiced-apple bread that made Thealos follow him. Or the cuts from ovals of sharp cheese or even the small sack of dried apple shavings and salted almonds. It was how he put out the fire.

  Jaerod didn’t let the coals burn low and leave the ashes and stumps of charred wood in the middle of the glen. He dropped a fistful of sapple-dust on the flames to suck the heat away, and then he carefully used a small trowel to bury the ashes and debris in the earth. He did it conscientiously, leaving no disturbance to mar his passing. It was a practiced maneuver, quick and effortless, not one awkwardly rehearsed in order to impress a Shae. He was demonstrating a respect for the land and the Rules of Forbiddance. A respect that had been taught by the Shae for thousands of years. Some humans, it seemed, had learned it even after all this time.

  “Who are you, Jaerod?” Thealos asked as they hiked along the tall ridge of the valley just before dawn. To the east, the familiar rumble of the Trident showed the green fringe of the wood. To the west, he could see only the broad prairies and beautiful stands of elm and birch. It was a vast land, flat and low with rolling hills and high-looping hawks. Thealos’ clothes were still damp from a
quick wash in the river, but at least the dirt and blood were fading stains instead of the vivid reminder of what had happened to him in the gully. They were memories he intended to banish as quickly as he could.

  “What do you mean?”

  Thealos looked at him curiously. “I want to know how you found me in that wood with those soldiers. Did you happen upon us during…or after?”

  “You knew I was there when you were dallying with the cook in the dark.”

  “I didn’t see…”

  “You knew I was there,” Jaerod cut in. “Of course you didn’t see me, but I was there.”

  “That was you?” Thealos said softly. “I knew something was following us. But why couldn’t I see you?” Something snagged at his mind again, and he caught it. “You’ve been following me since Dos-Aralon, haven’t you?”

  Jaerod smiled smugly. “You remembered. Good.”

  “Why?”

  “Why indeed? A Shae leaving Dos-Aralon before the gate curfew. Very curious. A Kilshae then – one of the banished ones? Perhaps. A Kilshae would have drowned his sorrows in ale… or worse.” He shrugged. “A runaway, then. But from what?” He gave Thealos an arch look. “It didn’t take long to find out. The Council Elder of Vannier is as angry as a hornet swarm.” He clucked his tongue. “I’m beginning to think you don’t have any idea how to make friends.”

  “And how did you know about Nordain?” Thealos demanded.

  “The news is all over Avisahn. Everyone is talking about it.”

  “You went to Avisahn?” Thealos asked in disbelief.

  “Why should that surprise you?”

  “It surprises me that you made it past the Crimson Wolfsmen! The city proper is guarded on every side. You can’t cross the river without being seen by the watch.”

  “You seem to know a lot about what I can and cannot do.”