Vivatera (Vivatera Series Book 1)

by Candace J Thomas

  The sword moved fast through the misty form.

  “Trying to kill a dead man?” a voice mocked from behind him.

  Hands came around his throat. His quick reaction jerked his body away. The hands lost their grip as he twirled around to see his tracker face to face.

  A coy smile curled along her lips. “Hello, Reyn.” She waved a little with her fingers near her mouth. “Thought you could lose me?”

  Reynolds gripped his sword tightly. “Easy mistake it seems, Browneyes.”

  “Funny, I thought I’m the only girl for you?”

  “There is that problem with you wanting to kill me and drink my blood.” Reynolds’ words stayed playful but cautious, still considering his options.

  Her smile widened and her eyes lit up at the remark. She loved this kind of mischief. “Pish, pish.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to know about your girl.” She attempted to hide the hurt in her voice. “You were very careful before. After all the work it took to mislead me like that, this move is careless, don’t you think? I wouldn’t chance bringing in something so . . . delicate.”

  “And what do you know about anything delicate?”

  Browneyes reacted, moving aerially, curling around the trees to fly directly at his side, a knife to his throat.

  Reynolds held very still, waiting for his opportunity.

  Browneyes moved her lips very close to his ear. “You don’t have to lose. I don’t have to kill you, you know. It will be our little secret.”

  She loosened her grip. Reynolds grabbed the knife and twisted it out of her hand, pointing it back at her.

  “I always liked you, Reyn.”

  “I’m flattered. Poor timing, though.”

  “I’ll find out who she is. I think I have the right to know who replaced me.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  A small sinister smile crept across her face. “We’ll see.”

  A long snarl echoed through the hollow.

  Browneyes disappeared from sight.

  ~*~

  Reynolds looked to Naomi but couldn’t see her. He searched for her around the clearing as the mist dissipated. She’d vanished.

  Bad idea. Jeanus had been right. Completely right. He immediately thought of Browneyes, how she had disappeared so quickly, but she couldn’t have taken Naomi. Something had gotten to her first.

  He fought off his mounting panic. That wouldn’t help Naomi now.

  The rock where Naomi had lain turned into a mullshroon, a large fungus that could alter its shape to lure in prey. He saw the evidence it had tried to wrap itself around her—but something didn’t look right. The mullshroon had bite marks on it. Not even Browneyes would go so far as to bite a mullshroon.

  Listening closely, Reynolds could hear the chittering sounds moving through the forest. He followed, not sure what he would find. Browneyes could still be up to her old tricks.

  As he followed the tracks and sounds, he concluded it must be knarls.

  The strange mutant creatures had been altered through time and magic, with large teeth and strange white eyes, big and bug-like. The fur left on them was patchy and gray; the rest of the body covered with red scales. They traveled in packs like wolves, extremely dangerous, even deadly when they attacked as a group.

  But the knarls had both a weakness and a strength—their vision. The years of darkness made them almost blind. Their hearing had sharpened to compensate, and their other senses grew stronger.

  Knowing his enemy, Reynolds knew what to do. He had a plan.

  Placing his sword back in its sheath, Reynolds followed their trail in silence. With one hand, he reached into his pocket and grabbed a small pouch of dust; with the other he grabbed his knife from his boot. Quietly as he could, he opened the pouch full of white dust.

  Something moved ahead of him, like the forest floor had shifted. And he saw her. Naomi lay tangled within bands wrapped tight around her body and mouth, panic-stricken and helpless, the knarls dragging her deeper into the woods. His mind raced. He needed time, something he didn’t have.

  The chittering slowed, and suddenly the knarls changed direction—coming for him. The creatures jumped on his legs and chest, biting and scratching, tearing his clothing and ripping into his flesh.

  Reynolds struggled, stabbing what he could and throwing off the rest. He ran to Naomi, whose eyes were wide with horror. The knarls jumped over her to reach him, scratching her skin on their way. Her eyes swelled with tears.

  “Hold still,” he yelled, taking a pinch of powder and snapping his fingers. A brilliant white light emanated from his hand and lit the forest.

  Then he saw what they were really against.

  Behind the cluster of hideous creatures, a large foreboding form rose ominously: a snarling warlock troll, drool oozing from his mouth.

  The light repelled the knarls, who fell back, stunned. Reynolds acted quickly, slicing the tangles that held Naomi trapped.

  “Go! Go!” he yelled. Grabbing Naomi’s hand, they ran.

  Through the darkness, they darted back and forth. The chitters followed them closely, along with the lumbering thud of the troll. A few knarls caught up to them, wrapping around Naomi’s legs and biting. She screamed and fell to the ground. Reynolds turned back and slashed at the creatures, making them scatter.

  A giant wooden club swung down, smashing the trees next to them. The roar of the giant beast ripped through the air like a savage call to the forest, waking all that lived within.

  For a brief moment, time stopped. Reynolds tried to force his magic to calm the excited creatures, but the troll’s roar had created a frenzy. Squeals, chitters, and shrieks ramped forward toward where Naomi lay.

  She screamed.

  Reynolds hacked his blade left and right, dicing animals to pieces, but still some got past and found Naomi.

  Their claws sliced through her, leaving deep cuts and gashes in her legs where the animals bit and gnawed. The troll eyed her with a panicked hunger. His long yellowed teeth were sharp, ready for her blood.

  Reynolds had never seen such violence, such insanity, in the Blackwoods. He picked up Naomi and ran.

  Naomi screamed in agony.

  Her allure surrounded Reynolds now, stronger than ever before, pushing him forward, helping him stretch further and faster. He only thought of her.

  Chapter Five

  The Willows

  Morning broke in a haze of swirling fog. Freezing mist filled the valley with the thick, strange frost. The sky looked iridescent through the icy clouds as the waking sun bridged the horizon. The willow trees swayed from side to side under a light breeze, vulnerable to the slightest movement.

  With the tip of his knife, Taren flicked at the carved wood of one of the branches, already covered with hacks and marks in several areas, the result of boredom. The clustered branches hid his presence; there, he could watch the others; there, he could collect information, like a fly on the wall; and there, he planned his escape, if ever he could find the exit.

  Taren liked the seclusion of the willows, the cluster of trees and long bending branches well-covered from the outside—his own hideaway overlooking the small camp and its circle of tents and buildings.

  Not far below him stood the barracks, with the entrance near the base of the tree. The building looked like a small cabin left abandoned, full of bunks for the boys to sleep in, though Taren preferred to sleep outside. The less time he spent in there the better. Cramming everyone into one place to sleep infringed on his privacy, and he preferred the solitude.

  He watched the morning sky turn from gray to a greenish fog, which made flecks of the morning light in the cold air. He didn’t mind the cold; he liked mornings like this, bracing himself for the chill. He would win over it. He would always win.

  Just below him, a slender red-head stood at the door. Katia, he thought—the lone girl in the entire camp, though not much of a girl. With what limited knowledge he had of females, he knew Kati
a wasn’t a good representation.

  Sitting back, he watched her walk to Aristatolis’ hut, as she often did in the morning, though no one knew what she did there—meditate, he thought. Or possibly complain about her sad stories to the crotchety old fool. He went back to carving at the tree, not caring to find out.

  Even Aristatolis really didn’t know what to do with the menace. Her magic had great potential, from what Taren had read from her, but she couldn’t figure it out.

  Something beneath him rustled in the trees—too strong to be the wind. He thought it might be some kind of animal, but his mind sharpened to the presence of magic. Someone had entered the camp.

  He stood, looking and feeling for the change. Few knew the secrets of the camp and how to get in and out, including himself. He, too, had yet to find the passageway—the one and only failing of his talent. Closing his eyes, Taren tried to listen to the magic. The fibers of his gift weaved in and out of the branches, searching, the aura clear and perfect . . . searching . . .

  Nothing.

  He opened his eyes again, a curse passing through his mind. He’d missed it again, and would continue to be stuck in this hell with no possible escape, imprisoned like a caged rat. Anger pulsed through his body. The knife in his hand came down fast, stabbing the branch and splitting the wood.

  The rustling in the brush below turned into fast-paced footsteps as someone raced into the camp. Fearing it might be a troll broken in from the Blackwoods, Taren held his knife tight in his hand. How he wished to use his magic instead of waste away in the camp, day after day.

  The magic circled inside him, erratic and untamed. The heat of it blistered his fingertips. He hoped it would be one of those beasts, giving him a chance to burn off some steam, but instead of the trampling of trolls, he heard a voice shouting.

  Others had heard it, too. A few of the boys in the barracks lined the door to watch. Katia came running out, followed by the withering Aristatolis.

  “Lytte! Where is your healer?” the voice screamed. “Your healer! Where is Lytte?”

  Finally, someone came into view: a man running into the clearing in the center of camp, his dark cloak and tunic soaked in scarlet blood, carrying what looked like a child. The bundle did not stir. Taren wondered if it was alive—the crumpled figure limp and hanging as if dead. His heartbeat quickened at the sight; adrenaline pumped through his veins. This had just become exciting.

  Aristatolis hailed the man as he approached. “Come! We will fetch him.” The man followed Aristatolis back into the hut with his precious cargo.

  Having heard the yelling, the eccentric healer, Lytte, reached the hut, his silken robes tangled around his long, cotton-like beard as he ran. He carried a small box full of vials filled with colorful liquids. When he reached the small dwelling, Lytte snagged Katia for help.

  Taren couldn’t help but be amused by Lytte’s decision to ask Katia for assistance. No good would come from her aid. Still, he felt a little envy that she would see firsthand the bloodstained, wounded creature, and the stranger who had carried it into camp.

  “Did you get a good view, Taren?” someone shouted at him from below. He looked down to see Landon standing near the bottom of the trunk.

  Taren didn’t feel like sharing his secrets. “No,” he remarked as he climbed down. “Not much to see.”

  Landon met his eyes when he reached the bottom. Although Taren had never thought of Landon as a friend, he could see no point in making him an enemy. Well-liked by all the boys, with strong charisma and a charming nature, Landon would be a good ally if needed, so Taren didn’t want to offend him—at least, not too much. “Looks like your girlfriend might know more.”

  Landon’s face steamed. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  Taren shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  “Micah’s the one in love with her, not me,” Landon persisted. “He could get more information.”

  The little ground-dweller, Micah, served as the other misfit of the camp, a small, dark mystic with crazy white hair. Amusing enough just to look at, when Micah opened his mouth, sheer buffoonery emerged. Still, he somehow managed to get answers that others couldn’t.

  ~*~

  Aristatolis led Reynolds to the middle of the hut where he placed Naomi down on a mat. Trying to comprehend how it had all happened still proved too horrific for Reynolds. The consequence lay quiet and still.

  Guilt flooded every part of him. How could he have been so unwise to disobey Jeanus’ instructions and take Naomi into the Blackwoods? His heart ached from the foolishness of his decision. Only he understood Naomi’s condition. The woods had tricked him, leading him through a powerful mind game to get what they wanted—Naomi’s blood.

  Browneyes had followed them, practically forcing them in, understanding full well the dangers. At least she hadn’t left with what she wanted, unless . . .

  He felt the trick, the trap . . . Unless she had been searching for a way into the Willows. Was she using him to find the entrance? She knew what lay inside: the elusive magic only spoken of in whispers.

  Another mistake. They kept piling up.

  “Jeanus told me to avoid the Blackwoods.” He fell onto his knees, crumbling in his despair. “I don’t know what I was thinking . . .”

  Aristatolis checked Naomi’s heartbeat. “It is weak. In shock, I imagine.” The old mystic’s hands moved over her in small rotations, using the earth as a guide to understand her needs. His wrinkled hands sliced the air, cutting through kinetic disturbance, his eyes closed in meditation.

  Lytte entered the hut a moment later, accompanied by a girl from the camp. “My boy, my boy,” Lytte greeted, patting Reynolds on the back. The wizened white-haired healer saw the scarlet blood, soaked in the shredded fabric of Naomi’s cloak. “What’s this we have here?” His manner remained calm and immediate for the job at hand; despite the fact that Naomi’s body couldn’t be more still. “Katia, please hand me the eucalyptus root.”

  Katia stood, mesmerized by the situation. She stopped and blinked at Lytte, connecting what he had just asked her. “Oh, right. Sorry.” She fumbled through Lytte’s bottles, and found a white powder. The healer took it and lifted the bloody cloth covering Naomi’s body.

  Reynolds froze, confronted by the unexplainable. Naomi’s fair legs looked as if they had never been touched. The scrapes and scratches from the knarls had disappeared, with only some dried blood left behind in spare patches.

  “This can’t be,” he said in disbelief. “I saw the creatures tear into her. The blood—that’s her blood.” He flipped his hand through his hair, not understanding.

  Lytte examined the girl’s fragile legs. “It was right to bring her here, Reynolds.”

  “But I don’t understand. She bled all over—I still have the blood on me. I’ve never seen the Blackwoods as angry. The knarls left two big bites, here and here.”

  “Wrapping her legs was the right thing to do. Precious as she is, if her blood hit the ground . . .”

  Aristatolis moved his hands above her heart in circling motions. “There is energy around her. I feel it.”

  “You only just met her,” Reynolds mumbled. “I’ve been with her for two days and I already feel like she’s controlling my every impulse.” He slid back with his hand to his forehead, his thoughts spilling out of his mouth, beyond his control. “It’s unlike every high and low I’ve ever had.”

  Katia stumbled and dropped some of the bottles. “Sorry, so sorry.”

  Reynolds looked up in surprise, having forgotten about the girl listening to their every word.

  “Thank you, Katia.” Lytte took the bottles from her hands. “I think it is best that you go for a bit of breakfast, dear.”

  Katia, clearly embarrassed, nodded and left without another word.

  Lytte watched Reynolds with tenderness. “Let’s take Naomi to my tent where I can better treat her.”

  Reynolds picked her up again. She weighed barely anything, and he held his precious cargo close as
he walked out of the hut and across the camp to the healer’s tent. Several eyes followed them—inevitable when a stranger arrived in a place where no one ever entered.

  Aristatolis stayed back to manage the others, giving them some privacy.

  Reynolds couldn’t help peering over his shoulder, feeling someone watching him. Recognizing the presence, he held on a little tighter to Naomi.

  Lytte’s tent seemed enormous, cluttered with tapestries and silks, boxes of books, and crates filled to the ceiling with unknown pots and powders—a whole apothecary within the small space, as if he had been living in transit and never unpacked. The comforting draperies made it much warmer than the cool morning air outside. Enchanting scents burned around in smoky ringlets, the smell bringing back childhood memories of time spent with the healer.

  “Set her here.” Lytte motioned to a small cot laden with furs.

  Reynolds placed her down with care, resting her hands on her chest. She looked even paler than usual; he knew she had lost a lot of blood. “What are you going to do now?”

  Lytte fiddled around with some of his healing medallions until he found the right one—the Blood Medallion. “Ah, this will work,” he said to himself. He came and knelt near the sleeping girl. “She needs to rest and heal.”

  Reynolds looked at the old man. “How did she do it?”

  Lytte started muttering chants in a very low voice. When he finished, he looked up. “My dear boy,” he said, just as he had with Reynolds as a child, “why do you wear so much guilt? I think this is wonderful.”

  “Wonderful? I nearly killed her.”

  Lytte smiled his gentle smile. “Yes. She is wonderful.” His enigmatic outlook of life had always differed from others, with a sweetness and respect for the beauty of simplicity.

  “What do I do now?”

  “Face your fears, I expect. I will place her in deep sleep for a few days so her body heals completely.”