Art of War
Page 28
"The forest is not meant for you," the Magpie King said. "Order your forces to move back, and no further harm will befall you."
Yet again, King Reoric put his hands on his hips in a show of superiority, all for the sake of his men, and laughed at the Magpie King's orders.
"No more will be harmed? I see scratches on none of my men, but your forest has burned through the night. More than anyone here, you yourself seem to be the most affected by yesterday’s events. This forest is meant for me and my people, and we will take it from you."
Reoric raised his head to see the Magpie King's reaction, but yet again the Magpie King had disappeared. Once more, King Reoric ordered his men to infiltrate the forest, the border of which was no longer protected by the moving trees. The men marched forward, determined to prove themselves after their failure the previous day.
However, this was in the early days of the world, when the animals of the forest still listened to and obeyed the Magpie King, and spoke to him often about their own worries and desires. As the Lionfolk soldiers penetrated the low branches of the woods, they found themselves under attack. Herds of deer burst from the undergrowth, heads lowered, antlers pointing at the weak spots in the soldiers’ armour. Squirrels leapt from the tree tops to bite at the men and to scare their horses. A few unlucky Lionfolk even found themselves attacked by wolves yet, oddly, no casualties were suffered by any of the men as they ran from the animals, the wolves’ jaws snapping at their heels. What did result from this assault, however, was a complete rout of King Reoric’s forces. Untrained and uncertain how to act in such circumstances, for the second time, the men broke and ran back to their leader.
King Reoric was not impressed.
"Squirrels? The cream of my forces have been scared away by rabbits and squirrels?”
He immediately ordered for the demotion and humiliation of his highest-ranking officers, then took to the battlefield himself. He ordered his stable boys to follow him, bringing with them his prize hunting dogs, reared for generations in the royal kennels. These vicious beasts, already starved so King Reoric could use them for sport in his conquered woodland, pulled on their leads, barking viciously. When they were finally released, they ran into the wilderness, bloodthirsty howls signalling their location long after they disappeared into the forest’s depths. They returned, eventually, gums bloody and stomachs full. Satisfied with his work, King Reoric returned to his tent, determined that tomorrow morning would be the morning he would claim what he came here for.
When the sun rose, for the third time, the Lionfolk troops approached the forest border. For the third time, the Magpie King awaited King Reoric's arrival, and the dark figure seemed even more fatigued and weary than the previous day, so drained he was by the use of his magic to speak to and command the beasts. He hardly had the energy to lift his head when King Reoric addressed him once again.
"The forest is not for you," the Magpie King said weakly, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the din of the assembled forces. "Turn back now, or I take no responsibility for what happens to you within my domain."
King Reoric again laughed in the Magpie King’s face, but this time, his laugh held true mirth. The Lion could see that the woodland ruler had run out of tricks and would no longer be able to stand in his way. "No, it is you who have been bested, Magpie King. Today, the Lionfolk take what we came for. This forest, Magpie King, is not for you, not anymore."
The Magpie King, too weak to respond, crawled back into the trees.
King Reoric ordered his men forward, to enter the forest once more.
The Magpie King’s forest was a wide expanse, and would take a marching army many days to cross it. The Lionfolk began the first day of travel nervously, worried that the Magpie King and his people would be waiting in ambush for them as they travelled deeper into those dark trees. However, as the day progressed, and they met with no further opposition, the Lionfolk believed, just as King Reoric had said, that the Magpie King had exhausted himself, and that he had no further ways to stop them from entering his home.
This, in fact, was true. However, it was not the Magpie King the soldiers should have been wary of.
It began not long after nightfall. Men turned to talk to their companions, only to find them no longer there, presumably having wandered off close by in the woods. Those companions never returned. Squads of soldiers making camp became unnerved by what sounded like distant screams, only to be assured by their commanders that the owls of the woods were known to make unusual noises.
Not long after that, the monsters appeared.
For all of their lives, the Lionfolk had been raised on stories of the creatures that haunted the dark corners of the woods that lay to the south of the Lionfolk kingdom. Things that, for most people, live only in stories. However, for the people of the Magpie King’s forest, the creatures from the stories were all too real. These things were the reason the Magpie King’s people locked themselves in their cellars at night, spending the darkness quaking in fear at the beasts that stalked the forest, looking to take them from their beds.
The Magpie King’s people had nothing to fear that night. There was new prey in the forest for the monsters to hunt.
Mother Web and her eight-legged children scuttled from their hidden lairs, pulling bodies back into them by the dozen, stringing helpless Lionfolk up in their larders, a feast that would last them for weeks. Giant, hairless beavers the size of horses ploughed through the undergrowth, their fangs capable of ripping through armour just as easily as they gnawed through wood. Winged creatures with exposed skulls for heads soared above the canopy, swooping down upon any lone men who thought they had managed to evade the rest of the unnatural attackers. These men were carried off through the sky, screaming, never to return.
Weary, brokenhearted, the Magpie King could do nothing but sit in his cliff top home and listen to the cries of the dying as King Reoric and his army were beset on all fronts by unnatural beings. The Magpie King had done what he could to protect the Lionfolk from the dangers that he and his people faced every night, but they had not heeded his warnings.
That night, the Magpie King wept.
In the morning, he returned to the forest's edge. The remnants of the Lionfolk forces had fled through the night to return to this place, and a few scattered fires showed where survivors had collapsed, exhausted, back to safety. The Magpie King perched on the same branch he had challenged King Reoric from the previous three days, and caught glance of an unusual sight. Just out of reach of the shadows of the trees of his own forest, an ornate banquet table had been laid. There was fine cutlery and tableware, jewel-encrusted canteens holding hot soups, a glazed hog decorating the centre, a pinecone shoved between its open jaws. Only one person sat at the table, already tucking into the kingly breakfast. On sight of the Magpie King, Reoric stopped eating, then stood to regard his counterpart. It was Reoric’s turn to look weary, the left side of his face clawed and bloodied, but he gestured for the Magpie King to come down and join him, indicating a seat at the opposite end of the table, in a position of equal importance. Cautiously, aware that no other Lionfolk were nearby, the Magpie King descended from his perch. Standing beside the empty seat, the Magpie King stared at King Reoric, the curve of his dark helm directed like a dagger towards the man.
"This forest," King Reoric said, indicating the Magpie King’s realm, a look of acceptance and sadness on his face, "this forest is not for me."
The Magpie King said nothing but sighed deeply.
King Reoric laughed, but this was not a deep belly laugh served to ridicule the Magpie King in front of an army of men. This was a true, tired laugh. This was the sound of a king finally realising his own folly.
King Reoric glanced at the Magpie King again. "We have begun things poorly," the Lion said. "Allow me to start over." Reoric indicated the seat beside the Magpie King, then spread his hand to the banquet table laid before them.
“Please, come join me for breakfast."
&nb
sp; And that was the beginning of the great friendship between the Corvae and the Leone, the Magpiefolk and the Lionfolk, which has seen both peoples through many hardships and has endured up to this very day.
Until the Light had Faded
Graham Austin-King
"Down!" Reanne's hand flashed out, gripping at Ferrin's wrist hard enough to bring a hissed curse from his lips as she dragged him down beside the tree. Her eyes were enough to silence him, the anger at his whisper almost lost in her fear.
He edged closer, moving in time with the wind as it rustled the leafy canopy above to bury the sound of his passage. Reanne was carved stone, eyes locked on some distant spot between the trees. He twisted to follow her gaze, moving slowly enough that no eyes would be drawn to him. The light was already fading from the hour's sun, and the twilight gloom was a mess of twisting shadows. He watched in silence. The strain of this run was showing on both of them, but Reanne wasn't one to jump at shadows. One hand drifted to the ruins of his ear, fingertips toying with the scarred flesh until he caught himself and pulled away with a flush.
Reanne crouched in silence, one hand gripping at the glyphmarked rod at her belt as the other twirled the leather covering through her fingers. It wouldn't hold much. The power tended to ebb away, and it had been weeks since they'd been in a position to infuse it.
Ferrin fought down a sigh. There was nothing that he could see in the mess of trees and shadows but then, her eyes were better than his anyway. His hand relaxed on the hilt of the blackblade as he forced himself to calm. Tense muscles moved slower and speed was everything with one of the fae. Reanne hissed out a long sigh and shook her head, close-cropped red hair looking almost black in the shadow. "I'm sorry, Ferrin. I thought I saw eyes."
He brushed the apology away. "Don't worry at it. Better to be jumpy than to have one of the bastards jump us."
She met his gaze for a moment, a wealth of pain and horror conveyed in a glance. They had both seen too much death and blood in the past few weeks.
"We should keep moving." Her voice was a mutter, robbed of any force or authority.
He grunted and followed as she rose and led off. They travelled with a distance between them, one crouching down and scanning the forest ahead before waving the other forward, leap-frogging their position until they began again. It probably made little or no difference. Any fae creature would spot them in moments, but it made him feel better.
Dense trees gave way to ferns, opening into an airy wood. It made for easier travel, but Ferrin could see Reanne's eyes darting about as she took in the trees. There would be little place to hide if they were to encounter fae or satyr. Fae'reeth were another matter, of course. There was no hiding from the tiny winged creatures.
Reanne pulled him from his thoughts, dropping down beside him into the cluster of ferns. "We should be able to see the towers by now." Her voice was gruff, almost a growl, but it was nothing to the strain on her face. The young woman had been almost beautiful when they'd first met. Now it was portrait of pain and loss, painted in hard lines that made her look almost feral in the low light.
He glanced into the distance and grunted. "Hard to say, Reanne. Could be another couple of miles."
Her expression told him she hadn't believed him. He hadn't believed himself. She was right, they should be able to see them both by now.
The trees thinned as they walked until he couldn't lie to himself any longer. They were coming out onto the plains. Ahead of him, Reanne stopped, leaning against a tree with a gasp as she stared in horror.
The first step was hard, muscles battling against a knowledge he didn't want to have. The second was no better.
The plains stretched for miles, an island carved into this endless ocean of trees. It had taken centuries to create, with entire generations spent cutting and clearing. It had been the slaves at first. Then later, the freed humans when the accord had first been reached with the fae. The towers were easy to see, even in the twilight. They lay, twisted and shattered, strewn over half a mile.
"Lost gods, how?" Ferrin muttered. "They were at least two days behind us."
Reanne reached for him, her hard shell melting away for the moment at his shock. "I don't know. There are rumours, things I've heard over cheap wine and ale." She shook her head. "The towers are gone. Does it matter how the fae got here?"
He pushed past her, moving in a slow walk that soon became a jog, and then a dead run.
The towers were polished marble, capable of being seen in the daylight for miles, and still further when the moon touched them and the capture-plates fired. Now, the marble lay dead and cold in the growing darkness. The moon wouldn't rise for a few hours yet, but when it did, the towers would remain as cold as they were now. Their destruction was more than just a strategic blow, Ferrin knew. It struck to the very heart of this war. The towers and their capture-plates were the closest source of power this side of Tir Riviel. Without the capture-plates and the power they gathered from the moonlight, any glyphs would soon grow dark and useless.
Ferrin grimaced as he drew closer. The base of the tower was wrapped tight in thick ropes of ivy and vines. Black scorch-marks stood as mute testimony to the occupant's struggle. No fae would ever use fire. He came across the first body moments later, a woman ripped and torn. The death lacked any of the elegance a true fae might have brought to the battle. This was a satyr's work. Ferrin pulled his hand away from his ear with a curse.
As if the first discovery had somehow opened his eyes to the dead, Ferrin suddenly saw the field of rubble for what it was. Scores of bodies littered the earth, lying broken amongst the rubble. There were no fae bodies of course, no bloodied satyr corpses or fallen fae'reeth. His own blackblade was explanation enough for that. The war had grown vicious and desperate almost as soon as the fae had first attacked. No single human could hope to stand against a fae without using iron. Fehru, they called it. Impossibly rare, it was the metal of the blood, the tool of the damned. Even touching the substance carried its own death sentence among the fae.
He glanced at the blade in his hand. He hadn't even been aware he'd drawn it, but now he was thankful for the weight in his hand. The desire to kill, to stab and slash, seeking blood and pain and screams, was almost strong enough to taste. He glared out at the remains of the towers and the bodies surrounding them, wishing for a naive moment that the fae would return and face him.
"The village," Reanne said, a touch of impatience in her voice the only sign she was repeating herself.
"What?" Ferrin shook his head with a frown.
"The village, you old fool," she snapped. "We should check for survivors."
He glanced at the base of the closest tower. She was right, there was little point in checking here. No human would have survived either the attack or the tower's fall.
The village was visible from the tower, though still an hour's walk away. The road was well-tended and well-travelled. The tower would have been easily supplied from the village, and Ferrin knew many would have preferred to go to the tower directly rather than rely on old conduits to infuse their glyphs.
Reanne muttered to herself as they walked, avoiding his gaze and clenching her fist around the glyph inscribed rod that hung from her belt, and her own, shorter, blackblade. The fields were as well-tended and maintained as the roads, but it was a silence that told the tale. The village was undamaged, stone and wooden structures standing the same as they had for generations. Yet a silence drifted through its street, roaming the village and out into the fields. No snatches of conversation carried on the breeze. No hint of a baby's cry or a child's laughter. The village was missing any sounds of life, and the absence screamed out death's call. The village was a tomb, the empty houses headstones for the bodies that were just now coming into view.
The wind-tossed leaves rustled as Reanne knelt over the first victim. The skin was shredded, covered in hundreds of tiny cuts that had left the woman a tattered ruin. Ferrin grimaced at the sight and looked away quickly, standin
g over the body as his gaze scanned the field and outskirts of the village. The rustle came again as Reanne rose to her feet, dry leaves scraping against stone.
"Shit," he muttered as he took in the green and lush fields. The rustling came again, longer and harsher, becoming an endless drone. The sound of a multitude of pairs of wings pulling tiny bodies skyward.
"Trap-stones!" Reanne's voice was filled with an urgency as the battle-lust took her. He'd seen it before, men and women no longer even caring about the war or somehow finding peace, they lived only for revenge and for pain. He didn't have time to think on it.
The trap-stones were small, not much bigger than a thumbnail, and scattered easily. He kicked at the few that had landed too close together and fell back into a fighting crouch, waiting with blackblade in hand, for all the good it would do. Reanne stood beside him, pressed close within the centre of the web he'd create.
The drone grew louder, and the first of the fae'reeth became visible, spinning in a lazy dance as their swarm gathered.
"Come on!" Reanne screamed out at them, lips pulled back in a feral snarl as she braced herself.
The tiny figures ignored her spinning in their aerial dance that drifted towards them, unhurried. As if released by some silent signal, the cloud of fae'reeth split, tearing through the air with a chorus of tiny screams. Ferrin waited, teeth clenched as they drew closer. The keystone lay close to his foot, it needed only his touch.
Reanne glanced at him as the first of the fae'reeth passed over the stones. "Ferrin," she hissed.
He ignored her, watching the swarm draw closer, they would only get one chance at this. He felt the tug as a fae'reeth's tiny blade caught at his leathers, the blade too small to penetrate. Reanne cursed as a slash drew a red line across her cheek. "Now, Ferrin!"