The Will and the Wilds

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

He frowns. Doesn’t answer at first, but I let the weight of silence press against him. His amber eyes look toward the water. “Terrible,” he says, his voice gruff. “Wonderful. Strange. I’ve had souls before, Enna. I am what I am. But never like this. They’ve never been more than . . . food.”

  I consider this, unable to empathize.

  “It makes me remember things that aren’t mine to remember.”

  “My memories?” My face heats.

  But he shakes his head. “No. This is your soul, but it isn’t you. The memories . . . they’re someone else’s.”

  “Yours?”

  He meets my eyes again, his amber gaze full of some strange emotion. “I don’t know.”

  We stay like that for a moment, just staring at one another. I wish I could crawl inside his head and see what he sees, feel what he feels. I wish I could understand better. When I speak, my voice chokes to a whisper. “You’ll give it back, won’t you?”

  The skin around his eyes tightens. “I will do anything to save you, Enna.”

  That hits my heart harder than the rest, and I glance away to prevent tears from betraying me. Once I’ve regained my composure, I say, “I’ll meet you in the glade, near sunset.”

  “Let me carry you home.”

  “No. I have enough strength today. We’ll make this work, Maekallus.”

  He nods, and I turn away. His gaze touches me like a feather across my neck, and despite my best efforts to stay strong, I glance back and meet it.

  Once I’m home, I massage my chest and will the heartache to pass, but the Will Stone is not strong enough to obey me.

  This will be the last time I lie to my father.

  I tell him a woman—one whom I’ve invented—is in labor in town, and that the midwife is ill with the same ailment that plagued him, so I’ve volunteered to help her through the birth. I make sure he’s fed and comfortable in his chair by the fire, and every window is lined with herbs to protect the house against mystings, before I set out into the wildwood. The sun hangs high over the mountains. Even with my slow pace, I should be able to reach Maekallus by the designated time. My mother’s dagger rests in a belt over my hips. The Will Stone is cold in my hands, warning me of other mystings in the wildwood.

  I’m surprised to see my scrying spell intact when I reach Maekallus’s glade, its white shimmer hanging in the air. I drink water and take a bite from a peach I brought, hoping it will renew my energy. Though only a few hours have passed, Maekallus looks worse than before. The black around his eye is creeping toward his jaw. More of his stomach and back are corrupted.

  It would take only one kiss. One kiss, and I could feel his arms around me, his mouth against mine. A moment of bliss for a piece of my dwindling spirit. It’s absurd that the exchange tempts me, even if only for a breath. I might not make it tonight if I give up anything more, and he’s hardly a tar puddle.

  Still, I hate seeing him suffer, however much he might deserve it.

  I swallow and wipe perspiration from my brow. “I . . . need you to carry me part of the way. It’s . . . far.”

  He reaches a hand for me, and I’m about to insist I ride on his back—I shouldn’t want to be in his arms—but the words jumble against my tongue. Maekallus swoops me up. I wonder how much of his own strength remains.

  I point in the direction the scrying spell leads, but he says, “I know the way.”

  I turn my head, trying not to smell the scent of corruption on his skin. It makes his touch colder, more like the mysting he should be. I focus on the task ahead, on the portal ring, and on Scroud.

  “What if Scroud is there?” I ask.

  “Then we come back in the morning.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t know, Enna.” I can barely hear him over his footsteps. “I don’t know.”

  I clutch the Will Stone in both hands as Maekallus picks his way through the wildwood. It turns colder and colder, and I curl against him for heat. My pulse quickens with the stone’s warnings. I remind myself that my father got close enough to Scroud to steal his most precious belonging and lived to tell the tale.

  Over a mile stretches beneath Maekallus before I put my hand to his chest. “Stop.”

  He pauses. “We can get closer—”

  “Put me down.”

  I don’t will it, but he obliges as if I had. The brief rest granted me a little more strength. I look at the glimmering scrying spell ahead of me, then at the sun. I need to move quickly.

  “Enna.”

  I meet his eyes and keep my voice low. “Go back to the glade.”

  “No.”

  I hold up my left hand and let the Will Stone dangle between us.

  He remains unmoving. Petulant.

  I lower my hand. He knows I don’t want to force him. And I won’t. “I can do this. I have the stone. I can see the scrying spell. You can’t.”

  He glowers. The heat of his gaze is stronger than that of the lowering sun. He lifts a hand and touches my jaw, sending pinpricks down the side of my neck. When I don’t pull away, he leans forward and whispers in my ear, “Be ready for anything. Move forward only for your sake, not for mine.”

  He kisses me just beneath my earlobe. For a moment, in the back of my thoughts, we are two different people in a different place, free of the threat of monsters and the ache of betrayal. I blink, and the moment is gone.

  Maekallus backs away, pulling the thin red light of the binding spell a few steps closer to the glade. I wrench away from his gaze and focus on the trail of mist. Steel myself. Will strength to my limbs.

  I tread through the wildwood on the tips of my toes, creeping over the uneven forest floor as fast as I can without being too loud or wasting away my energy. Maekallus will not follow me, for he knows I am right—his spell would give him away. Give us away. I wonder if he discovered as much when scouting yesterday, without the power of the Will Stone to hide him. But my focus will need to be on the gobler—on summoning it and keeping it hidden from the mystings at the portal ring. I’m not confident I can do that and keep Maekallus masked, and I don’t dare test the breadth of the Will Stone’s power here.

  The sky grows more orange as the sun sets behind me. I slip between two trees and around the thick bushes of blackberries, always keeping the scrying spell in sight. My breaths come heavier, my joints resistant. Keep going, I urge myself. This is the only way to free Maekallus. The one way to retrieve my soul.

  Movement to my right startles me. I stop and stoop, listening, waiting for a deer to walk by. But it’s no deer that emerges from the brush.

  It’s an orjan.

  CHAPTER 26

  A vuldor-tusk knife is made by collecting a tusk from the lower jaw of a vuldor, hollowing it out, and filling it with mystium blood, which is usually sealed inside with a bronze or copper hilt, as these mortal metals are harmless to mystings.

  It is not Scroud. His hair is too light, too short. His horns too crooked. But he is large, far broader and taller than I am—larger, even, than Maekallus.

  This is all I have time to think before the mysting’s black eyes find me.

  It doesn’t roar or laugh. It’s eerily silent as it darts forward, impossibly swift, the only sound it makes the parting of wild grass at its feet.

  The beast has almost reached me when my mind cries, Stop!

  My hand tingles around the Will Stone. I falter backward, putting space between the monster and myself. It’s frozen, a puppet held up by hundreds of invisible strings.

  My heartbeat is thunder. My throat burns, and my mouth is dry. The Will Stone is so cold, warning me of so many mystings that I had not heard its whisper about this one. Gripping its burning shape in my hand, I croak, “Sleep,” and the orjan falls heavily to the earth, blue lids hiding its black eyes.

  I’m shaking. I close my mouth, working it to get something to swallow. Remembering my canteen, I fumble with it, unwilling to release the stone, and drink. All the while I watch the orjan. His chest rises and falls as if cau
ght in the depths of a dream.

  “Forget,” I mutter, stepping around him. The fresh vigor of fear fuels me when I run, putting space between the creature and myself. I acted too slowly. I must be quicker next time.

  I pray Scroud is not nearby and does not sense the signature of his lost keepsake.

  The sun is setting too quickly, and the new energy in my blood gradually dies. I push myself forward, forward—

  The path of the scrying spell suddenly shifts, and the Will Stone whispers of a new mysting. A gobler.

  I pause, staring at the glimmering white magic dusting my knees. It straightens, then curves southward.

  The gobler, Grapf, is here at last.

  I pick up my feet, following the light, my thoughts a whirlwind. If he is already here, I will not have to brave the portal ring and whatever mystings may guard it. I wonder what his purpose is in the mortal realm. His chill begins to fade from the stone—he’s moving faster than I am, distancing himself. He must not sense his predecessor’s print on my arm. Tonight, I am not his intended target. But he is mine.

  Stay, I think, squeezing the Will Stone. It tingles softly against my skin. When I sense its power has worked, I beg it for energy to move. It heeds me only a little. Strength trickles into my legs, and soon I am weaving through the wild grass and trees, trying my hardest to be quiet. To come up on the gobler carefully, in case something happens against my expectations. The glimmering path holds true, no longer shifting in accordance with Grapf’s movements. My legs burn. My lungs are on fire. My dress sticks to my skin as the sun dips behind the horizon, changing the sky from pink to violet to blue.

  My body forces me to stop. I am not quiet as I gasp for air. My legs shake with exertion. I lick my lips and taste salt. I cannot go any farther, and change my plan accordingly.

  I think of the corruption devouring Maekallus and force myself to stand tall. My knuckles ache from squeezing the Will Stone. It whispers, Gobler. The handprint on my left arm tingles as if to confirm the theory. I use the stone to search for other mystings, but none are close.

  “Grapf!” I shout into the wood. His name does not sound the same on my lips as it does on Maekallus’s, but it is close enough. Shoulders heaving with each breath, I take a step forward, and another. Stumble on the uneven floor. “Grapf!” Come to me.

  The scrying spell shimmers. The edges of the wildwood are darkening as night creeps into the sky. Hair sticks to my forehead. I don’t swipe it away.

  Footsteps. Heavy, strong steps. Nearing.

  I pause, fighting against my fatigue. Fighting my mind to stay alert. Urging myself to pretend my soul is intact.

  He emerges from the trees. A gobler. I know it is him, for the scrying spell dances across his belly, then winks out as if it never were, its purpose fulfilled. I should be afraid to see him, my enemy, but my body is too spent to know fear.

  He’s large for a gobler. That is to say, he’s about the height of an average human, a hand’s length taller than I am. He is wide, his rolls of blubber thick. His head is five times the size of my own, bluish in color, hairless. His gaze dips to my arm, sensing the mark left by his compatriot.

  His large eyes are glassy and blue. A curved dagger hangs on his belt. It looks almost like ivory and has strange, ugly etchings along its length. Its hilt is short and wrapped in leather.

  He looks me up and down and asks, in my own tongue, “What mortal dares speak my name?”

  I grip the stone in my hand. “Quiet.”

  He is.

  “Turn east.”

  He does, stiff and doll-like.

  “Take the tusk dagger from your belt and drop it on the ground.”

  He does. My arm shakes from the tingling of the Will Stone. My palm is slick with perspiration. “Step back. Again. Again.”

  He backs away from the dagger. I stare at it. My salvation, Maekallus’s, lying right there in the clover.

  And I comprehend how incredible the power in my left hand is. It takes my short breaths away from me for a moment. Long enough that Grapf turns his head to look at me.

  “Face east!” I shout. His face snaps eastward, and I cringe at my volume.

  “Are you alone? Answer me.”

  “Yes, for now.”

  “What is your task?”

  “To find the Will Stone. To investigate the mortal hub to the west.”

  Fendell. My stomach knots.

  I can make him sleep, just like the orjan. Make him forget, too. But this creature has been the ultimate cause of my grief. He’s proven himself intelligent. He’s working for a mysting who would use the stone to dominate my own people.

  “Return whence you came and . . . kill Scroud.”

  The Will Stone does not react. Why? Is such a thing not possible? Fear makes itself known to me then, tracing my spine with the touch of ice.

  I could order the gobler to kill himself, or, simply, to die. Yet I hesitate to do so. Perhaps I’m too soft a mortal. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never before taken a sentient life. Or maybe the explanation lies with Maekallus, who has made me look at mystings differently.

  I take a deep breath, letting it fill me to the brim before releasing it. “When I indicate, you are going to flee east, never faltering, until you reach the sea. You will never return to the forest. You will never harm a human. The sea and the Deep will be your only homes. You will never speak of this night or of the stone you seek.” Then, to be sure, I add, “You will never speak again.”

  Grapf doesn’t move.

  I swallow. “Go.”

  He runs.

  He sprints through the forest, grazing tree trunks, tripping over ditches and inclines. He runs, and I watch him until the darkness swallows him. My stone warms ever so slightly against my palm.

  I can will the gobler to run, but I cannot will it of myself. My body is spent, and without the scrying spell to mark my path, I am hopelessly lost. I sway and drop to my knees.

  I know he will forgive me when I hold the stone to my lips and whisper, “Maekallus, find me. And don’t let anyone else see you.”

  Resting my head against the earth, I close my eyes, but sleep is far from me.

  With the last of my strength, I crawl forward until my once-scarred hand wraps around the hilt of the tusk dagger. Then I lie inert, listening to the rhythm of my breathing and the song of remembered nightmares.

  The moon is high when I hear another set of footsteps approach. These, I don’t will away.

  CHAPTER 27

  Freblon are humanoid mystings that average about three feet in height. They are incredibly thin to the point of looking malnourished and wear a crown of bone across their foreheads.

  The pull on his body suddenly stops. Panic rises. Does this mean something has happened to Enna? Is she . . .

  But he sees her lying in the wild grass up ahead, her face pale in the moonlight. His stomach pitches as he runs to her and drops to his knees at her side. Feels for injuries, for breathing, for—

  “Maekallus,” she whispers.

  Relief blooms as he brushes hair off her face. “Are you hurt?”

  “Tired.”

  He lets out a long breath. “Gods below, woman.” He expected the worst, especially when the tug of the Will Stone took him away from the portal ring. There are too many mystings this deep in the wildwood. He’s already killed two, one who crossed his path and another who had followed the line of his curse.

  He puts a hand under her head and helps her sit up. That’s when he sees it.

  He freezes, staring. The dagger. The tusk dagger, clasped in her hand. For a moment he doesn’t breathe. A long moment. Until his lungs gasp for air.

  A bubble of corruption rolls across his back, aching like a bad bruise. He ignores it. “You found it.”

  She lifts the dagger. Smiles. “I can free you, Maekallus.”

  He shakes his head, staring at his salvation. “But . . . how, when . . .”

  She doesn’t answer his questions. Instead she grabs his
blackened shoulder, presses the tip of the blade beneath his pectoral, and slides it across his chest.

  It crosses the glowing thread of light, and the spell vanishes.

  It feels like a boulder lifting from his ribs. He gasps, air filling parts of him he’d forgotten he had. Muscles unwind and joints relax. He falls forward onto his hands, nearly whacking Enna with his horn.

  “Maekallus?”

  “I’m . . . fine,” he says between breaths. He touches his chest, and the soul dances beneath his fingertips.

  “I’m glad,” she whispers.

  He looks back at her. Even in the dark he can see bags under her eyes. Her touch is chilly. Taking her hand, he puts an arm around her and helps her stand.

  “Your soul,” he says.

  “My soul.”

  “If there’s a way, it’s in the monster realm. Attaby had a theory. But . . .”

  Moonlight glitters off her blue eyes. Blue like the mortal sky. “But?”

  “But it may not—”

  “We have to try.”

  He takes a deep breath, marveling at the freedom he feels. “You can only come to my realm unharmed if you’re one of us.”

  She searches his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  If you have no soul. He can’t bring himself to say it, to ask for yet more from Enna. Her soul stirs within him, eager, waiting.

  “Do you trust me?” he asks.

  She doesn’t answer at first, and he feels like a fool for asking. Of course she doesn’t trust him. He’s lied to her for his own gain, betrayed her, stolen from her—

  “Yes.”

  The whisper shocks him like a bucket of cold water. He doesn’t understand. How . . . ? But it isn’t important now. He needs to act quickly. Once he takes it . . . he has only hours.

  He puts a hand beneath her chin. Her skin is so soft, so fragile. He runs his thumb over her lips.

  She closes her eyes and waits.

  He leans down to her, pressing his mouth against hers. She meets him willingly, and it sparks a vigor in him that has nothing to do with her soul. Her ardor and trust make him feel human. Alive. It kindles a deep wanting only she can quench.