Everbright

by Ken Altabef

  Brockton fingered the little bronze medallion he wore around his neck. It showed Saint George in chest-plate armor, striking forth against the dragon. Good old Saint George, patron of His Majesty’s army and military men across the realm. Brockton didn’t quite believe in dragons either, but what the hell. Couldn’t hurt.

  He returned his gaze to the front. Onward to Everbright. He expected his regiment of well-trained redcoats to establish order and rub out whatever resistance fighters there might be among the locals in a matter of hours, not days. For the most part these were the same men who had stood with him under General Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham, outside Quebec City. Along with the fighting 107th, they had provided one of the most stunning and bloodiest victories over the French to date. Half of these men had taken a rifle shot in one limb or another during that engagement and still kept on fighting till the end. This latest commission should be a cake-walk in comparison.

  They should arrive sometime in the next few…

  Brockton scanned the terrain ahead again. Something was damn odd about it. The character of these trees was strange. They had gnarled, slender trunks with peeling strands of white, pulpy bark and thin, jointed branches that drooped down in the manner of the willow. And the leaves. The thin, sharp leaves resembled spearheads with a mild silvery sheen. Not quite birch trees, but something he had not seen before. This land was home to oak and wild cherry. And this should be fairly open country.

  He raised his left hand. “Halt!”

  Brockton unbuttoned his coat and fumbled with the inner pocket. He had a map here somewhere. “Burgess!” he shouted, “Burgess!”

  The little scout, who’d been taking his turn resting his corns riding atop one of the supply wagons, came running forward. “Sir!”

  “Burgess, are we off the track? I didn’t expect a bloody forest here.”

  “No, sir. No. No.” The little man scurried about, checking his bearings. Brockton successfully rescued the map from his inner pocket and unfolded it. The paper was damp and stuck together with his sweat. They should have been only three miles out from Durham, crossing mostly open ground. “Burgess!”

  The scout came scampering back. “Sir!”

  “Damn it man, where have we gone wrong?”

  “Respectfully sir, we haven’t. Those upslopes to the left, you can still see them clear—those are the Hollyhock Hills. No doubt. And we crossed the Old Hill Stream just an hour ago, due south of here. We’re headed right.”

  Brockton waved the map at him. “There’s no forest here. Do you know your trade or don’t you?”

  “Lived here all my life sir.”

  “And what are these trees?”

  “Elder wood sir. I don’t quite understand it myself. Your map isn’t wrong and my memory isn’t neither. These trees shouldn’t be here…”

  “Well, they didn’t just bloody well walk here by themselves, did they?” Brockton swung down from his stallion. He stepped toward one of the strange trees, kissed his Saint George medallion and rapped it on the bark. A solid thump rang back. No faery illusion here. He suddenly felt quite stupid. The men were undoubtedly watching his every move, wondering why he had attacked a tree. He unbuttoned his trousers and took a piss.

  “We could backtrack,” suggested Burgess. “Head back to the Old Hill Stream and follow it around to the west a bit. Maybe—”

  “And lose another two hours of daylight? It’s just a few trees.” Brockton rapped the elder wood with his knuckles. “The wagons will pass. Let’s go.” He pointed straight ahead. “That way?”

  “That way.”

  “Fine. And you keep to the front, Burgess. Keep your eyes sharp and your wits about you or I swear…”

  “Sir!”

  Brockton remounted his steed and the regiment pressed onward, but he didn’t like it.

  In the cobbled courtyard behind the West Tower, Dresdemona silently began her dance. She spun and crouched, then sprang up again. The elder wood bracelets on her wrists and ankles clunked together as her arms and legs repeated the same motions over and over. A small crowd of onlookers gathered around to see what she was up to.

  Time to wake them up, she thought.

  “Og-Sethoth,” she hissed. “Crow. Greenier. Bristlebane!” There were many others among them too but these, whom she had personally killed or caused to be killed, would be the most attuned to her call. She danced on, bracelets clanging out their message through the heart of the elder wood.

  Already she felt their sluggish thoughts. Sleepy sap-encrusted urges. She continued calling their names, pricking them awake. The restless spirits were slow to rise and would not relish fighting for her, but once she brought them full awake they would kill and feed. Like flies to honey she had brought them that which they needed. Like it or not, they would do her bidding.

  Brockton didn’t like this. No, not at all. The elder trees had now thickened considerably all around, their foliage reaching upward and over, darkening the field of passage. On any other day he might’ve been thankful for a little shade and a rest from the bloody midday sun, but not today. The mildly irritated feeling that had dogged him all day had begun to percolate into a lurking sense of panic and impending doom. Something was wrong, very wrong. A strange scent stung his nostrils. A bitter smell he could not quite identify. Mustard greens? Black coffee? But there was also a whiff of decay, a foul sort of odor. Now the more he thought of it, the reek of a rotting corpse. The intense, rotten smell caused his head to spin and he pulled up his stallion. He felt so dizzy he feared he might topple from the mount. The trees seemed to be swaying from one side to the other. He felt sick to his stomach. “It’s a trick!” he boomed. “Some sort of a faery trick. Rifles ready!”

  Behind him, the men puttered with their weapons, checking firing pins and powder charges. Fighting the nausea, Brockton could just make out Burgess, several yards ahead. The Lt-Major was on the verge of recalling the scout when he saw the man get tangled up in one of the trees. Burgess struggled, shaking branches and rustling leaves.

  “What the hell? Burgess!”

  He saw the man lifted off his feet. He disappeared head-first into the branches of the tree.

  “What the devil is he doing?”

  A harrowing scream cut through the rustling leaves.

  “Something’s got him!” shouted one of the men. “A bear! It’s a bear!”

  “I don’t see anything!” yelled another.

  Burgess’ body came flying at them, limp as a rag doll. It landed just in front of Brockton’s mount. He had a glimpse of the body, torn and shredded in a hundred places, skin peeled back to reveal strips of bloody red muscle and bone. His horse reared up, whickering with fright. Brockton struggled to keep it from throwing him off.

  “You see it?” asked one of the lieutenants.

  “No sir.”

  One of the men ran over to the body. “It’s killed him dead, sir!”

  “It’s not a bear,” Brockton said.

  The trees were moving. Impossible! But there could be no doubt of it. A heavy branch swung down and knocked one of the lieutenants from his saddle. Overhead the canopy of branches closed in, weaving closer together to shut out the light. The entire scene grew hazy and dark. Branches shot out at the soldiers from all sides, their silvery leaves like spear tips, digging into the exposed flesh of faces and hands. The lieutenant was lifted up by slender woody shoots that resembled tentacles. They hauled him up toward the canopy, screaming. The tips of the branches sent leaves digging into the flesh his face. His complexion went pale, red blood dripped from the underside of the leaves. One crazy thought ran through Brockton’s mind. It’s drinking his blood. It’s drinking him!

  “It’s an illusion,” Brockton shouted, “A faery illusion!”

  The lieutenant’s corpse came crashing down.

  Strange words rang out through the thicket, carried on foul currents of the air. “Og-Sethoth. Crow. Greenier. Bristlebane!”

  Brockton had lost control of his m
en. Rifle shots rang out but the balls simply spanged off the tree trunks, knocking loose a chip of bark here or there. The woodland attack continued in full, trees shifting before their very eyes, deadly branches lunging and flailing, men shouting, screaming as they died. His regiment had been cast into total disarray. Already it seemed as if half of them lay dead or dying from bloody wounds.

  “Retreat!” shouted Brockton. “Retreat! Break out!”

  Dresdemona danced on, the taste of men’s blood in her mouth. The cobbles felt warm to her naked feet, her light summer dress flapping as she spun and whirled. Her arms circled and swerved, the bracelets clacking, urging the trees to close in upon their hapless prey. To drink, drink and scour. Some few among her legion of arborstrom resisted her commands but she pulled them into line, binding them with the dance, forcing them forward. She struggled to tame their wild uncontrollable woodland urges as they tore and fed. The strain began to wear at her and she feared the dance would not be enough. She could not afford for any of the soldiers to escape. She must have them all dead.

  She saw Pox cross the courtyard, keeping the curious faeries at bay. They had no idea what she was really doing, but soon enough they would know and marvel once again at her power.

  Brockton swung his leg up as the stallion went down, just barely avoiding getting himself pinned beneath the great beast’s bulk as it fell. He lunged away from it as several long, spear-like branches stabbed into the horse’s belly and neck, pinioning it to the ground. The horse’s cries of pain rang out in his ears and he levelled his pistol and blew a hole in its head, ending its misery. Fat lot of good the ball shot would have done against the trees anyway.

  His call for retreat had been just another ineffective death knell. The devil trees had closed all around, leaving them no avenue of escape. After exhausting their rifle shot uselessly against unfeeling bark, his remaining men tore at the attacking branches with their bayonets. Several were pinned to the ground as thick ropey tree roots slithered over them like snakes.

  “Torches!” shouted Brockton. “Get the torches from the wagons! Fire ‘em up! It’s our only chance!”

  He wished he hadn’t verbalized that last sentence. It didn’t help matters to sound desperate in front of the men. The wholesale destruction all around them could not be denied, but whoever were left under his command should still be made to believe there was some last bit of hope. “It’s not too late! Torches!”

  Brockton swerved and ran, trying his best to avoid the grasping roots and the stabbing vines. One of the shoots pierced his arm, the sharp little leaves cutting like shaving razors as they dug under his skin. He could feel them sucking at him, trying to draw blood with hungry mouths. He snapped off the branch, leaving the spearlets still imbedded in his skin.

  Before he could reach the wagons a pair of men came out with blazing torches. He could smell the burning kerosene. “Fire ‘em up!”

  As he watched, one of the trees rose up from the ground, roots and all. It swung around at its base, trailing clumps of dark soil and stomped down on one of the torch-bearers. It was as if an elephant had stomped the flame, snuffing it out completely and crushing the soldier to pulp. When Brockton turned round, he saw the other torch had suffered the same fate.

  The tree was only a few feet away from him. Between a gap in its craggy bark he was certain he saw a red-rimmed eye!

  His men were all dead. He was trapped. The trees pressed closer, closer.

  Chapter 58

  As Bristlebane drained the last drop of blood from the regiment’s fallen commander, Dresdemona wound down her dance. The summer heat and the exertion had finally gotten to her. Controlling the arborstrom had proven more difficult than she had ever imagined. She felt as drained as the hapless soldiers. She staggered and fell. The cobbles that paved the courtyard rose up to meet her.

  Dresdemona pushed herself up to hands and knees. The murmurs of the crowd rang in her ears like the nattering buzz of angry insects. She didn’t want anyone to see her this way.

  “Get back!” growled Pox. “Step away!”

  His booted feet crossed her field of vision. She heard the shiing! of his sabre being drawn. Was she under attack or was he just over-reacting as usual? She had not strength enough left to lift her head to see. She wanted to lay her head down, to feel the warmth of the cobbles on her cheek, to let go…

  “Is she alright?” someone asked. “What happened?”

  “She fought for you,” Pox said. “That’s what happened.”

  His explanation only served to heighten their commotion. More questions, more shuffling feet and several figures pressed closer. Pox kicked one of the men away and swung his sabre menacingly. “Back off!”

  When a sufficient space had cleared around them, he sheathed his blade and lifted Dresdemona from the floor. She had passed out but still breathing. What the hell had happened?

  She bit off more than she could chew, that’s what. He slung Dresdemona over his shoulder. Undignified for a queen to be sure, but the only way he could keep one hand free to draw his weapon if needed. She had enemies here.

  He carried her to the West Tower, glowering at anyone in his way. No one dared to interfere.

  He climbed the three flights to her quarters at the top of the tower. Skorpo and Aslog jumped up to meet him but he pushed them aside and carried her down the hall. He tossed her down on the bed.

  Finally he took a deep breath. Dresdemona lay on her back, breathing quietly. They were alone in the bedroom. Pox kicked the door shut. He wondered how long it might take her to regain possession of her senses. Her head was thrown back, her mouth hanging open, her lips…

  Her lips moist and soft…

  He had never seen her like this, so vulnerable and helpless. The sight stirred strange emotions inside him. His first thought was how easy it would be to kill her. A rare opportunity. He did not intend to be her servant forever. His long-term plans all involved getting Dresdemona out of the way. But the timing was all wrong. There was no point in killing her until she had first won the challenge. He didn’t have the support she enjoyed. He had only his sword and his dagger with which to win Everbright. Not enough. After she was installed at the top, things would be different. He could challenge her directly or wait for another opportunity like this one. In the end, he would be the one to sit the throne.

  But not now.

  Still, seeing her there so defenseless, her breasts rising and falling softly, roused dark passions in him. He stepped closer to the bed. A sudden urge made him lean over and rip the front of her dress away. She barely stirred. He gazed for a long moment at her bare breasts, the soft, copper-toned nipples. The situation excited him. If she woke now, he had everything to lose. He felt no real passion for this woman. He preferred his sexual partners compliant and submissive. Dresdemona was much too haughty, too strong. She’d always looked at him like some sort of a servant, some low creature below her consideration. Here was his chance to take her down a peg. To take her…

  He climbed onto the bed. As he shifted toward Dresdemona, his knee pressed against something under the bedclothes. An irregular bony lump.

  “Oww! That’s my hand you…”

  Meadowlark’s head rose up out of the sheets, “You… stupid oaf?”

  Pox stepped back, standing again on his own two feet as if he had never dared encroach upon the Dark Queen’s bed. “What are you doing here, dog?”

  “What else should a dog do but warm the foot of his queen’s bed? Better yet, what are you doing here?”

  Pox grinned. “Killing you.”

  “Really? Methinks you’d hardly need to rip the lady’s clothes to shreds for that. What? Did you plan to strangle me with her torn dress?”

  Pox drew his sabre.

  Meadowlark disentangled himself from the bedclothes. He was naked as usual, since he wasn’t ever allowed any clothes.

  “She wouldn’t like it if you killed me,” he said.

  Pox whipped his blade across the air. “It wil
l be sad, but I must defend my queen.”

  “Is that what you’ll tell her? You know I couldn’t hurt her, even if I wanted to. She knows that.”

  “I’ll think of something.” Pox was well aware of the Dark Queen’s powers of control. She had never used it on him personally; she hadn’t needed to. She could only work her magic on a limited number of people at one time and had stretched herself thin now as it was, in advance of the morrow’s vote.

  Pox came round the foot of the bed, murderous intent in his eyes. Meadowlark leapt upward, somersaulting over the top of the silk canopy, to come down on the other side. But still, Pox was between him and the doorway. Pox shrugged and came around the bed again. His blade angled high, he was ready for another somersault with a stroke that would cut it in half. Meadowlark was painfully aware that as he leapt naked through the air certain parts of his anatomy dangled all too vulnerably like ripe fruit. He decided to stick closer to ground. If he could only get to the door, the next room had a window. He’d gladly take his chances with a five-story drop.

  As Pox charged, Meadowlark dived and rolled past him, keeping very low to the floor. The sabre swung down, taking a lock of Meadowlark’s curly black hair. He flung a starburst of faery light in front of Pox’s face but the warrior hardly noticed. Meadowlark had the feeling Pox could handle an unarmed opponent just as easily even if he’d been struck completely blind. Naked and unarmed, Meadowlark had no chance at all against him. Again, he focused his mind toward escape.