“No!”
She awoke
with a start, eyes burning. The dream echoed along her consciousness, its final
imagery seared to the forefront of her mind. Her senses, painfully
alert, threatened to carry her away on a tidal wave of input: the
cool air on her skin, the ancient songs of the forest, the familiar
sight of her home. Driving against this torrent, the dream continued
to ripple across her perception, its contradiction propelling nausea
to every corner of her being.
Lurching to
her feet, she stumbled out the open doorway of her wattle-and-daub
hut, only to collapse once more to the moss-covered ground. She
retched. Her body writhed in contortions of dry-heaving, and she
strained for calm, grasping helplessly at the serene river bank that
lay beyond the current. She closed her eyes, and all at once her
training resurfaced. She stopped resisting, instead allowing the flow
to carry her as she treaded her way to still waters. The nausea
passed, the torrent abated, the dream released her from its grasp.
She opened her eyes.
It was
barely dawn. The tender circle of her glade was bathed in a blue-grey
that shimmered with the morning dew. A narrow brook wound lazily
across the periphery, and she crawled over, examining herself in the
trickling waters. Hazel eyes shone back at her, set in a face of rich
ebony, glistening with sweat.
She sat up
straight, and breathed deeply. I have to be quick, she thought.
Although still weak from the ordeal, she needed to discern the
meaning before it slipped beyond her sight. Settling herself into a
lotus, she closed her eyes and began to replay the dream, only this
time as a detached observer, rather than a receiver of its horror.
Devastation.
Degradation. Deforestation. A violation of nature’s balance, and
laughing all the while. A destructive dance beneath offensive icons.
And, in the eye of the beholder, a pitiless rage.
The sun was
high in the sky when the Druid Haili emerged from her meditation.
She glanced up at the illuminated foliage, and smiled. “Yes, my
Lady.”
“It shall
be done.”
***
It was two
days travel to the great cenotes. They were the ancient home to the
Arddra tribe, native Salamanders of the forest. During the last few
hours of her journey she had noted a gradual rise in temperature, and
by the time she arrived, the flora and humidity more closely
resembled the southern wetlands than the surrounding woods.
Haili
approached the largest of the cenotes. Steam issued gently from
within, a sign of the volcanic activity that simmered below the
water. The Arddra were a small and seclusive people, rarely venturing
far from the warmth of their karst home. Their honour was impeccable,
however, and though the war had recently seen them sacrifice much in
the Lady’s name, there was no question that they would once again
rise to the occasion.
No sooner
had she chosen a soft patch on which to sit when a four-clawed hand
reached up, firmly grasping the pit’s edge. Its owner quickly
followed, revealing a huge, green lizard, as tall as the largest of
men, and with far greater muscles. A steel mace hung from the leather
strap at its side, and it hefted a shield of thick stone. Though she
had seen their kind many times, Haili could not help but marvel at
such enormous strength, particularly for one so young. After the
first came two more. The second complimented its shield with a
crescent-headed axe, while the third appeared to have foregone
defence in favour of a large two-handed sabre. They knelt before the
druid, having recognised a representative of the Lady.
They were
the brothers Nekaw, Thykch, and Raqz, and they were Unblooded.
“The Lady
greets you, honoured sons of Arddra, and so do I.” Articulating the
Salamander tongues was a nightmare for the mouths of other creatures,
but she had long since perfected this most important greeting.
“Humbly do
we welcome you, honoured emissary of She who maintains the Balance.”
Haili
motioned that they should rise, and they did. Her knowledge of
Arddran now exhausted, she drew on her gifts from the Lady to reach
directly into their minds. Through image and emotion, she
communicated their task.
Threat.
Fire. Corruption.
She could
feel their anger stirring, an indignation at those who would disturb
the balance.
Consuming.
Morphing. Destroying.
Their cold
blood was beginning to boil, their ire to smoulder.
Duty.
Task. Blooding.
The
fire of their Salamander
souls was now an incandescent
blaze.
Where.
When.
She
withdrew from their minds, and watched. Smoke drifted from their
nostrils as they contemplated the message, their eyes searing. They
nodded as one.
We
will be there.
Then they turned
away, diving back down
into the warm
waters of their home. Haili
smiled, before setting off to
the west.
Would
that her next task prove so straightforward.
***
There
was a snap as the taught wire slipped free from its catch, and
Ustara sighed. Niran warned her that the equipment was getting old,
that they would soon need replacement parts. Ustara had demurred,
hoping to wring at least another year’s use out of the contraption.
It was gradually becoming clear, however, that her companion was
correct. A pity, but she supposed that it had only been a matter of
time before they were forced to go, one way or another. They would
venture back out to the open sea, and gather the necessary materials.
But not just yet. Not if she could help it. Ustara looked up.
The
river Omocia, as it was known in the days of Primovantor, ran wide
and deep. Over aeons it had carved its path with insistence and
vigour, resisting the many tides of history, and surviving even
Winter’s mark on the world. But now, nestled beneath the forest’s
verdant canopy, the aged wanderer moved slowly, its gentle flow
barely perceptible to those who gazed upon its surface. It had been
their home for over two years, and Ustara scanned its familiar lines,
aware that her partner was submerged in the depths.
She
returned to her work, carefully drawing the wire back to the catch.
The trap was set into the riverbank, on one of the usual paths that
animals would walk when coming to drink. She had just finished
hooking the wire in place when she heard an obnoxious croak emanate
from her right. Ustara glanced over at the fat toad that sat atop a
protruding stone, watching her. The pale creature was stippled with
dark green spots, its skin glimmering with minor iridescence.
“Something
to say?” she asked. It croaked again. She had snatched it from the
water a little while ago, to ‘borrow’ a measure of its poison for
her trap. Since then it had sat grumpily on its stone, staring at her
with bulbous and accusing eyes. “You can hop along now, I’ve got
what I…” Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Niran emerge
ever so slightly from the water. Her partner was looking to the tree
line behind Ustara, and the tip of her harpoon gun flickered beneath
the surface.
Ustara’s
hand flew to her own, and she attempted to spin and raise it in a
single motion. The harpoon gun resisted, however, and she saw with
astonishment that thick roots were curled around it, pinning it to
the ground.
“You
won’t be needing that,” said a voice from behind her.
The
roots began to snake up Ustara’s arm, and she released her grip,
recoiling. The Naiad warrior stood up, and turned to face the tree
line.
A
human woman stepped forward from the shadows. She was draped in
well-worn leathers, a pelt of brown fur slung about her shoulders.
Her skin was dark, darker than any human Ustara had ever seen, and
she bore a staff of intricately woven vine, curiously inlaid with an
assortment of coloured glass. She was a druid, a representative of
the Green Lady, and fearsome to behold.
Ustara
steeled herself. They had hoped to avoid any run-ins with the Lady
and her followers, but evidently it was not to be. She heard Niran
raise her weapon, and saw the druid give a flick of her hand. There
was a sudden splash as a wave lifted the naiad from the water,
dumping her unceremoniously on the shore, her weapon thrown beyond
reach. Ustara’s rage surged, and she was about to hurl herself at
the druid when the woman spoke again.
“I
come to you with words, daughters of Neritica, not fury.”
Ustara
hesitated. The druid’s grasp of High Neritican was excellent, if a
little archaic. “Speak, then,” she responded.
The
druid waited for Niran to stand before she continued. “For two
years, Our Lady has allowed you to remain in her woods. For two years
you have hunted, you have sheltered, you have lived. Now comes the
price.”
“We
hold no fealty to your Lady, nor to any realm,” said Niran.
The
druid raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. The Lady is well aware of your
history with the trident kings. Neritican law holds desertion to be
punishable by death, does it not?”
Ustara
felt her eyes widen. They were near a thousand leagues from home. How
could She know?
“Anyway,
it matters not,” the druid continued. “Your debt was made the
moment you chose to reside in this place. Though you may not have
known it, your coming here uninvited was a petition, one which Our
Lady did grant most generously.” As if to give weight to her words,
the forest groaned around them, and Ustara felt sure that the trees
were tilting forwards, enclosing them in their domain.
“What
does She require of us?”
“Only
what any queen requires of soldiers. That you fight.”
“And
if we refuse?”
The
druid’s eyes narrowed. “Then you shall come to know another side
of Our Lady. A less… generous side.”
The
two naiads glanced at one another. It appeared they had little
choice. “Whom would She have us fight?” asked Ustara.
“Does
it matter?”
“I
suppose not.”
The
druid nodded, satisfied. “Then I shall see you in six days time, at
the setting of the sun, where the river runs south beyond the
forest.”
“We’ll
be there,” said Niran, but the druid was already turning to leave.
There was a croak from her left, and Ustara looked around to see the
toad hopping past her. The druid stopped too, and watched as the fat
amphibian caught up.
“Are
you coming with me, little one?” she asked. The toad croaked
lightly as she bent over to collect it. Then she straightened up,
placing it on her shoulder, before departing into the shadows.
***
The
eastern forest was a wound. Its anguish ran north to south along the
entire frontier, a scab, new-formed and thin. All that remained of
the once lush woodlands were the charred corpses of the trees that
had formed them, their mutilated bodies strewn haphazardly across the
scorched earth. Fog coated the landscape, floating like a haunting
echo of the thick smoke disgorged by the fires. The sun was rising,
and for those who walked through this murky prism, the brilliance of
the light set the land aflame once more.
Haili
moved with reverence across the battlefield, observing the silence
with solemnity. It smelled the same as when she left, ashen and
bitter. She had hoped not to return here, not yet. To first let the
forest heal as it must. To let the ghosts find some peace.
Through
the fiery mists the druid spotted the dull glint of weathered steel.
She recognised the winged ornamentation of a Basilean shield and, as
she drew closer, saw the bones of its owner protruding from the
earth. His skull was half exposed, and a vicious-looking arrow jutted
from above the socket of his right eye. Only a small portion of the
dark fletching still clung it, but that was more than enough for
Haili to recognise its origin – goblins. She crouched down to
contemplate the remains of this foreign soldier, who like so many of
his brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, had given his life for the balance.
A
distant sound came to her from across the desolate earth, the dull
thumping of heavy footfalls. It was a sound she knew well, and
exactly the one she sought. She set off at a dash, leaving behind the
unmarked grave to hone in on the steady rhythm. The sound stopped
after a minute of pursuit. She continued towards the last pulse, and
a shape grew gradually more distinct, a large and irregular
silhouette. It began to move once more, its direction changed,
shambling away from the approaching druid. She stopped running, and
called out after it.
“Wait!”
The
creature seemed to ignore her. She sighed, and set off once more.
“Stop!
I just want to talk!”
It
continued to lumber away, but Haili was faster, and soon caught up to
it. Almost twice her size, the hulking form of animate timber was a
formidable sight to behold. Its body mostly consisted of hardened
oak, the ‘limbs’ stung together with thick and pulsating vines.
In fact, its left arm was nothing but vines, a great tangle of them
bound tightly together. Overtaking the creature, the druid planted
herself directly in its path. She could hear the toad from inside her
pouch, croaking with indignation at all the commotion.
“Long
time no see, old friend,” she panted.
The
shambler, whose name was Rodkimendwæra, didn’t so much as look at
her, and she had to leap out of the way to avoid being trampled.
“Hey!”
she cried, picking herself up. She began to walk alongside him, her
pace quick so as to match his long strides. “Aren’t you going to
say hello?” He didn’t respond. Not that she expected him to
speak, exactly. Communication with these ancient spirits was more
abstract, a deeper mode of relation than that which is carried by the
air. But, in all ways, Rodkimendwæra was silent. She was bemused,
and unsure how to continue.
“What’s
the matter? Why are you-”
Then
she saw them, the gouges and burns that criss-crossed his wooden
frame. It was incredible that he was still standing, never mind
moving.
“You’re
hurt. Let me help…” she said, reaching out to touch him. With
alarming speed, he whipped around, swinging his vine-arm directly at
her. She ducked under the sweeping blow, and heard the distinct
whistle of iron cutting through the air. Jumping back, she saw that
the vine-arm was wrapped around the crude and corroded head of a
massive morning star. He had most likely taken it from a troll. Anger
pushed aside her concern, and she was about to yell, to demand an
answer – when she saw his eyes.
Pain.
Fury. Loss. And a question. A question that a part of her had known
he would ask. A part that didn’t want to hear, and so had made her
deaf. Tears welled in her eyes at the sudden realisation, and she
finally opened her ears.
Where
were you?
“I…
I’m sorry, I couldn’t-” he was walking away, and she followed.
“Hold on, please! I know it was wrong, I know, but I had to get
away, I had to find some peace after all the horror.” He didn’t
so much as look at her, but she could hear him now, could feel his
sorrow. The battle hadn’t ended, she realised, not for
Rodkimendwæra. It was all he could see, all he could feel. As a
druid, she should have stayed to help guide him and the others to
peace, but after all the fighting…
She
stopped. Amidst the pain of her guilt, the memory of her task
reasserted itself. Perhaps I can still help him, she thought. Not in
the way I should have, but in the way I must.
“Forgive
me, old friend,” she whispered, and raised her staff. The vines
that ran through the shambler’s body froze, paralysed and beholden
to her will. She felt his rage flare as she approached, felt it sear
through her being when she pressed her palm against him. Drawing on
the primordial energies of the forest, she began to heal his wounds,
to return vigour and strength to his body. But she did not heal the
wounds of his mind. The battle would continue for Rodkimendwæra. His
rage was left to fester, its focus redirected away from the torments
of the past.
She
released him, and he turned to face her, confusion clouding his eyes.
He no longer knew her, an inevitable consequence of the mental
manipulation. Stretching the limbs of his restored form, he set off,
his fury taking him to a new battlefield. Taking him south.
Haili
wiped the tears from her eyes. There was still one more she must
summon, due to meet her here before the day’s end. She sat down on
a harrowed stump, watching Rodkimendwæra disappear into the gloom.
***
The
day arrived, and so did Haili. She had reached the place of gathering
before the appointed hour, but only just. Much delayed by her wait in
the east, she had spent the last few hours running through the
glades. The one she was due to meet had not appeared, and by morning
of the next day she could wait no longer.
The
gathering was to take place at the forest’s southern border. She
stepped up to the edge of the tree line, keeping to the long shadows
of the late-day sun, and looked out at their enemy. It was a curious
feeling, she reflected, the mixture of recognition and novelty. She
had never set foot here, nor gazed upon this hateful view. Not with
her own eyes, at any rate.
“So
you came at last.”
The
voice spoke in Basilean. She spun around, heart racing. From the
darkness of the inner forest emerged a towering figure, hoofed and
horned. It was a centaur, and not just any centaur, but the one she
had awaited in the east – the Clan-Chief Inadru.
“And
you came at all,” she answered in his people's language, willing
herself to calm. It had been a long time since anything had managed
to sneak up on her in these woods. Inadru tilted his head to one
side, contemplating her.
“Yes…
I apologise for not sending word,” he began, continuing to employ
the golden tongue, the alien depth of his voice ill-matching his
human features. “Although the Lady bid me join you in the eastern
glades, I instead found myself drawn here.” He looked past her as
he spoke, moving towards the tree line and gazing out beyond the
foliage. She took a moment to consider the young chief. The rich
auburn of his mane and beard contrasted gently with the pale mahogany
coat of his horse half, and his sun-kissed skin suggested a life
spent beyond the confines of the forest. A thick leather belt wound
tightly around his waist, bearing a dagger whose craftsmanship
resembled that of the distant southern elves. In his right hand he
held an enormous bronze-headed halberd, which she recognised as an
artefact of his tribe.
“I
was sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”
“I’ve
been thinking,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken.
“About
what?”
“Many
things. The world. Its peoples. The balance.” He let the words hang
in the air, and she waited, uncertain of how to respond. “I’ve
been here for many days now,” he continued. “Watching them.
Observing their… nature.”
She
looked out once more beyond the tree line, her features cold. “And?”
“And,
try as I might, I do not see my enemy.” He turned his head, sharp
eyes boring into her. “Do you?”
“Yes,”
she answered, without hesitation, her gaze unfaltering in its hate.
The
land was a patchwork of wooden fences and stone walls, segregating
the soil into plots of varying sizes. The farms had been well-worked,
the harvest seeing their wheat bound together and their crops cut
low. Beyond the agriculture lay the Basilean village that owned it,
about half a mile from the edge of the forest. The druid could see
signs of festivities in the community, and could hear the distant
throng of joyous music and simple laughter. The young settlement,
less than a year old, was populated by veterans of the war and their
families, who had decided to forgoe the long march home in favour of
a fresh start in these fertile lands.
“They’ve
been celebrating for several days, now,” said Inadru. “Yesterday
they brought offerings to the forest, scattered bread and produce
from baskets.”
“And
how was it?” she asked coldly. He gave a dry laugh, apparently
missing her tone.
“Not
to my taste, personally, but my friend here enjoyed it immensely.”
Haili
looked around as the animal appeared from the bushes, moving to sit
at Inadru’s side. It was a dog, one of the deformed creatures the
humans liked to breed, its fur white with splashes of black and
brown. She could smell it.
“This
is Maximilian. I named him after a Genezan I met while visiting the
port of Lantor.” He noted her look of disgust. “Does he displease
you?”
“It
is… an abomination,” she said, looking away. He was quiet for a
moment.
“Perhaps.
But he is also the most loyal creature I have ever met. Quite
remarkable.” He looked down fondly at the hound, who was sniffing
the air beyond the trees. “A human creation,” he continued, “and
unquestionably a manipulation of the natural world. Yet the result is
noble, and I find myself at a loss to condemn it.”
“So
what are you saying?” she asked, straining to maintain a neutral
tone. “Are you questioning Our Lady’s order?”
They
locked eyes. “I suppose I am. I suppose that, after fighting the
darkness alongside them, after travelling throughout their lands, I’m
no longer inclined to spill their blood.” He looked back out to the
village. “I suppose that I no longer understand.”
She
followed his gaze. The humans had erected a great pole with ribbons
trailing from the top, and now they danced around it, weaving the
ribbons as they went. The steady rhythm of the music was punctuated
by a collective clapping from the onlookers.
“They
are capable of such beauty,” he said, watching the intricate steps
of the dance.
“But
never without cost,” said the druid. “You must have seen it in
your travels. Their creation is unbalanced, it destroys far more than
it produces. And yet they feel no sorrow, thinking only of their own
selfish desires.”
“Do
you truly think so little of your people?”
“They
are not my people.”
“…No,”
he responded. “No, I can see that.” There was a moment of
silence, broken only by the sound of Maximilian scratching behind his
ear. Haili turned away from the village.
“They
will take and they will corrupt and there will be nothing left of
nature’s balance.”
“But
isn’t that simply their own nature? How can I judge them ill for
how they were made?”
“This
is not about judgement.” The chief’s words had unsettled her, and
she was now speaking as much to herself as to him.
“The
deer consumes the budding tree, snuffing out a nascent life. One does
not judge the deer, for that is its nature. However, left unchecked,
they will eat and breed and spread themselves far, and no trees shall
grow. In time, they would be left with nothing, and would starve.”
She
waited a moment, but Inadru said nothing, and so continued.
“Yet
this does not happen, for the wolf hunts the deer. Our hearts may go
out to the deer, often a weak or young catch, since it dies a painful
death. But it is a necessary death, for it maintains the deer as much
as the wolf. It maintains the balance.”
At
this she turned to face him once more, her
conviction firm.
“We
are wolves. They are deer. We do this for ourselves. And
we do this for them.”
The
chief’s features remained
impassive,
yet his
eyes shimmered with tears.
From within the woods came
the steadily
increasing sound of shambling footfalls, heavy on the forest floor.
It was joined by further rustling
as others
converged on the gathering.
They were almost here.
Inadru
turned to face the sounds,
and nodded.
“I
understand,” he said,
finally using the language of his tribe.
“I’m
glad. Our
Lady bids you
lead us, Inadru, son of Sayurn. All
of us.” She
cast her hand over the assembled warband that was emerging into
sight: the Salamander brothers, Nekaw, Thykch, and Raqz; the Naiad
deserters,
Ustara and Niran; the raging
shambler, Rodkimendwæra;
and even, she supposed, the
chief’s companion,
Maximilian, who was happily greeting the new arrivals, his
tail wagging. Inadru
stood tall, and addressed the gathered warriors.
“My
brothers and sisters. Before
us is not our
enemy. Rather, it
is our
duty. What that word means
for each of us may be as different as we are from each other.
But
whether it is honour, or obligation, or memory that has
brought us here, I swear to
you, as your leader, that I shall see this
duty done. For
the Lady. For the balance.”
He
turned to face the village, and
signalled
the advance.
Large and small, water and
fire, hate and sorrow, the
soldiers of the Green Lady stepped out from
the forest. They were wolves.
We
are deer.
