Thrace lay on the margrave’s bed in the manor house, her head carefully wrapped in strips of cloth. Her hair was bunched and snarled, blond strands slipping out between the bandages. Purple and yellow bruises swelled around her eyes and nose. Her upper lip puffed up to twice its size and a line of dark dried blood ran its length. Thrace coughed and mumbled but never spoke, never opened her eyes.
And Theron never left her side.
Esrahaddon ordered Lena to boil feverfew leaves in a big pot of apple cider vinegar. She did as he instructed. Everyone did now. After last night, the residents of Dahlgren treated the cripple with newfound respect and looked at him with awe and a bit of fear. It was Tad Bothwick and Rose McDern who saw him raise the green fire that chased away the beast. No one said the word witch or wizard. No one had to. Soon the steam from the pot filled the room with a pungent flowery odor.
“I’m so sorry,” Theron whispered to his daughter.
The coughing and mumbling had stopped and she lay still as death. He held her limp hand to his cheek, unsure if she could hear him. He had been saying that for hours, begging her to wake up. “I didn’t mean it. I was just so angry. I’m sorry. Don’t leave. Please come back to me.”
He could still hear the sound in the dark of his daughter’s cry cut horribly short by a muffled crack! If it had been a tree trunk or a thicker branch, Theron guessed she would have died instantly. As it was, she still might die.
No one but Lena and Esrahaddon dared enter the room that Theron filled with his grief. They all expected the worst. Blood had covered the girl’s face and her father’s shirt by the time they arrived at the manor. Skin white, lips an odd bluish hue, Thrace had not moved nor opened her eyes. Esrahaddon had whispered to her and instructed them to take the girl to the manor and keep her warm. It was the kind of thing one did for the dying, making them as comfortable as possible. Deacon Tomas had prayed for her and remained on hand to bless her departing soul.
In the last year, the village of Dahlgren had seen so many deaths. Not all were by the beast. There were the normal accidents, sicknesses, and in the winter, wolves hunted the area. There were also some unexplained disappearances. Often attributed to the beast, they could just as likely have been the result of getting lost in the forest or an accidental fall in the Nidwalden. In no more than a year, over half the village’s population had perished or gone missing. Everyone knew someone who had died, and nearly every family had lost at least one member. The people of Dahlgren had grown accustomed to death. He was a nightly visitor, a guest at every breakfast table. They knew his face, the sound of his voice, the way he walked, his peculiar habits. He was always there. If it were not for the mess he left, they might neglect to notice him altogether. No one expected Thrace to survive.
The sun came up, casting a dull light into the room where Theron wept for his daughter. The last of his family was leaving him. Only now he realized how much she meant to him. Thoughts came, uninvited, to his mind. Time and time again it was she who always came for him. He remembered the night the beast attacked his farm, when he was coming home late. Only she had braved the darkness to search for him. It was Thrace, a young girl, little more than a child, who traveled alone halfway across Avryn, and spent her life savings to bring him help. Then last night, when his stubbornness kept him at the farm, she came to him in the darkness, running alone through the forest, ignoring the dangers. There was only one thought in her mind-to save him. She succeeded. She had deprived the beast of his flesh, but more than that. She had pulled him back into the world of the living. She had ripped the black veil away from his eyes and freed his heart from the weight of guilt, but the price had been her life.
Tears ran down his cheeks. They hung on his upper lip. He kissed his daughter’s hand leaving a wet spot, an offering, an apology.
How could I have been so blind?
The even constant breaths his daughter took slowed with each inhale, less frequent, shorter than the one before. He listened to their descent, like the sound of footsteps receding, walking away, growing fainter, quieter.
He clutched her hand, kissing it repeatedly and rubbing it to his wet cheek. It felt like his heart was being ripped out through his chest.
At last, the regular pace of her breathing stopped.
Theron sobbed. “Oh, god.”
“Daddy?” He jerked his head up. His daughter’s eyes were open. She was looking at him. “Are you alright?” she whispered.
His mouth opened but he could not speak. His tears continued to flow, and like a barren bit of land seeing water for the first time in years, a smile of joy grew on his face.
Swift clouds moved across a capricious sky as growing winds and the portents of a coming storm marked the new day. Royce sat on the rock ledge where the cliff met the river and the spray of the falls dampened the stone. His feet and legs were soaked from a morning spent trekking through the damp forest underbrush. His eyes stared out across the ridgeline of the falls at the promontory rock and the towering citadel that sat tantalizingly upon it. He thought that perhaps there might be a tunnel running under the river. He looked for an access in the trees, but found nothing. He was getting nowhere.
After almost two days, he was no closer to his goal. The tower still lay out of reach. Unless he could learn to swim the current, walk on water, or fly, he had no chance of traversing the gulf that lay between.
“They’re over there right now, you know,” Esrahaddon said.
Royce had forgotten about the wizard. He had arrived some time ago, mentioning only that Thrace survived, that she was awake and looked to make a full recovery. After that, he took a seat on a rock and spent the next hour or so staring across the river much as Royce had done all day.
“Who?”
“The elves. They’re on their side of the river looking back at us. They can see us I suspect, even at this range. They are surprising like that. Most humans consider them inferior-lazy, filthy, uneducated creatures-but the fact is they are superior to humans in nearly every way. I suppose that’s why humans are so quick to denounce them; they are unwilling to concede that they may be second best.
“Elves are truly remarkable. Just look at that tower. It’s fluid and seamless as if growing right out of the rock. How elegant. How perfect. It fits into the landscape like a thing of nature, a natural wonder, only it isn’t. They created it using skills and techniques that our best masons couldn’t begin to understand. Just imagine how glorious their cities must be! What wonders those forests across the river must hold.”
“So you have never crossed the river?” Royce asked.
“No man ever has, and no man is ever likely to. The moment a man touches that far shore, he will likely fall dead. The thread by which the fate of man hangs is a thin one indeed.”
“How’s that?”
Esrahaddon only smiled. “Did you know that no human army ever won a battle against the elves before the arrival of Novron? At that time, elves were our demons. The Great Library of Percepliquis had reams on it. Once we even thought they were gods. Their life span is so long that no one noticed them aging. Their death rites are so secret no human has ever seen an elven corpse.
“They were the firstborn, the Children of Ferrol, great and powerful. In combat, they were feared above all things. Sickness could be treated. Bears and wolves could be hunted and trapped. Storms and droughts prepared for-but nothing, nothing could stand before the elves. Their blades broke ours, their arrows pierced our armor, their shields were impenetrable, and, of course, they knew The Art. Imagine a sky darkened with a host of Gilarabrywn. And they are only one of their weapons. Even without all that, without The Art, their speed, eyesight, hearing, balance, and ancient skills are all beyond the abilities of man.”
“If that’s true how come they’re over there and we’re sitting here?”
“It is all because of Novron. He showed us their weaknesses. He taught mankind how to fight, how to defend, and he taught us the art of magic. Without it we were naked and helpless against them.”
“I still don’t see how we won,” Royce challenged. “Even with that knowledge, they still seem to have the advantage.”
“True, and in an even fight we would have lost, but it wasn’t even. You see, elves live for a very long time. I don’t think any human actually knows how long, but they live for many centuries at least. There may be elves right now watching us that remember what Novron looked like. But no people can live that long and reproduce quickly. Elves have few children and a birth for them is quite significant. Birth and death in the elven world are rare and holy things.
“You can imagine the devastation and misery it must have been during the wars. No matter how many battles they won against us, each time their numbers were fewer afterwards than before. While we humans recovered our losses in a generation, it would take a millennium for the elves. They were consumed, drowned if you will, in a flooding sea of humanity.” Esrahaddon paused then added, “Only now Novron is gone. There will be no savior this time.”
“This time?”
“What do you think keeps them over there? These are their lands. To us it seems eons ago, but to them it is just yesterday when they walked this side of the river. By now, their numbers have likely recovered.”
“What keeps them on that side of the river then?”
“What keeps anyone from what they want? Fear. Fear of annihilation, fear that we would destroy them utterly, but Novron is dead.”
“You mentioned that,” Royce pointed out.
“I told you before that mankind has squandered the legacy of Novron, and it has done so at its own peril. Novron brought magic to man, but Novron is gone and the magic forgotten. We sit here like children, naked and unarmed. Mankind is inviting the wrath of a race so far beyond us they won’t even hear our cries. The elves’ ignorance of our weakness and this fragile agreement between the Erivan Empire and a dead emperor is all that remains of humanity’s defense.”
“It’s a good thing they don’t know then.”
“That’s just it,” the wizard told him, “they are learning.”
“The Gilarabrywn?”
Esrahaddon nodded. “According to Novron’s decree, the banks of the river Nidwalden are ryin contita.”
“Off limits to everyone,” Royce roughly translated, garnering a faint smile from the wizard. “I can read and write too.”
“Ah, a truly educated man. So as I was saying, the banks of the river Nidwalden are ryin contita.”
A look of realization washed the thief’s face. “Dahlgren is in violation of the treaty.”
“Exactly. The decree also stipulates that elves are forbidden to take human lives, except should they cross the river. It says nothing about humans killed through benign actions. If I release a boulder it could roll anywhere, but odds are it will roll down hill. If houses and people are downhill it may destroy them, but it isn’t me that is killing them, it is the boulder and the unfortunate fact they live downhill from it.”
“And they are watching what we do, how we deal with it. They are sizing up our strengths and weaknesses. Much like you are doing with me.”
Esrahaddon smiled. “Perhaps,” he said. “There is no way to be certain if they are responsible for the beast’s presence, but one thing is certain, they are watching. When they see we are helpless against one Gilarabrywn, if they feel the treaty is broken, or when it runs out, fear will no longer be a deterrent.”
“Is that why you are really here?”
“No,” the wizard shook his head. “It plays a part, but the war between the elves and man will come despite any action I can take. I am merely trying to lessen the blow and give humanity a fighting chance.”
“You might begin by teaching some others to do what you did last night.”
The wizard looked at the thief. “What do you mean?”
“Coy doesn’t suit you,” Royce told him.
“No, I suppose not.”
“I thought you couldn’t do your art without your hands?”
“It is very hard and takes a great deal of time and it isn’t very accurate. Imagine trying to write your name with your toes. I began working on that spell before you arrived here, thinking it would come in handy at some point. As it was, the flame wall nearly consumed you two. It was suppose to be several yards farther away, and last for hours instead of minutes. With hands I could have…” he trailed off. “No sense going there I suppose.”
“Were you really that powerful before?”
Esrahaddon showed him a wicked smile. “Oh my dear boy, you couldn’t begin to imagine.”
Word of Thrace’s recovery quickly spread through the village. She was still a little groggy, but remarkably sound. She could see clearly, all her teeth were in her head, and she had an appetite. By midmorning, she was sitting up eating soup. That day there was a decidedly different look in the villagers’ eyes. The unspoken thought in every mind was the same-the beast had attacked and no one had died.
Most saw the winged beast outlined in the brilliant green flames that night. Alongside each of them that morning walked a strange companion, a long lost friend who had returned so unexpectedly-hope.
They got busy at dawn preparing more wood fires. They had a system down now and were able to build up the piles with just a few hours work. Suspecting that the beast-obviously able to see well in the dark-might not be able to see through thick smoke, Vince Griffin suggested they use smudge pots. For centuries, farmers had used smudge pots to drive off insects that threatened to devour their crops and Dahlgren was no different. Old pots were promptly gathered and filled as if a cloud of locusts was on its way. At the same time, Hadrian, Tad Bothwick, and Kline Goodman began surveying the outbuildings of the lower bailey for the best shelters.
Hadrian busied himself organizing small groups of men. One group started to expand the cellar they found in the smokehouse, and another went to work digging a tunnel with the idea of trying to capture the beast. A huge serpent chasing a man might follow him into a tunnel, but if the tunnel gradually narrowed, they might be able to seal the exits before it realized its mistake. No weapon made by man may be able to slay it, but Hadrian guessed there were no restrictions on imprisoning the beast.
Deacon Tomas was far from delighted with all the digging, cutting and burning inside the castle grounds, but already it was clear that the villagers had found a new leader in Hadrian. Tomas remained quietly indoors caring for Thrace.
“Hadrian?”
He was washing at the well in the village where he could find some privacy when he looked up to see Theron.
“Been doing some digging I see,” the farmer said. “Dillon mentioned you had them making a tunnel. Pretty smart thinking.”
“The odds of it working are slim,” Hadrian explained, dousing his face with handfuls of water. “But at least it’s a shot.”
“Listen,” the farmer began with a pained look on his face and then said nothing.
“Thrace is doing well?” Hadrian asked after a minute or so.
“She’s great, as solid as her old man,” he said proudly thumping his own chest. “It’ll take more than a tree to break her. That’s the thing about us Woods. We might not look like it, but we’re a strong lot. It might take us a while, but we come back and when we do, we’re stronger than ever. Thing is, we need something-you know-a reason. I didn’t have one-at least I didn’t think I did. Thrace showed me different.”
They stood facing each other in an awkward silence.
“Listen,” Theron said again, and once more paused. “I’m not used to being beholden to anyone, you see. I’ve always paid my own way. I got what I have by work and lots of it. I don’t ask anyone’s help and I don’t apologize for the way I am, see?”
Hadrian nodded.
“But-well, a lot of what you said yesterday was true. Only today, some things are different-you follow? Thrace and me, we’re gonna be leaving this place just as soon as she’s able. I’m figuring a couple of days rest and she’ll be okay to travel. We’ll head south maybe to Alburn or even Calis; I hear it stays warm longer there, better growing season. Anyway, that still leaves a few nights we’ll be here. A few more nights we’ll have to live under this shadow. I’m not gonna lose my little girl the way I lost the others. Now I know an old farmer like me ain’t much good to her swinging a scythe or a pitchfork against that thing, but if it comes to that, it would be good if I knew how to fight proper. That way if it comes calling before we leave, at least there will be a chance. Now, I haven’t got much, but I do have some silver set aside and I was wondering if your offer to teach me how to fight was still good?”
“First, we need to get something straight,” Hadrian told him sternly. “Your daughter already paid us in full to do whatever we could to help you, so you keep your silver for the trip south or I won’t teach you a thing. Agreed?”
Theron hesitated then nodded.
“Good. Well, I suppose we can begin right now if you’re ready?”
“Should we get your swords?” Theron asked.
“That would be a problem considering I put my swords on Millie last night and no one has seen her since, but that shouldn’t matter for now.”
“Should I cut sticks then?” the farmer asked.
“No.”
“What then?”
“How about sitting down and just listening. There’s a lot to learn before you’re ready to swing at anything.”
Theron looked at Hadrian skeptically.
“You want me to teach you, right? If I said I wanted you to teach me to be a great farmer in a few hours what would you say?”
Theron nodded in submission and sat down on the dirt not far from where Hadrian first met Pearl. Hadrian slipped his shirt on and, taking a bucket, turned it over and sat down in front of him.
“As with everything, fighting takes practice. Anything can look easy if you’re watching someone who’s mastered whatever it is they are doing, but what you don’t see is the hours and years of effort that go into perfecting their craft. I am sure you can plow a field in a fraction of the time it would take me for this very reason. Sword fighting is no different. Practice will allow you to react without thought to events, and even to anticipate those events. It becomes a form of foresight, the ability to look into the future and know exactly what your opponent will do even before he does. Without practice, you’ll need to think too much. When fighting a more skilled opponent even a split second of hesitation can get you killed.”
“My opponent is a giant snake with wings,” Theron said.
“And it has killed more than a score of men. Most certainly a more skilled opponent, wouldn’t you say? So practice is paramount. The question is what do you need to practice?”
“Swinging a sword, I should think.”
“True, but that is only a small part of it. If it were merely swinging a sword everyone with two legs and at least one arm would be experts. No, there is much more to it. First, there is concentration, and that means more than just paying attention to the fight. It means not worrying about Thrace or thinking about your family, the past or the future. It means focusing on what you are doing beyond all else. It might sound easy, but it isn’t. Next comes breathing.”
“Breathing?” Theron asked dubiously.
“Yeah, I know we breathe all the time, but sometimes we stop breathing or stop breathing correctly. Ever get startled and discover you were holding your breath? Ever find yourself panting when you’re really nervous or frightened? Some people can actually pass out that way. Trust me, in a real fight, you’ll be scared and unless you train, you’ll end up breathing shallow or not at all. Less air saps your body of strength and makes it hard to think clearly. You’ll become tired and slow, something you can’t afford in a battle.”
“So, how do you breathe correctly?” Theron asked, still with a hint of sarcasm.
“You have to breathe deep and slow even before you need to, before your exertion demands it. At first, it will be a conscious thought and it will feel counterproductive, even distracting. But over time, it will become second nature. It is also good to keep in mind that you have the most strength for a blow on an exhale. It adds power and focus to a stroke. Sometimes actually yelling or shouting helps. I will want you to do that during your training. I want to hear it when you swing. Later on, it won’t be necessary although sometimes it can help to startle your opponent.” Hadrian paused briefly and Theron noted the faint hint of a smile tug at his lips.
“Next comes balance, and that means more than not falling down. Sadly, humans only have two feet. That’s only two points to support us. Pick up one and you are vulnerable. This is why you want to keep your feet on the ground. That doesn’t mean you don’t move, but when you move, you slide your feet rather than pick them up. You need to keep your weight forward, your knees slightly bent, and your balance on the balls of your feet rather than in your heels. Drawing your feet together reduces your two points of balance to one, so keep your feet apart, about shoulder width.
“Timing is, of course, very important. I warn you now, you’ll be terrible at it to begin with, as timing improves with experience. You saw from swinging at me yesterday how frustrating it can be to swing and miss. Timing is what allows you to hit, and not only to hit, but also to do damage. You will learn to see patterns in movement. You’ll know when to expect an opening, or a weakness. Frequently you can anticipate an attack by watching how your opponent moves-the placement of his feet, the look in his eyes, a telltale drop of his shoulder, the tightening of a muscle.”
“But I’m not fighting a person,” Theron interrupted. “And I don’t even think it has a shoulder.”
“Even animals give signs about what they will do. They hunch up, twist and shift their weight just like people. Such signals do not have to be obvious. Most skilled fighters will try to mask their intentions, or worse, purposely try to mislead you. They want to confuse your timing, throw you off balance, and make an opening for themselves. Of course, this is exactly what you want to do to them. If done well, your opponent sees the false move, but not the attack. The result-in your case-is a headless flying serpent.
“The last thing to learn is the hardest. It can’t be taught. It can barely be explained. It is the idea that the fight-the battle-doesn’t really exist so much in your hands or your feet, but in your head. The real struggle is in your own mind. You must know you are going to win before you start the fight. You have to see it, smell it, and believe it utterly. It is a form of confidence, but you must guard against over confidence. You have to be flexible-able to adapt in an instant and never allow yourself to give up. Without this, nothing else is possible. Unless you believe you will win, fear and hesitation will hold you down while your opponent kills you. Now, let’s get a couple of stout sticks and we will see how well you listened.”
That night they lit the bonfires once more and everyone stayed sheltered in either the manor house or the cellar of the smokehouse. Royce and Hadrian were the only two moving outside and even they remained in the shelter of the smokehouse doorway watching the night by bonfire light.
“How’s Thrace doing?” Royce asked, his eyes on the sky.
“Great considering the fact that she broke a tree branch with her head,” Hadrian replied as he sat on a barrel cleaning a mutton bone of the last of its meat. “I even heard she was walking around asking to help with dinner.” He shook his head and smiled. “That girl, she’s something that’s for sure. Hard to imagine it seeing her under that arch in Colnora, but she’s tough. The real change is in the old man. Theron says they plan on leaving in a day or two, as soon as Thrace can travel.”
“So we’re out of a job?” Royce feigned disappointment.
“Why, were you getting close?” Hadrian asked, throwing the bone away and wiping his hands on his vest.
“Nope. I can’t figure out how to reach it.”
“Tunnel?”
“I thought of that, but I’ve been over every inch of the forest and the rocks and there’s nothing; no cave, no sunken dell, nothing that could be confused with a tunnel. I’m completely stumped on this.”
“What about Esra? Doesn’t the wizard have any ideas?”
“Maybe, but he’s being elusive. He’s hiding something. He wants access to that tower, but won’t say why and avoids direct questions about it. Something happened to him here years ago. Something he doesn’t want to talk about. But maybe I can get him to open up more tomorrow if I let him know the Woods no longer require our services and that there is no reason for me to try anymore.”
“Don’t you think he’ll see through that?”
“See through what?” Royce asked. “Honestly, I’m giving it one more try tomorrow and if I can’t find something, I say we head out with Theron and Thrace.”
Hadrian was silent.
“What?” Royce asked.
“I just hate to run out on them like that. I mean they’re starting to turn it around now.”
“You do this all the time. You get these lost causes under your skin-”
“I’d like to remind you, coming here was your idea. I was in the process of declining the job, remember?”
“Well, a lot can happen in a day; maybe I’ll find a way in tomorrow.”
Hadrian stepped to the doorway and peered out. “The forest is loud. Looks like our friend isn’t coming to visit us tonight. Maybe Esrahaddon’s flames singed its wings and it’s dining on venison this evening.”
“The fires won’t keep it away forever,” Royce said. “According to the wizard, the fires didn’t hurt it; they just confused it-bright lights do that, apparently. Only the sword in the tower can actually harm it. It will be back.”
“Then we’d best take advantage of its absence and get a good night’s sleep.”
Hadrian went down into the cellar, leaving Royce staring out at the night sky and the gathering clouds that crossed the stars. The wind was still up, whipping the trees and battering the fires. He could almost smell it; change was in the air and it was blowing their way.