Edited!


    30


    They climbed a high foothill, leaving the shrine in their wake, heading for the glimmering lure of a tanglewood tree. Among the most dangerous of forest predators, such trees were normally killed or avoided, except by the mad or the truly desperate. The elf sought it out to throw off pursuit. The orc, because she feared nothing at all.


    Upward they went, through a landscape disgorged by the beaten-back wall. There were strange, twisted trees there; more bushy than tall, splitting into slanted, multiple trunks. Low shrubs covered the ground. These had glowing floats at the tips of their branches, and flowers that whirled off into the air when disturbed. It seemed very strange to Miche, but perfectly home-like to Marget.


    The wary elf made no sound at all in passing, even when moving at speed. Marget, on the other hand, caused enough ruckus to drown out a troop. There might have been trouble, but Miche worked out how to cast silence, preventing unwanted interest. That was important.


    He could feel something searching, drifting like mist through this strange, dark wood; sending out chill, questing fingers. Drawn by his actions at the wall and shrine, it tested the air for scent, dropped low to the ground to feel for vibrations, looking around through the eyes of gore-crow and rat. Sensing all this, Miche quickened their pace, needing distance and shelter.


    Between up-thrust roots and mossy boulders they sped, drawn by the tanglewood lure and its whispered promises. The wind at their backs brought a mixture of scents, some of them goblinoid, most of them worse.


    "You are being hunted," Marget accused, her red eyes narrowing as they flicked between Miche and far-off pursuit.


    "Yes." There was no point denying the obvious.


    "Why?" she demanded. The orc''s braided black hair swayed past her tattooed face as she reached for branches and handholds, keeping most of her focus on Miche. He shook his head, moving like an athlete. A dancer. Barely needing to touch the ground, much less to grab for support.


    "I don''t know," he admitted. "I awoke here with nothing but the sword and two spirits. One of them left. The other is with me still. Next… something happened… but then I escaped. I have some magical power, but…"


    "...But that, itself, would make you a valuable prize," rumbled Marget. "There are few who can find and use manna these days. Mostly warlocks, hags and other foul creatures. They hoard their spells and their magic. Charge a steep price for their services, too… Andrey."


    He shook his blond head once again, obscurely glad that she was still playing that foolish game with him.


    "Not Andrey… and not willing to serve as a piece on anyone''s game board. Whatever I did that got me banished to this place, cannot be undone. Not by me. But I don''t have to help those who''d kill for my power, either."


    Marget nodded.


    "Freedom," she agreed in her low, growling voice. "That is all I am seeking. A place where Marget can live, fight and love as she choses."


    They went on more quietly after that, helping each other past hazards and pits, Marget still trying out possible names. Didn''t get close, but her efforts were often quite humorous. Nameless darted through the branches above them, sometimes using Miche''s shoulders or head as a springboard. Firelord kept out of sight, taking shelter inside of his follower, not trusting the orc at all.


    They reached the tree just after moonrise. The tanglewood''s lure was a floating gold bubble that drifted above its top branches, secured by coiling tendrils. Its gentle light seemed to promise… Everything: safety, peace, happiness, rest. The truth was very much other.


    Marget rumbled a warning as they reached its dark glade; one scarred hand clutching the haft of her battle-axe. Miche drew forth his sword, summoning fire, as well.


    The towering tree was immense and malevolent; a craggy dark blot near the crest of the hill. Its trunk had nearly the girth of those petrified giants he''d seen at the crater. Deeply cracked bark was pitted with glowing digestive pods, each one holding a slowly dissolving corpse. Hundreds of vine-nooses dangled fresh victims, drawing them up to the highest branches and trunk.


    Its prey were animals, mostly (though there were several goblins suspended, as well). Their dangling bodies twitched and jerked; no longer alive, but not entirely dead. Sharpened sapper vines pierced them through, drawing food for the tree; keeping that terrible fruit from final death and decay. The tree''s blade-like leaves littered the ground below, concealing a mountain of polished bones, all of this lit by a sliver of rising pale moon.


    Carnivorous beetles rustled and skittered under a mat of withered foliage, stripping the flesh from dropped limbs. The sudden rank stench burnt their noses, bringing tears to their eyes with its stinging, foul reek. Half-coiled vines hung ready from branches above, tiny hairs poised to detect any motion.


    Newest of all was a slender young doe, bored through with sapper vines, still kicking reflexively. Beneath the suspended deer, her fawn leapt and scrambled, avoiding the nooses that dropped all around it, rushing frantically back and forth, bleating aloud as it struggled to reach its dead mother. It was tiring, though. Very soon, one of those vines would take hold.


    Miche pulled out his bow and a handful of arrows, meaning to slay the young animal, ending its terrible plight. Marget misread his intent. She clamped a firm hand on his arm. Grunted,


    "Good thought, Kollyn. Keep that monster at bay. I will go after the little one."


    He would have protested her foolish decision, but Marget was already moving; arms outspread, crouching slightly, bleating just like a doe.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Cursing inwardly, the elf turned his attention to burning the nooses that dropped like a flurry of nets from those gnarled, swaying branches. He seared dozens right up to their flexible bases, scorching leaves and bark, bursting multiple pods. Finally, leaking foul sap from hundreds of wounds, the tree stopped aiming for Marget. It had other defenses, though.


    Great swarms of foot-long black ants boiled out of the tree itself, emerging from cracks in its smoldering bark like an army. Forming chains of interlocked soldiers, they dropped at the elf, snapping their scissor-like jaws. Meanwhile, a rustling flood of beetles attacked from the ground, firing long streams of burning-hot acid. Miche dodged, spun and stamped, kicking off most of the bugs that climbed up his boots, tearing away those that fell from the tree, all the while covering Marget. Some of the insects skittered onto his shoulders and chest. There they bit deeply, painfully; injecting venom that Firelord instantly vaporized.


    Miche shot blast after blast of crackling ice through his sword, freezing thousands of insects and scarring the tree. Half-saw Marget bend down for that shuddering fawn.


    "Hurry!" he called, fighting to keep a dark tide of ants away from the orc and young deer. Fire and ice were unsubtle magics, likely to harm those nearby as well as their monstrous target. He had to be careful; right every time, every shot, or someone would die.


    But the tree had another defense to employ. One he hadn''t expected. Miche pivoted to blast at a swaying rope of linked ants. He stumbled over a half-buried root, flailing forward through knee-deep beetles, crushing their shells with each step. Acid and slime spurted, burning whatever it touched. His smoldering left boot came down on a hidden noose. It jerked tight immediately, cinching hard and then yanking the elf off his feet. He swung and spun higher, nearly disjointing his leg. Kept hold of his sword, though. Twisted wildly in midair, flexing the leg and bending enough to bring his blade within striking distance. The branches above were saw-toothed and lashing, dripping corrosive bile as they wove a thorny prison. Miche slashed hard at the vine that held him, simultaneously releasing a fire-bolt into the tree''s grinding canopy. The vine was tough and resistant. Took three wild, chopping cuts to slice through it, as burning branches and cones fell past, trailing flame like comets. Freed, Miche plunged to the ground. Dried leaves, brittle insects and a mountain of bones broke his fall. He staggered upright, once more, limping and injured, but able to fight. Then the tanglewood''s trunk gaped apart. It formed a creaking, splintery chasm; disgorging a tall, rough-skinned figure. Spindly and lithe, a dryad strode forth. Her mouth was a jagged gash, her eyes black as beetle-shells. Broken bones and old weapons were woven into the ropey vines on her head… and she was angry.


    "Stop, Old One," hissed the dryad, in a voice of dead leaves and snapped twigs. "Take the meat, and begone! Leave us in peace."


    The beetles and ants ceased pouring forth at her gesture. Some of them climbed the dryad, seeking her fissures and knotholes. Panting slightly, the elf lowered his spell hand and blade.


    "It is not our intent to slay your tree, Dryad," he told her. "My companion seeks only to rescue the fawn."


    "Rescue?" sneered the dark nymph, her face cracking with every word and change of expression. "Why bother? Everything dies, Old One, including your kind. Surviving for now, it will just feed the cycle, later. Death always wins in the end, Hero. Now take it and go."


    Marget had scooped up the fawn. Carefully, she began edging out from under the tanglewood''s branches. Nooses quivered over her head but didn''t dare fall. Ants and beetles parted before her, making no threat, exuding no acids. Even the stench faded, carried off by a gusting wind. Miche waited, alert and ready. To the nymph, he said,


    "We will take shelter near your tree for the night, Dryad, without further attack. On the morrow, we shall depart."


    She appeared to consider his words. Then,


    "The blessing of an Old One has great power. Speak magic over my tree, last of the Elves, and you may remain in our glade."


    The dryad was a carnivore, her tree and its insect defenders pure horror, but the fugitives needed a safe place to rest... And there was no place safer than the glade of a tanglewood tree, provided you weren''t on the menu, yourself. Inclining his head, Miche accepted her bargain.


    "I will do as you ask, Dryad, in return for your promise of shelter."


    Once the orc and fawn reached his side, he sketched a complex symbol of blessing over dryad, tree and insect horde. Added a bit… near the end… about not preying on sentient beings. Mostly did as she wanted, though, causing burns and deep slashes to heal.


    After that, Miche lit a small fire the hard way, being too weary… too drained… to use further magic. The dryad stayed with them that night, surprisingly; trading advice for news of the outside world and meal scraps.


    "Darkness has fallen here," she told them, bark-skin and eyes lit up by the fire and pod-glow. "It is ancient and strong and it calls from the north. All that is evil, the Fallen One beckons."


    The elf nodded. He''d felt that call and almost responded, himself. But for Nameless, he''d have fallen into its grip.


    "What is it?" he asked her, adding wood to their leaping and snapping small blaze. "Where did it come from?"


    The dryad tilted her head, causing bark to splinter and vines to sway.


    "There is no sure knowledge. Just rumor… but whispers make it something very like you. The last survivor of a war that nobody won. It has sensed your presence, I think."


    "Then it can stop looming, come out here and fall yet again," snorted Marget, impatiently. She''d been stroking the fawn, which was fading fast. "Miche," she snapped, "this little one dies, without milk."


    It was half in shock already, causing the dryad to smile. The elf wrung his small stock of memories, casting his mind back into the distant past. He''d seen something. A… stable. A place where orphaned foals were fed with… with goat''s milk squeezed from a leather bag. That was a thing he could conjure, he thought.


    "I could summon milk for the fawn, if there were a ley line nearby," he told them. "But the spell will require more manna than I have to spare, without rest."


    The dryad leaned forward. Behind her, rising wind swayed the tanglewood''s nooses.


    "In return for the creature''s night-soil, I will lend manna," she said. "If it dies, you will give me the body."


    An offer they had no choice at all but to take. With the tangle-nymph''s help, Miche was able to conjure milk and a suitable nursing bag. Marget took care of the rest, vowing to feed the greedy young fawn through the night. The elf got to his feet, then, limping off to set wards using the dryad''s gritty, cold manna. Time passed and the moon rose higher.


    Darkness crept like a mist through the forest, silencing creatures and birds. A few beeping constructs rattled into the tanglewood glade but were swiftly noosed upward and taken apart. One of them warbled a screeching alarm. The dryad used a spell to send it tumbling and crashing away down slope, far from her tree and her guests. She was a monster, and only their bargain prevented disaster. Miche''s blessing and a pile of deer droppings were enough to keep her content… Along with whatever was stupid enough to blunder into the glade. Dryad and tree ate well that night.


    Miche blearily checked on his map, then drifted into deep rest as Marget fed "Spots" and the dryad stood watch. Over and over, he dreamt a short scene of himself climbing a hill with Marget; smiling as she worked at guessing his name, while the marten sprang through the branches above. The wakened shrines appeared, too; their waters nearly as healing in rest as in truth.


    Until sunrise, he drifted and strengthened, back-to-back with a drowsing orc. Feeling her heartbeat, hearing her rumbling snores, Nameless curled up in his lap.