Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

This time, Leifander spoke clearly: “Sallal Lolthrailin.”

“What does it mean?” Drakkar asked. “Tell me in the common tongue.”

Weeping again, Leifander answered. “Keeper of the Wood.”

“Well done,” Drakkar said. “That should prove very useful.”

He stroked a fingertip across Leifander’s lips. A scent clung to the finger that was equal parts sweet cinnamon and something loathsome and rotting. It lingered on Leifander’s lips, even after Drakkar drew his hand away.

Suddenly finding himself free from magical compulsion, Leifander wrenched his head to the side and spat away the taste. He turned the full force of his pent-up anger on Drakkar.

“May the Black Archer take you, and send swift arrows of vengeance to pierce you,” he yelled. “May the Lady of Air and Wind buffet you with gales, and break your bones!”

Instead of trembling at the promised wrath of the gods, Drakkar gave a low chuckle and stared down at Leifander with flat, expressionless eyes.

“You’d better save your breath for a more useful invocation,” he said. “One that protects you from rats.”

Then, fingers caressing his staff as if they were reading a message in the pattern of the thorns, he chanted a brief spell. In the blink of an eye, he was gone-vanished from the room as if he had never been there.

A scuttling noise echoed out of the ventilation pipe overhead. Leifander glanced up-the opening of the pipe was directly over his naked chest. He saw two tiny human hands gripping the edge of the pipe. An instant later, two eyes that glistened with hunger stared down at him. Behind the rat-thing with human arms, other shapes jostled forward, eyes gleaming.

The first rat-thing leaped from the pipe. As it landed on Leifander’s bare thigh and sank its fangs into his flesh, Leifander clenched his teeth against the pain, not permitting himself to make a noise, but as more of the vile creatures poured down from the pipe, landing on his naked body, he at last gave vent to his terror and screamed.

Larajin awoke with a start to find a hand over her mouth. As her eyes flew open, she saw Rylith looking down at her. The druid raised a finger to her lips for silence. Larajin nodded, and the hand covering her mouth was withdrawn.

She sat up and glanced around the tent. The rain must have ended; hot sunlight filtered through the wet leather, which was steaming. Near the tent flap, the owl was asleep on its perch, ears twitching slightly with each rustle of Rylith’s leaf cloak. Just outside the entrance, Larajin could hear two wood elves talking. Rylith cocked her head, listening, then pointed at Larajin and at herself, and jerked a thumb, indicating she’d come to take Larajin away.

Larajin stared at the druid, wondering how she’d managed to sneak past the guards and the owl. More to the point, what was she doing there? She was clearly at odds with the elves who were holding Larajin hostage-the need for silence told Larajin that much-but could Larajin trust her?

A section of Rylith’s cloak rustled, seemingly of its own accord. Looking down, Larajin saw the cause. Golden eyes peered up at her as the tressym pushed its way past Rylith to nudge Larajin with its cheek. Goldheart turned and licked Rylith’s hand and allowed the druid to stroke her head. Larajin could just hear her soft purring.

Larajin’s mind was made up in an instant. If Goldheart trusted Rylith, so would she.

She pointed at the owl and in the direction the voices outside the tent were coming from, then shrugged a silent question. How were they possibly going to sneak past the guards outside?

Rylith winked, then drew a pouch from a pocket on the front of her vest. Loosening the thong that held it shut, she carefully began to pour out its contents: an orange-red powder that looked like ground crystal and smelled like tree sap. Goldheart watched intently, sniffed at the powder, then sneezed. As Larajin glanced in alarm at the owl-it didn’t appear to have heard the faint noise and was still sleeping on its perch-Rylith scooped the tressym into her arms. She handed Goldheart to Larajin, then continued pouring the powder. When she was finished, a perfect circle had been traced on the ground between Larajin’s bedding and the side of the tent.

Squatting just outside this circle of dust, Rylith held out a hand, and gestured for Larajin to join her. Tucking Goldheart firmly under one arm, Larajin took Rylith’s hand, waiting for further instructions. The druid mimed a descending count, folding fingers and thumb one by one against her palm as she counted down from five to one, then “walked” two fingers in the air, as if they were stepping over something. Larajin nodded, and lifted her foot, moving it slightly toward the circle of powdered tree sap to show that she understood.

Outside the tent, one of the elves called out to another. It sounded as though the guard was being changed. As the owl stirred in its sleep, ruffling its feathers, both women froze, but after a few tense moments it settled again without opening its eyes.

Rylith gave Larajin a purposeful look and began the count. As her thumb joined her fingers against her palm, both women stepped into the circle, and Rylith spoke a single word.

The owl’s enormous golden eyes flashed open, and the ground lurched sideways beneath Larajin’s feet as tent and owl disappeared in a spinning blur. For an instant that stretched impossibly long between two heartbeats, a dark void surrounded her, and she thought she was going to be sick. Goldheart wriggled frantically, scratching Larajin’s arm, then leaped away with an eerie, echoing howl. Larajin was too disoriented to try to catch her. All sense of up and down vanished as forward folded into backward and right into left. For one terrifying instant, she felt as though her body was turning itself inside out and upside down-but then it righted itself as Rylith gave her hand a hard squeeze. Then, with a thud that jarred Larajin’s teeth together, they were on solid ground once more. Rylith released her hand.

Looking around, Larajin saw that she was in a forest. Rylith stood beside her, and Goldheart was perched on the branches of a tree above, intent upon grooming herself, apparently none the worse for wear save for some ruffled fur. Wherever they were, the place didn’t look familiar. Unlike the strong, shady oaks of the Tangled Trees, the trees all around them were leafless and mottled with blight, and several were leaning or had already fallen. The ground under Larajin’s feet was spongy with a putrid-smelling layer of what looked like decayed ferns and moss, and the once-thick underbrush had died back, leaving only skeletal twigs. Through them, Larajin could see a road.

“Where are we?” she asked Rylith.

The druid remained silent, with her lips pressed tightly together. Her only answer was to nod at the long, rectangular shadow that fell across the spot where they stood.

Larajin turned around and saw an enormous slab of gray granite, its front and sides covered in flowing Elvish script. The bottom of the stone looked as though it had been damaged by frost. Bending over, she found she could peer right through the monument’s base, which had a crack in it more than a handspan wide. The fissure narrowed rapidly, but the crack continued all the way to the top of the monument, dividing it in two. It looked as though the two halves were about to topple to either side at any moment.

When she turned back to Rylith, Larajin saw a tear trickle down the druid’s tattooed cheek. She didn’t need to ask what was wrong. As a novice cleric of two goddesses who valued natural beauty above all else, she too was struck by the wrongness of this blighted wood. She whispered prayers to Sune and Hanali Celanil, asking the goddesses to take pity upon this place.