Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Leifander closed his eyes and stroked the glossy black feathers in his braids, summoning up the strength of the crow. As he finished shifting, a cry from below warned him that something had gone wrong. Opening his eyes, Leifander cocked his head to peer down at the ground. He spotted the problem in an instant: one of the elves-Jornel, a copper-haired youth whose face was tattooed below the eyes with raindrops, making it look as though he were perpetually weeping-had failed to move away from the ambush point. From his vantage point, Leifander could see that one of Jornel’s legs had become entangled in a strand of choke creeper that must have quested in his direction after being awakened by the nestling. Jornel slashed furiously at the vine with his sword, but even as he did, a second strand sprang up and caught his wrist. Held fast, he yanked at it in a futile effort to free himself, eyes bulging in horror as the mist drifted toward him.

Doriantha, signaling urgently for the other elves to stay hidden in the woods, slung her bow over one shoulder and doubled back at the run. She drew her sword to hack at the creeper, but it was clear she would not free Jornel in time. Already the deadly white mist was lapping at him like a sickly smelling, cloying tide.

The vine that held Jornel wilted and went slack, then the mist engulfed him. Doubled over, retching, he tried to stagger out of the mist, but the choke creeper still entangling him slowed him down. Dragging the limp vines behind him, he managed only a few stumbling steps before sagging to the ground, coughing violently.

Leifander saw in an instant what needed to be done. As Doriantha backed away from the approaching mist, he hurled himself into a steep dive. He held his breath as he plunged into the clammy mist and landed next to Jornel.

Using his beak, he seized a loop of the vine that was twined around Jornel’s wrist, then leaped into the air, flapping his wings hard. Pain seared his lungs as he took an inadvertent breath, and he could feel the foul-smelling mist eating at the tips of his feathers. His eyes stung, and his vision blurred.

Weakened by the mist, the vine tore free from Jornel’s arm. Dropping the foul-tasting vine, Leifander winged his way out of the mist and took a deep breath of clean air, his feathers and skin still burning from the mist’s corrosive touch.

His effort, however, had been in vain. Jornel’s leg was still tangled in the vine. His skin was blistering, and a bloody foam bubbled at his lips.

While the other elves watched, uncertain, Doriantha took a deep breath, then leaped into the mist. Blisters erupted on her skin as she untwined the last strand of vine from Jornel’s leg and dragged him clear of the mist. Two of her troop ran forward, one to pick the injured elf up, the other to lend his shoulder to Doriantha as she staggered away, coughing violently.

The rumbling squeak of wagon wheels grew louder as the elves took cover in the forest. Leifander climbed to treetop level, still wheezing from the foul mist that had seared his throat and lungs. He circled above the road, squinting down with blurry eyes at the caravan. The soldiers accompanying it seemed oblivious to the retreating elves-and to the mist that lay in their path, no more than a hundred paces ahead. Would they blunder into it and be killed?

Curious despite the ache that gripped his lungs, Leifander watched as a strange thing happened. From somewhere within the mist came the sound of a whistle. Hearing it, the sergeant leading the soldiers raised a hand in the air. Teamsters reined in their beasts, and the caravan drew to a halt.

As if blown by an sudden wind, the mist drifted away into the forest, leaving a wilted mush of vegetation on the road. After a moment or two, a row of dark spots crossed this area. Footprints.

The footprints paused in one spot, forming an overlapping cluster next to a thick strand of the dead choke creeper. A section of the tangled vines moved slightly, as if nudged by a foot.

A heartbeat later, a man dropped the spell that had been cloaking him from sight. Human, perhaps sixty years of age with pale wispy hair over a bulging forehead and soft, fleshy arms, he wore a yellow vest and hose that gave his skin a sickly complexion. Gold rings glittered on every finger of his right hand. His left hand held a slender wand that looked as though it had been carved of bone. Tendrils of white mist drifted from the wand’s tip, which was set with a single black pearl.

A silver whistle hung from a chain around the man’s neck. He raised it to his lips and blew. Back at the caravan, the sergeant’s hand went down, and soldiers and beasts resumed their trudge forward along the road.

Leifander glared down at the man holding the wand, anger burning bright in his breast as he realized he was looking at the origin of the blight that was consuming the forest. Like a nut and its shell, the pieces now fit. This was why the blight had centered itself upon the road. The caravaners had enlisted the aid of a wizard, one who was using destructive magic to clear Rauthauvyr’s Road of the choke creeper that had become so prevalent in the forest. Only humans would be stupid and selfish enough to unleash forces that destroyed not just the creeper but the forest itself.

As if sensing Leifander’s glare, the wizard looked up. His eyes fixed on the crow circling overhead, and the fingers of his right hand twitched. Did he recognize this “crow” for what it truly was? Did the raising of his hand mean he was about to cast a spell?

If so, Leifander would never escape in time. Instead of fleeing, he did the unexpected. He tucked in his wings and dived. Pulling up at the last instant, he beat his wings in the wizard’s face, raking the man’s fleshy cheek with his talons.

Cursing, the wizard reacted instinctively, raising his wand to beat Leifander off.

He’d done exactly as Leifander had hoped.

Twisting, Leifander wrapped his talons around the wand. It felt spongy and slick, like a bone slimed by rot, but the wand was solid at its core. Throwing himself backward, wings beating furiously, he tore it from the wizard’s grip.

As the wizard began chanting in a strange, garbled tongue, Leifander realized his folly. Not only had he announced himself as something other than a crow, with his strange, uncrowlike actions, but he had placed himself too close to the wizard for escape.

An arrow shot out of the woods ahead, whispering past Leifander, then another arrow, and another. More than one thudded harmlessly into the ground, or caught in the branches of a tree before reaching the road-but the distraction gave Leifander the chance he needed to escape. Instead of casting a spell at Leifander, the wizard halted his incantation in mid-phrase and began another. The air in front of him shimmered, obscuring him from sight. An instant later an arrow hit this sparkling wall of force-and exploded with a crackling release of energy into a thousand harmless slivers.

As yet more arrows sang out of the woods, shattering on the wizard’s spell-shield, he blew on his whistle to summon the soldiers from the caravan. The hail of arrows stopped abruptly as the elves, seeing Leifander enter the safety of the trees, retreated into the woods.

Still clutching the wand in one foot, Leifander winged his way after them.

From high in the forest, drifting down from leaves dappled by moonlight, came the sound of chanting voices. Leifander kneeled at the base of the tree from which they originated, an oak so old that its trunk was as wide as extended arms could span, with pale gray bark that looked silver in the bright moonlight. High above its thickly leafed, spreading branches, a near-full moon crept to its zenith against a star-speckled sky.

Doriantha kneeled beside Leifander, also awaiting the summons from those above. In the days that had followed the abortive ambush on the caravan, Leifander had used his magic to heal the blisters on her arms and face, and to heal his own wounds. Now all that remained were a few faint pink scars.