David Farland - Sons of the Oak

Meanwhile, Myrrima was shouting to Borenson, “Grab the pole,” as she tried fishing him from the river. The boat had beached, but the current was dragging Borenson downstream.

Groggily, Borenson cursed and sputtered, trying to make it to the boat. Fallion gaped in surprise, supposing that Borenson had been killed by the lightning.

Fallion raced to the gunwale and grabbed Borenson’s cape, tried pulling him in, but Borenson wore ring mail beneath his tunic, and Fallion could hardly budge him. It wasn’t until Iome grasped Borenson that they were able to drag him into the boat.

By then, the tornado had reached its full height, and now it thundered toward them, making the earth rumble, pulling whole trees up by their roots, slinging boulders across the ground.

The wind surged, singing past Fallion’s ears, tugging his clothes, slapping his face.

Several of Asgaroth’s warriors were racing toward the boat, and now they looked back in horror as the tornado overtook them, plucked them up kicking and screaming, their arms waving in the air, bearing them into the heavens.

This is the end, Fallion thought.

He suddenly became conscious that Rhianna was grasping onto his leg, as if to hold on to him for support. Talon clutched her baby sister and hunched over protectively, while all of the other children screamed in fear.

The only one who showed no fear was Myrrima. She calmly picked up her bow, drew an arrow from the quiver at her back, and fired into the broiling tempest.

The bolt flew true, singing into the funnel cloud.

What is she thinking? Fallion wondered. An arrow won’t help.

But the wind suddenly roared like a wounded animal and grew in fury. Dark dirt surged up, blackening the funnel cloud.

To Fallion’s utter amazement, the tornado stopped in its course, leapt in the air, and reeled backward over the land, only to touch down a quarter of a mile away, where it plucked up trees and dirt and hurled them in its fury.

It blurred away, at dozens of miles per hour.

In mere seconds it was gone.

He peered at Myrrima in awe, recalled how she had washed her arrows in water at dawn.

She must have cast a powerful spell indeed, Fallion realized.

The world seemed to go still. Fallion could hear the roar of the tornado in the distance, could even feel the rumble through the soles of his shoes, but nearby there wasn’t a sound.

And above, the clouds shattered like glass, and to Fallion’s delight, the sun burst through clear and strong, its rays slanting in through rain. Suddenly the most brutal gray clouds he had ever seen became nothing but a backdrop for a brilliant rainbow.

Everyone just stood or sat on the boat, breathing heavily, Talon weeping in relief, Borenson looking up at the skies in wonder, Iome laughing and sniffing.

It was in such circumstances that a warhorn blew a moment later, and some of Mystarria’s own troops came rushing along the riverbank.

Dozens of Asgaroth’s men had escaped, along with no small number of strengi-saats. Many of the enemy troops had crawled into thickets seeking shelter, and all along the riverbank the Mystarrians engaged whatever enemy they could find, dragged them from their hiding holes, and put them to the sword. They sang a battle song as they slew.

“We are born to blood and war,

Like our fathers were, a thousand years before.

Sound the horn. Strike the blow!

Down to grief or glory go!”

Myrrima looked out upon the slaughter, and whispered, “I never knew that such rough old hawks could sing so beautifully.”

But Fallion watched it all in dismay, for he could still feel the fiery ants marching across his chest with tiny feet of wind, and he wondered.

Am I cursed?

It was Chancellor Waggit who led the troops. Moments later he reached the riverbank, riding a rangy mountain pony bred for hunting more than war. He had fought a bloody battle and managed to rout most of Asgaroth’s rear guard, but rather than turn and fight, Asgaroth had elected to forge ahead with the best of his scouts and engage Iome.

As Waggit’s men finished the skirmish and hunted among the dead for the spoils of war, Myrrima poled the boat to the far bank, so that the children could get out on the rocks. Fallion smelled the air. The bridge of his nose seemed to burn with the scent of evil.

It’s the curse, he thought, and he leapt out of the boat, knelt on some rounded stones, and tried to scrub the scent off from himself, washing his hands in the bone-chilling water first, then his chest, and finally his face.

Waggit strolled down from the fields bringing a helmeted head as a trophy of war, the head of Fallion’s enemy. The head was grisly, blood dribbling from the neck, so that Waggit held the thing at arm’s length, lest the gore splash upon his boots.

Fallion climbed up the riverbank, finding a path on a muskrat trail, and made his way through cattails to his mother.

Waggit held out the head, turned the face toward Iome, and her mouth went wide with surprise. “Celinor Anders…?”

Fallion looked at the gore-covered face, then back up at his mother. “Who?”

Iome blinked. “I…I had thought that it would be old King Anders, that he was the one we fought. But it was Celinor, his son. He was once a friend to your father, one of the Chosen. I thought that he was a good man.”

The sense of betrayal was palpable. Fallion could think of nothing to say.

Waggit said, “He’s not the first good man to turn to evil.”

Iome closed her eyes, wondering what had led Celinor to this. She threw the head down in anger, hurt by his betrayal. “Leave it here, to be gnawed by the foxes.”

Waggit reached out a hand, and Fallion heard the tinkle of jewelry as he set something in Iome’s palm. She shoved the items in her pocket before Fallion could see.

“Is it over?” Fallion asked. “Is Asgaroth dead for sure?”

Iome looked at her son, perplexed, while a ragged bit of wayward rain spattered across her face. A shadow fell over them, and she realized that the break in the clouds was sealing back up.

“He’s dead,” Iome said. “Celinor is dead. But the evil that drove him is not. It existed long before he was born and will live long after. There was a creature inside him, a being of pure evil, called a locus. It’s gone now, but it will find another host. It can live inside a man like a parasite. The name of the locus is Asgaroth. It will return, in time, when it finds a suitable host, a person of sufficient malice, one with enough power so that it can gather minions to do its bidding. So Asgaroth is not dead. Nor do I think that it can ever die.”

Fallion tried to comprehend this, but it was so far outside his experience that his mind rebelled.

Yet as he wondered, he had a strange notion: Asgaroth was my enemy before I was born. Is he bound up in my purpose? Did I come to destroy him? Can he be destroyed?

He looked up to his mother. “How can you tell if a man has a locus in him?”

Iome shook her head. “Your father could tell. He could look into a man’s heart and see the darkness there. But common folk like you and me, we can only guess.”

Fallion still felt the tiny ants marching across his chest, so he tried to wipe them away. His mother spotted the gesture, reached out, stopped his hand, then gingerly held her fingers near his chest.

“There’s movement there,” she said softly, “a stirring of the wind, invisible runes…” Her voice was thick with worry. She looked over to the river. “Myrrima?”

Myrrima was standing in the water beside the boat. She came out of the river gracefully, as if the water flowed away from her feet, clearing her path. Rhianna and the children stayed behind, sitting on the gunwale.