The Blackwood: A Door Within Short Story

Lord, your light pierces all darkness. 

-wayne thomas batson. December, 2013

The Blackwood

A Door Within Short Story

by Wayne Thomas Batson

Six Months Earlier.

“Glorious, glorious day,” Darian, the Scout Commander declared, staring up through the black limbs to the luminous azure sky above. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

“An excellent opportunity,” Skandrel replied, parsing several pages of his ledger. “Given the odd Tempest that hammered all of Yewland, I suspect the Blackwood will be more than willing to part with its precious lumber.”

“Really?” Darian replied, tilting her head such that the sun kindled her brown eyes to a fiery amber. “Is gold all you see in this?”

Skandrel laughed. “You know me better than that,” he said. “I am as much a child of the woods as any Glimpse in Yewland. But that does not mean I am opposed to profit.”

Darian shifted her stance and adjusted the pair of thin fighting knives at her waist. “Opposed to profit? Nay, not you.” Her own laughter trailed off and her expression hardened. “But do not think our fortune today is some trick of the weather. If we pull in a record haul of Blackwood lumber, it is by the will of King Eliam.” Her face brightened with a smile, and there was a momentary flicker of blue in her eyes.

“So you say,” Skandrel replied, his words seasoned with bitterness. “So do all of you who’ve bowed the knee to a foreign king.”

Commander Darian let that go and turned to the rest of the team, seven Yewland Braves, her hand-picked collection team. “Fan out! Spiral pattern to the center, collect until full, and return to the eastern perimeter for accounting.”

“You’ll meet me there,” Skandrel added.

“You will meet us both there,” Darian said.

The other five Glimpse warriors bowed, creating an oddly musical percussion of arrows clattering in their quivers. Then, in a blink they were off into the deep wood.

“Care to collect this time, Skandrel?” she asked, a droll smile on her lips.

“I wouldn’t dare miss it,” he said. When he winked, the color green flickered momentarily in his ink black eyes.

Darian set a frantic pace on the outskirts of the Blackwood. The foliage there was still rich and varied: ferns, shrubs, vines, bushes, saplings, and a myriad trees. But soon, the lush greenery thinned. Yard by yard, the variety diminished until there was only a low growing whitish fern spurting up among the dead leaves—that and the Blackwood trees themselves. Velvety smooth bark, black as a moonless night, the majestic trees towered above, dwarfing the Glimpse visitors…and any other tree that Yewland might boast of. Save Sil Arnoth, that is, Sil Arnoth the Great, ancient of ancient trees.

Out of old habit, Darian and Skandrel came to a halt at the border of the Blackwood. “Always been taken aback by this,” Darian said.

“I have as well,” Skandrel replied, scratching absently at the slate-colored sideburn that jutted down from his hairline and curled oddly beneath his prominent cheekbones. “I believe I could walk blindfolded in the forest and know without question when I’ve entered the Blackwood proper.”

“There is a power here to be sure,” she said. “And nothing to be taken lightly. Be on your guard. Wolvin don’t care much for the cheery sunlight, but that does not mean they will turn down a chance at a meal.”

“I rather don’t like thinking of myself as a meal.”

“Nor I,” she said. “Come on. Let’s get in and get out.”

Darian led, and the two of them picked their way among the tremendous black trunks. They described concentric arcs as they searched, crossing and crisscrossing each other’s paths. Darian stopped twice, thinking she’d heard faint growls, but it was only Skandrel’s muttering. She didn’t stop to ask. She knew full well her chief accounter’s frustration.

Skandrel darted forward and was on his knees in a moment. “Finally!” he gasped, yanking at a large fallen limb. “I was afraid we’d never—” His hands flew up to the sides of his head. “No!”

“What?”

“It is a root, confound it!” Skandrel bounced to his feet. “Where are the limbs? We are five hundred yards into the Blackwood proper, and nothing.”

“I do not understand it,” Darian whispered. “We have not collected in three months, and a once-in-a-generation storm passed through in between. There should more fallen wood than usual, but there seems to be none at all.”

“Perhaps your King Eliam is angry with you,” Skandrel quipped.

Darian glared at him, but kept her voice civil when she said, “He chooses when and how—and what—to provide to us. But His anger is reserved for those who spurn Him.”

“You mean the likes of me?”

“That, my calculating friend, is between you and King Eliam.”

“I’m going to keep looking,” Skandrel said, walking away. “Perhaps further west.”

Darian followed, wondering absently if the rest of her Scouts were coming up empty as well. Once again crisscrossing, Darian and Skandrel entered the densest part of the Blackwood, and still, they found nothing to collect. Not a twig.

Skandrel stopped so abruptly that Darian plowed into him.

“What’s the matter with you!” she demanded.

He did not answer but pointed overhead.

“No…no, that’s impossible.” Darian shook her head and turned slowly. Many of the Blackwood trees had lost limbs. Not dead limbs as the kind that fell for Yewland’s Braves to collect. These were thick, living boughs. They had been snapped off, shattered, and only sharp shards remained.

“This is insane!” Skandrel barked. “Nothing breaks Blackwood like that!”

“I don’t like this,” Darian said. “Not at all. We need to gather the Braves and report back to Yewland.”

They turned without another word and sped back to the East. Together, they galloped between the looming dark trunks, retracing their original path.

“Wait a moment!” Skandrel gasped, skidding to a leaf-scattering stop.

Darian lightly leapt a root that would have tripped most veteran foresters and halted a few yards ahead. “Gracious King Eliam,” she whispered. “What is it?”

“Did you notice that, just now? It got darker.”

Darian tensed and slid her fighting knives free of their sheaths. “Look to the treetops.”

Skandrel swept out a two-handed sword with a wide curving blade. “Illgrets,” he whispered. “But they do not gather near Yewland so late in the season.”

“And yet, there are thousands of them,” Darian said. “We will fight back-to-back.”

“Of course,” Skandrel said. “This is not my first dance with these foul birds.”

A shrill cry came from above, and the coal black birds spiraled down, a vortex of venom, beak, and talon.

“There are too many!” Skandrel cried out.

“Steady!” Darian commanded. “Kill to defend! Measure your strokes!”

Eyes bulging, staring at the plummeting creatures, Skandrel crouched low with his blade held high above like a razor-sharp roof. “Oh, for want of fire!”

The first illgret to draw close extended its talons and darted towards Darian. One of her fighting knives flashed…and the bird, perfectly bisected, fell at her feet. Her knives never stopped, and she became a blur of carnage, feather and dark blood.

Skandrel’s wide blade was not idle. A short upward hack took out an illgret pair. He twisted his wrists on the follow through and used the flat of the blade to crush three more. Then, he slammed the butt of the sword into another attack, sending the illgret tumbling into a tree trunk.

But that was just the first few seconds of the assault, and the air thickened with screeching, pecking, clawing birds. “Don’t give in!” Darian shouted.

“Die you ravenous, blasted—” Skandrel’s words died on his lips. There came another shrill cry, this one higher pitched and more sonorous. All at once, like some amorphous single body, the cloud of illgrets swooped away, turned a wide arc, and fled to the South.

“Wha…what happened?” Skandrel panted. “Where are they going?”

Commander Darian stood very still, blinking mutely.

“Darian!”

“What? I…I don’t know. I don’t know where they went. Or why.”

“The illgrets are gone,” Skandrel said. “But it’s still…still dark.”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s darker.”

There came a sudden rustle of leaves and an immense shadow. Skandrel heard a muted cry to his right, and a warm, wet spray dotted his face and neck.

“Darian!” he screamed, lashing out frantically with his blade.

He heard one faint, gurgling word in reply, “Run,” followed by a deep snarl, and a viscous suctioning sound. He saw something then. He saw Darian, just a pale image of her, but she was limp and lifeless, and being lifted off the ground. There came the sound of a breaking branch, a harsh sharp crack.

“No!” Skandrel cried out, rushing toward his friend. He lunged for her feet, but she was taken out of reach.

Leaves. Dark movement. A flash of something. Skandrel ran for his life.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Present Day.

“Great moonrascals!” Mallik spluttered, soaking his coppery beard and wolvin-pelt vest with a spray of amber mead. “Don’t startle a man like that, ye blasted Yewland sneak!”

Nock swung lightly around the table and settled into the chair closest to the fire. He unslung his deerskin quiver, lowered it to the floor beside his chair, and warmed his hands at the grate. “Is that any way to welcome a friend who has traveled many leagues to find you?”

Mallik glowered, his bushy eyebrows forming a low mantle over stormy eyes. “Some friend.”

“This is nice,” Nock said, ignoring the comment. He made a show of taking in the pub’s decor. “Cozy and comfortable. A little quiet for you, is it not?”

“Do you not know?” Mallik asked. “I like it quiet.” He suddenly slammed his tankard to the table. Dust motes leaped up and swam in the sunbeam.

“I find that a little hard to believe,” Nock said.

“Hey, mind the wares!” commanded a man from behind the pub’s counter. He was burly and bald, with bulging forearms and a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times.

“Quit the yappin’, Alcott,” Mallik muttered. “Or I’ll buy the inn and put you out in the street.”

“The Wayfarer’s not for sale, ye great lummox,” Alcott said with a hearty laugh.

Mallik shook his head and grumbled audibly. Then he went to work sopping up his sodden beard and pelt with the sleeves of his surcoat. With a shrug, he pressed his arms, one at a time, to his lips and slurped loudly. “Ah,” he said. “Still good.”

“You clean yourself much like a cat, my friend,” Nock said. “Only messier.”

“Not going to let good mead go to waste on your account,” he replied. “Hmph, you have some nerve.”

“I sought only a joyous surprise for an old friend,” Nock said. “Not a fit of terror. Why so jumpy?”

“Not jumpy,” Mallik countered. “But I heard nothing of your approach. Aside from the knots popping in the grate, I have heard nothing for hours. I did not even hear the door! Gah, but you Yewland Braves are light on your feet.”

“Comes in handy at times.”

“Handy, hmph! You are fortunate I had a tankard in my hand or I might have visited my handy hammer upon your pointy chin.”

“Peace, noble Mallik,” Nock said, holding up a hand and gesturing to the keeper behind the counter. “Good Sir Alcott, two more of whatever he’s having,” he called.

“I’m no Sir anything,” Alcott called back. “But I’ll serve ye anyway.”

Nock nodded and leaned forward across the table. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, lad,” Mallik said. “What’s so urgent that you hunt me down way out in the Blue Mountains?”

“I didn’t think I’d need to come all the way here to find you,” Nock explained. “Why aren’t you in Alleble?”

Mallik shrugged. “Kalliam thought the journey might do me good,” he muttered. “Says I’m not fit for combat.”

Nock really looked at his friend. “You have, uh…you’ve put on a bit of weight.”

Alcott appeared and put full tankards in front of them both.

“Just insulation for the coming winter,” Mallik muttered into his mug. He drank deeply. “Ah, that’s good.”

Nock’s restless eyes narrowed. “You always were a bear of a man,” he said. “But now, you appear to have eaten the bear.”

“Nonsense!” Mallik said, patting his more than ample belly. “Underneath is all muscle.” He pushed back from the table and stood. “Go ahead, take a swing.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You jested at my expense,” Mallik argued, “so let me defend my honor. Go ahead, hit me.”

Nock rolled his eyes as he stood. He approached and threw a halfhearted punch into Mallik’s gut.

“You call that a punch?” Mallik asked, laughing such that the tavern rang with his mirth. “Come on, Nock. Try one with a little feeling. Or is it that Yewland’s finest hide behind their bows when the real fighting begins?”

“That was uncalled for,” Nock said, his words clipped. “Try this one.” Nock put his weight behind this punch, rotating at the waist and driving his fist hard. But when he connected, he let out a yelp. “What…what have you got in there, a panel of oak?”

“Not hardly,” Mallik said, taking his seat. “Like I said, it’s all muscle…under the fat, that is.”

“Forgive me for asking,” Nock whispered, his face suddenly grave. “But are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Fit for battle?”

Mallik stared into his tankard. “Look,” he said, “maybe I have lost a step, but ye don’t need me for speed, now do ye? But I won’t wear down, not if a horde is upon me. And my hammer’s as swift and heavy as ever. So then, the answer is yes. The other answer is yes as well.”

“Other answer?”

“You didn’t come all this way for a game a’ Kingsrook.”

“True, but I haven’t told you what I need you for. It’ll be perilous, much more so than that errand in Frostland last year.”

“I doesn’t matter,” Mallik said. “You need my help?”

“I do.”

“Then the answer is yes.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

When Mallik stepped down from the dragon saddle at last, he moved slowly and with a bit of a wobble. His hand shook as he passed the reigns to a Brave working in the high stable.

“Welcome to Yewland,” the Brave said.

Mallik glared.

“Come now, old friend,” Nock said. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

Mallik spoke in a jittery, low, rumble, “You…might…have…thought…to…warn…me…about…the…dragon.”

“What? Her?” Nock pointed to the Mallik’s gray dragonsteed. “I’ll have you know that Petunia is the gentlest of the Coursers. I requested her specifically for you.”

Petunia raised her tapered snout and snorted.

“Gentle?” Mallik spluttered. “Gentle? It was an endless, buffeting plummet!”

“This is an urgent errand, Mallik,” Nock explained. “We needed speed. And Coursers were the only way.”

“Coursers?”

“The breed,” Nock explained, gesturing for Mallik to follow. He ducked under an arch and entered a long torchlit hall. “We discovered them in the mountains south of Baen-Edge. Cliff dragons, they are, and divers. You wouldn’t believe how precarious their nests are.”

“I would believe it,” Mallik replied. “We climbed above the clouds! But that was nothing compared to the drop.”

“That is how the Coursers manage such speed, my friend.”

“I thought the wind would tear my mustache clean off!”

Nock laughed quietly and led his friend through a wide set of doors. “This will cheer you,” he said.

Mallik took a deep breath. “I smell food.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Mallik’s mood improved mightily with a large pot of meat, potatoes, and carrots swimming in gravy. “Will you tell me what all this is about?” he asked, slurping at a ladle of stew.

“I will wait for you to finish your meal.”

That stopped Mallik cold. “That bad?”

Nock pondered a moment. “I have never seen the like.”

Mallik gulped down three ladles of stew in quick succession and then pushed the pot away. “It grieves me not to finish a meal this savory, but your look troubles me more. Tell me the story.”

Nock glanced left and right. The dining hall was filling with late lunch traffic: Braves from the morning watch, Scouts returning from a myriad errands, and a few squires looking to refuel for the afternoon’s hard training.

He lowered his voice and said, “It began with the rare late summer storm.”

“I remember,” Mallik said. “We received word of it in Alleble. Very like to a tempest?”

“It was a tempest,” Nock said.

“Do you think? Those storms are arts of the enemy. Can you be sure?”

“In all but the ice and snow, my friend,” Nock replied, “it was a tempest. If you had heard the winds howling, Mallik…ah, it was a terrible night. An uncanny darkness fell upon all of Yewland, and anything that wasn’t battened down was taken skyward. Repairs to the city will go on through spring. Broken hearts will take longer to mend.”

“Casualties of the storm?”

“There were many,” he whispered. “Queen Illaria lost her niece Kahleah. She was taken from a high balcony and dashed upon the ramparts.”

“That is a tragedy.”

“Two of my most talented apprentices died as well. Errez and Bethorn had just left the eastern gates for a hunt when the storm broke upon us. There wasn’t much of them left to find, but…it was enough. I miss them, Mallik. They could have been renowned Braves…and they were my friends.”

“Oh, Nock, I am sorry.”

“Yewland lost thirteen of its beloved during that storm,” Nock explained. “But this is not why I need your help.”

“Your tone concerns me,” Mallik said. “Say on.”

“The first Blackwood collection after the storm was led by Scout Commander Darian and the Chief Accounter, Skandrel. None of them ever returned.”

Mallik’s bushy eyebrows lowered. “You don’t think…the temptation was too much? After such a storm, the Blackwood fallen would be worth a king’s ransom.”

“I almost wish we could explain their disappearance by simple greed,” Nock said. “I led a team into the Blackwood to search, and…we found them.”

“Dead.”

“Slaughtered, Mallik. Horribly. They were left for us to find as if those responsible wanted to send us a message.”

“Or a warning,” Mallik said quietly.

“If warning it was, then to our misery, we heeded it not. Queen Illaria sent a team of hunters led by Bramhall himself. Few know the Blackwood so well.”

“What did the team discover?”

“We may never know,” Nock replied. “They were slain in like manner. Queen Illaria is driven near to madness over this. More than fifty of Yewland’s finest have died in attempts to collect Blackwood lumber already but, Mallik, she won’t stop sending teams in.”

“Madness! Why?”

“Yewland must have the Blackwood,” Nock explained. “Our entire economy depends on it. Already we are behind in orders. Your kin in the Blue Mountains, among other less merciful customers, wait for their due shipments. But…we cannot provide the wood they need. Candleforge has cancelled a massive order and demanded back a hefty deposit. Yewland is crippled without its Blackwood.”

Mallik nodded understanding and muttered, “I suppose wars have been waged for less.”

“As we know too well, my friend.”

“But speaking of war,” Mallik said, “Why not make war on whatever lurks in the dark trees? Just send in your entire standing army? Surround the Blackwood with ten thousand soldiers; descend upon it with a thousand dragons; flush out whatever’s in there.”

“The dragons won’t go near it,” Nock said gravely. “They cannot be prodded or coaxed. They scent something…or feel it. And, while your blunt idea has merit, our soldiers, the regular bands, suffer from the same malady as the dragons.”

“I do not follow.”

Nock frowned. “It is a sensitive situation, my friend,” he said. “Argent Brave Krask has led several recovery teams into the wood, as have I, to bring back our fallen. But with teams of elite Scouts and Braves being slaughtered, the regular army won’t go near the place.”

“Hmph,” Mallik snorted. “Cowardice.”

“Perhaps,” Nock said. “But do not be too hasty to blame until you have seen what…how these warriors were killed.”

“Still, they are under orders.”

“You think as Queen Illaria does,” Nock said. “She looks on the army’s defiance as mutiny…treason. I have urged her to give grace, but she draws near to a line that, once crossed, could plunge Yewland into civil war.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the soldiers of our standing army will not follow orders, will not face the Blackwood, Queen Illaria will see them tried for treason. She will be forced to execute them. Understand, Mallik, these are not timid tweens or townsfolk. I speak of well-trained soldiers, but they are paralyzed by fear. There seems no real choice.”

“They face death at either turn.”

“Precisely,” Nock said. “Which…is why I stepped in.”

“What did you do?”

“I volunteered.”

“You…you volunteered for what?”

“I volunteered you also.”

“For…what…Nock?”

“It’s simple, really. We’re to go into the Blackwood and not come out again until we’ve captured or killed whatever deadly thing is prowling within it.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

“A unique chill in the air down here,” Mallik said breathily as he rubbed his upper arms. “I didn’t even know that Yewland castle had an underground level.”

Nock held his torch aloft to get a better look at the markings on the stone arch to his right. “It is not common knowledge,” he said. The passage forked three ways. “Ah, this is the one.” He took the rightmost path.

“What’s down here?” Mallik asked. “Dungeon?”

“Yes,” Nock said. “Store rooms, as well, for food and…uh, other things that must be kept cool.”

“We’ve come for provisions then?” Mallik asked, smacking his lips lustily. “Meats and cheeses for the journey, eh?”

“Not…er, not exactly.”

A few moments later, Mallik stopped and asked, “Do you smell something?”

Nock never turned around. “Not really,” he said. “The mustiness of the underground, most likely.”

“Nay, it’s something else. It is pungent. Sweet, but not pleasant. Not at all.”

“Come, my friend, let’s get this over with.”

Mallik hurried after him. “Get what over with?” Nock did not answer but disappeared around a distant corner. “Get WHAT over with, Nock?”

When Mallik rounded the bend, the odor hit him like an invisible wall. Mallik knew the scent then, and his mind flooded with bloody scenes from his past. “Far too many battlefields,” he muttered, his brow pinched. “This is the smell of the dead.”

Bright orange torchlight lit the large circuitous chamber. There were dozens of altar-like pillars, and bodies (or what was left of them) lay upon them like some sort of macabre exhibit. A tall, masked Glimpse stepped out from the corner, her sudden appearance giving Mallik a start.

“GREAT MOONRASCALS!” he shouted, bouncing backward a step.

“What’s the matter?” came a velvety smooth feminine voice. “Did you not expect to find the living in the place of the dead?”

“Well, I…I, no,” Mallik spluttered. “Not really. What…is this place?”

“This is the cadaverium,” she replied. “When unnatural deaths occur, the bodies come here for examination and analysis.”

“Meet Flynn,” Nock said, gesturing. “She is one of Yewland’s most exceptionally gifted medical personnel.”

“You are too kind,” she replied with a slight bow. She lowered the mask and smiled, her lips blue like frozen berries. But her eyes were large and bright, the overall impression being one of intellect coupled with kindness. “Here,” she said, handing a piece of silken material to Mallik and then Nock. “It helps with the smell.”

Mallik took the cloth and tied it behind his head so that it covered his nose and mouth. “What is this?”

“These are the victims,” Nock replied. “Those we have recovered from the Blackwood, that is. Several bodies are yet missing.”

“I do not understand,” Mallik said. “We cannot help the dead, and they surely cannot help us. Why have we come here?”

“Are all Glimpses from the Blue Mountains so hasty?” Flynn asked, raising a sandy-brown eyebrow curiously. She didn’t give Mallik time to answer and said, “While those who have departed can no longer speak to us with words, they still have tales to tell. Come with me.”

She led Mallik and Nock to a table where a Glimpse swordmaiden lay. Though he knew better, Mallik thought she seemed to be merely sleeping. Her eyes were closed, her expression serene. But then, Flynn removed the dark tarpaulin that covered the victim’s torso. Mallik spun away and hacked, fighting hard to hold down his lunch.

“I am sorry,” Flynn said, glancing worriedly from Mallik to Nock and back. “I should have warned you about this wound. I guess I thought…well, since you are a warrior of some renown…”

Mallik mastered himself and said, “I am no stranger to war. I have seen oceans of blood. I have seen the carnage and innocents slain. But there is something about this swordmaiden’s death that is so…explosive, so blunt.”

“You understand more than you know,” Flynn said. “I have seldom seen such blunt trauma to a body.”

“What manner of weapon…would burst through a person like that?” Mallik asked, swallowing down bile.

“Not a weapon as such,” Flynn explained. “The victims had been impaled upon the broken branches of the Blackwood trees.”

“Impaled?”

Nock stared at his palms. “We found them hung up all around a clearing,” he said. “It was as if some giant beast was not content to steal their lives but wished to make sport of them.”

“Freshly broken branches,” Mallik asked. “What sort of thing possesses the strength to snap off Blackwood branches?”

“Nothing that dwells naturally in our forests,” Nock said.

“Are there any signs of…” Mallik swallowed. “Any sign of feeding? Bite marks, that kind of thing?”

Flynn’s eyes glinted blue as they darted toward Nock. “I ask pardon for my earlier quip. Nock, you didn’t tell me your Blue Mountain friend was so perceptive.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Mallik,” Nock replied. “But I did not know that you were so perceptive.”

Mallik snorted. “Even a blind moonrascal finds a berry occasionally,” he said. “Now tell me, what did I discover?”

Nock stifled a laugh.

“Aside from the small wounds here…and here,” Flynn explained, “likely from illgret beaks and talons post death, there are no signs of consumption.”

“They weren’t killed for food,” Nock said.

Mallik’s mantle of eyebrow curls rose an inch. “None of them?”

“As I indicated before,” Nock explained, “not all bodies were recovered.”

“So, is this creature or—whatever it is—eating its fill and then playing a sick sort of game with the others?”

“Difficult to say,” Flynn replied. “Since we have not recovered the remains of some of the presumed dead, we can only speculate.”

The chamber grew very quiet. Mallik noted absently that he could see his breath, little mists whirling out from his cloth mask. But his thoughts were busy, and the one line of reasoning that he kept circling back to, seemed worth of sharing. “What manner of beast could do all this?” he asked. “I mean, what creature could attack seasoned Yewland Braves in the wood, slay them all, and impale them upon tree branches?”

“And some of the branches were ten feet off of the ground or more,” Nock added.

“An adult mortiwraith might,” Mallik thought.

“I could not help but think of Falon, as well,” Nock said. “And Timera. But those two are noble creatures. It would have to be another, perhaps driven to the Blackwood by the storm.”

“Do you think?” Mallik asked.

“It’s possible,” Flynn said. “But some of our soldiers were killed in broad daylight, and there are no acidic burns on any of the dead.”

“Mortiwraiths are fearsome and deadly,” Mallik muttered, “but to kill so many without being wounded, seems unlikely, especially in the wood. Nay, it could not have been one of Falon’s kin.”

“Here, what do you make of this?” Flynn asked. She pulled the tarp down, exposing the victim’s abdomen.

The new revelation sent a churning wave of revulsion through Mallik’s gut. He turned, his eyes wide, and blurted out, “Where?”

“A basin,” Flynn called. “Just around that corner.”

Mallik disappeared, and there came the report of significant retching. When he returned, his pale Glimpse skin had a greenish tint to it. “I must apologize,” he said. “I’ve never seen the like. Is that color…is that…natural?”

“It most certainly is not natural,” Flynn said. “The infection is rampant, in and around these wounds. See, there are four punctures, equally spaced. Here, here, here, and here. Nock, help me with her.” Flynn and Nock tilted the body. “You see, the wounds pass all the way through.”

“Too regular for branches or some such,” Mallik said.

“Yes, the wounds are precisely round,” Flynn said. “I’ve opened some of the victims, and the path of the wound is clean, no tearing or rips.”

“All of the victims bear these wounds?” Mallik asked.

“The chief wound for each is the trauma from the impaling,” Flynn said. “But each has this peculiar set of four punctures as well.”

“And, Mallik, the wounds do not show any tapering at all,” Nock said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“If it was some kind of beast,” Nock explained, “whether tooth or talon, you would expect the wound to widen. Both fangs and claws are narrow and sharp at the tip but widen gradually toward the base.”

Flynn added, “These stab wounds are uniform in size, through-and-through.”

The cadaverium grew silent, and Mallik found himself imagining some gigantic beast, dark and stalking, with cunning, monstrous strength, and long, thin talons.

“Come, my friend,” Nock said. “We have yet one more stop before we depart for the Blackwood.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

“Queen Illaria should be finishing a meeting with the leaders of the merchant guilds,” Nock explained just as they arrived at the Verdant Citadel’s western gate.

One of the two dark haired Braves who were posted outside said, “She is expecting you, Sir Nock, but not quite finished with the artificers. Please take a seat on one of the gallery benches.”

When Nock and Mallik entered the vaulted chamber, they found a great gathering of Glimpses seated around an octagonal table. But Queen Illaria and one other were standing, facing each other across the table, and glaring.

“Are you certain that now is a good time?” Mallik whispered.

“That’s Anidian, leader of the Artificer’s Guild,” Nock whispered back. “He’s notorious for his temper.”

“Illaria’s no kitten either,” Mallik replied. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Best not to disturb them,” Nock said, gesturing toward a row of nearly empty benches in the gallery. “Come, let us be silent.”

Nock found a seat on one end. Mallik settled onto the other end, but when he plopped down, the bench groaned and bowed in the middle. The subsequent flex launched Nock off of his side. He tried to get a foot down and regain his balance…but failed. He crashed into a decorative suit of armor. Pauldrons, braces, and greaves bounced and clattered against the stone wall and across the floor. Every single eye at the huge table turned to stare at Nock.

Mallik had scarcely seen his friend so furious. It wasn’t so much his expression. No, that clearly read: mortification. But his eyes positively smoldered.

“Apologies, your majesty,” Mallik called to the queen. “Being from the land of harsh rock and heavy stone, I am…unaccustomed to such…seats.” He made an effort to bow, which is to say that he nodded…slightly.

“No apology necessary,” Queen Illaria replied. “The distraction was timely. We are just finished.”

“But, your majesty,” Anidian objected from across the table. His storm cloud eyebrows were arched severely, and his short beard bristled. “We have not come to terms on price!”

The Glimpse to the queen’s right stood suddenly and brandished a tall iron-capped staff. “When the queen says we are finished, the meeting is over.”

“B-But, Argent Krask,” Anidian returned, “I have many associates to answer to, and very little Blackwood remaining to split among them. We must increase the price. If not—”

“You have only Queen Illaria to answer to,” Krask said evenly. He had a prominent, protruding brow that overhung his dark eyes like a cliff’s ledge, but even so, there was no mistaking the fury and accusation in his glare. “Leave now until she summons you once more.”

Anidian turned and nearly knocked over his chair. “How…how could you imply such—why, the very Blackwood throne upon which the queen sits was my gift to her, reverently carved by my hand.”

“Easy, Anidian,” Queen Illaria said, her voice firm but not unkind. “I have no doubt where your loyalties lie. But I will not relent. Our prices must remain the same, lest we reveal our crisis. That would be like spilling blood in a razorfin-infested lake. I am sorry for the bind this puts you in. But perhaps, this day will bring better news from the Blackwood.”

The guild leader’s anger washed away in a surge of puzzlement, but he inclined his head and strode briskly toward the exit.

“And, Anidian,” Krask called. “If the queen does not summon you, you can assume she has found a more level-headed leader for the Arificer’s Guild.”

Anidian stroked his beard sharply, muttered something acidic, and departed.

As the queen bid the others farewell, Nock turned to Mallik in a huff. “Shaft and bow! How much do you weigh these days? You near sent me into the ceiling!”

“Did you see?” Mallik asked, staring at the arched exit.

“See? Of course, I saw. You dropped your bulk on the bench and—”

“Not that,” Mallik hissed. “For that, I am sorry. But I meant Anidian. Did you see that look on his face?”

Nock blinked. “Yes, yes, I saw it. What of it?”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“Nay.”

“I don’t think he took kindly to the Argent’s rather abrupt dismissal. He said, ‘You’ll be sorry.’”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as my stomach.”

Nock tried to keep his stern expression, but a slight smile tremored at the corners of his mouth. “I suppose I cannot stay mad at you, my friend. Now, what do you make of Anidian? Should we warn Krask?”

“Looking at Argent Krask,” Mallik said, “I don’t think he would be too worried about a tradesman’s threats.”

“Formidable warrior,” Nock agreed.

“Formidable?” Mallik echoed. “He’s like a tree himself. Tall and roped with gnarly muscle. Look at his hands and forearms. He might just be able to heft my hammer.”

“That may well be,” Nock said. “But even a relatively small blade could fell a tree. The tiniest droplet of poison could do the trick, and a guildsman would have ways of getting such things.”

“I don’t know Anidian,” Mallik said. “But his words now seem to me, rash…spur of the moment, to save face.”

“I thought as much,” he said. “Come.”

Nock and Mallik politely nodded to those departing and took seats at the table.

“You mean to go through with this then?” Queen Illaria asked, her expression stoic but slightly fissured with pain.

“I do,” Nock said. “I must.”

“A bold venture, Sir Nock,” Krask said. “Noble, on behalf of the troops.”

“Noble or foolish, who can say?” Illaria replied. “Yewland has lost one hero already. I would not see his brother slain too.”

“Is my life worth any more than any other Glimpse in this city?” Nock asked.

“Do not ask this question of me,” she replied, turning away. “Go armed then. Heavily armed.”

“I do not think I could be any more heavily armed,” Nock replied, glancing sideways. “I will have Mallik with me.”

Mallik shot Nock a grievous stare.

“Still,” she said. “He will not be as…stealthy as your Braves.”

“I do not believe stealth did our people who died any good. From the moment we set foot in the Blackwood, I deem we will be known and…we will be hunted. But it is my hope that we shall draw whatever it is out of hiding, on our terms.”

“If you ask me,” Krask said, gesturing his staff toward the western window, “you might start with old Remy the woodsman.”

“There is a name I have not heard for some time,” the Queen said. “What of him, Krask? You have said nothing of this before.”

“He is ever vengeful toward this city,” the Argent replied. “To you, in particular, my queen. It is said he has made a secretive home in the Blackwood.”

“A secret home?” the queen scoffed. “Who has seen Remy…in years?”

“Travelers on the Forest Road,” Krask replied. “And I knew him as well as any. Remy is a master woodsman. If he wanted to remain near Yewland, he would find a way. He could manage to keep a shelter hidden. Of this, I have no doubt.”

“But how could a simple Glimpse do these things?” Nock asked.

“Though aged many seasons,” Krask said, “Remy was yet formidable when he departed Yewland. And some claim that he has taken to breeding strange creatures, interbreeding wolvin-kind and other things. Mark my words: you find Remy, and you will find the answers you seek.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Nock guided his dragon steed as close to the Blackwood perimeter as it would allow. The fear-stricken creature reared and then banked hard, threatening to unseat its two riders.

“Get this thing to ground, Nock!” Mallik demanded, clutching the saddle with one hand and squeezing Nock’s shoulder with the other.

“You are crushing…my…neck!” Nock cried, tugging hard on the reins. Again, the dragon banked away from the Blackwood. Then it careened into the bristly canopy of a baen tree and roared. Nock and Mallik screamed as they plunged deeper and deeper into the dense treetops. Branches snapped and cracked, and finally Mallik and Nock bounced from their seats and tumbled to a ferny wreck on the forest floor.

“I think you were too heavy for the dragon!” Nock grumbled.

“Sure, blame it on me,” Mallik replied, brushing leaves and twigs out of his beard and off his armor. “As if I am this heavy on purpose.”

“Well, you certainly don’t hold back at meals,” Nock said. Then he stood up and his expression softened. “I am sorry, my friend. I do not know why I said that.”

“The wounds of a friend.”

“What?”

Mallik looked at the ground and then slowly back to Nock. “The wounds of a friend are faithful,” he said. “You are right about my eating too much, and I pay for it with my girth. I had no right to dispute you or snap. Not sure what came over me.”

“We did just crash-land an ornery dragon,” Nock said with a laugh. “That might have something to do with it. Look at her. She’s terrified.”

Nock moved towards the steed. It eyed him warily, snorted, and bared its teeth. “Come now, girl, breathe easier,” he said, placing a gentle hand on the dragon’s neck. “You—you’re trembling. Petunia, you have nothing more to fear. We won’t force you into the Blackwood.” Nock turned his head, and in a flash drew—and fired—an arrow. Forty yards away, a scraggle fell to the forest floor. Nock jogged over and retrieved the six-legged, sloth-like creature. He removed the Blackwood shaft and presented the fresh kill to the dragon.

“Some comfort food,” Mallik said with a laugh. But Petunia accepted the offering with gusto, throwing back the scraggle, snapping once, and swallowing.

“There,” Nock said, patting the dragon, “we are friends here. Now, my dragon, you remain here. We must venture into the Blackwood, but we are counting on you being here when we return.”

Nock nodded to Mallik, and together they advanced toward the wood. But the dragon growled and extended its long leathery wing as if to bar their way.

“Do you suppose she knows something we do not?” Mallik asked.

“Likely,” Nock replied. “More than once I have considered that dragons might be smarter than Glimpses.”

“You mean, as in…we are going into the Blackwood anyway?”

“Precisely.”

Without a word, Nock and Mallik gently brushed aside Petunia’s restraining wing. They trod silently into deeper into the wood.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

The ferns and shrubs began to die off, and soon, Nock and Mallik came to the bones of the forest. The transition could not have been more stark. Behind them, there were a variety of living trees: oak, birch, elm, atlas, virga, fir, pine, and hemlock. Aside from the evergreens, the trees bore little but dead leaves. It was nearing winter, after all. But branch, bark, and root—these trees were all living. Dormant, but alive.

In front of them, where similar trees had once flourished, there stood only bleached white trunks. Stripped of bark and foliage, these trees had been killed beneath the soil. “The Blackwood roots extend further out each season,” Nock said. “One day, I wonder if the rest of the natural forest will be slain by the jealous, ever-spreading Blackwood.”

“Makes me think of Paragor,” Mallik said through his teeth. “Even now, his malevolence spreads across the Realm.”

“He will never gain a foothold in Yewland,” Nock said. “I can promise you that.”

“I hope that is so,” Mallik said as he strode forward. “But his vaults and his arsenals can be very persuasive. I fear even for my kin in the Blue Mountains.”

Nock caught him up. “Don’t be troubled by such thoughts,” he said. “Paragor would prove himself utterly insane to offend your doughty folk.”

Mallik snorted. “The enemy is not exactly known for his sanity.”

Nock couldn’t argue that point.

They continued past the skeletal trees and found themselves engulfed in a different sort of forest. There were no trees but Blackwood trees. Massive, towering trunks, bark smooth to the touch but as black as pitch—the trees loomed like dark sentinels, guarding their territory. There were no puny limbs on the Blackwood trees. The branches were sturdy and long, stretched out like the arms of giants, and their crimson leaves remained thick in clusters, in spite of the season.

Quick as blinking, Nock put an arrow to his bowstring. “Now,” he said, “I am certain the dragon is smarter than we are. Do you feel it?”

Mallik grunted, loosed his immense hammer, and followed.

They searched slowly, fanning out but weaving near and far, absorbing their surroundings. Eighty paces in, Nock stopped. “Look there…and there.” He pointed just above eye level.

“Great moonrascals!” Mallik exclaimed. “Is this…could this be damage from the storm?”

“The breaks are uneven,” Nock said. “Violent even, and…that would be consistent with a Tempest’s raging wind. But the storm was months ago, and yet, look here, these breaks are fresh. The sap here is still quite wet.” He pulled his fingers away, showing the viscous dark brown sap to Mallik.

Mallik nodded. “So if not the storm?”

“I can only guess,” Nock said. “Whatever slew my people must also have wrecked the trees here. How, I cannot fathom. Wolvins cannot break Blackwood.”

“Some monstrous thing bred by this Remy, perhaps?” Mallik asked, as they continued on.

“Perhaps,” Nock replied.

“What do you know of him?”

“He was Argent Brave before Krask,” Nock said. “I did not know Remy, but by all accounts, he was a giant of a Glimpse, tall and broad. A very capable leader, dedicated to his patrols, and his band. Nicknamed ‘Shepherd of the Trees,’ by some of the graybeards.”

“That doesn’t sound like a murderer,” Mallik said, “nor one who would damage the Blackwoods.”

“His story turned, I’m afraid,” Nock explained as he ducked under a low limb. “According to court record, Remy always opposed Yewland’s Blackwood collection practices. He wasn’t convinced that the deadfall was enough and advocated a yearly allotment for felled trees and replanting.”

“Still,” Mallik said, as he glanced through Blackwood branches toward the sky, “doesn’t seem like enough motivation to kill his own people.”

“There’s more,” Nock said. “He began to denounce the queen’s policies as discriminatory, catering Blackwood supplies to the elite, leaving the dregs for the commoners. It was at this time he was accused and imprisoned for stealing Blackwood timber.”

“What was it, some rob the rich, give to the poor thing?”

“Not exactly,” Nock replied. “He’d robbed the forest to give to himself. Remy was found in his flet with a new staff made entirely of Blackwood. And at the same time, a single tree was discovered cut down in the Blackwood. It had been cut down and pillaged, much of the lumber, sectioned off or taken.”

“Hmph,” Mallik grunted. He stopped to think, absently examining a Blackwood branch that had been sheared off, leaving a glistening sharp shard. “Very recent,” Mallik said, wiping his fingers across the wood. “Lot of sap here.”

Nock nodded. “Before Remy could stand trial and be convicted of his crimes, he knocked several Braves unconscious and fled into the forest. Searches went on for years, but no one found him.”

“What would have happened?” Mallik asked. “If Remy would have been convicted of stealing Blackwood for his own use, what then?”

“In Yewland, that penalty…is death.”

“Perhaps then, Krask is right,” Mallik said, wiping gobbets of sap onto his breeches. “Maybe Remy is behind this. Crippling the city that wanted to kill him might be as good a—”

“Your hand!” Nock gasped. “That is not tree sap.”

Mallik held up his hand, and his fingers glistened with bright red blood. And that’s when they saw the bodies in the trees.

Five Glimpse warriors, two women and three men, impaled on five different Blackwood trees—they hung limp like rag dolls, and blood seeped from their catastrophic wounds.

“Who are they?” Mallik asked, his words choked by his thickening throat.

Nock put his head in his hands. “What were they doing?” he pleaded. “No one should have come until we cleared the wood. Why did they come?”

“Who are they?” Mallik asked again. “Did you know them?”

“They are squires!” Nock shouted bitterly. “Not even full Braves! They had no business here. Alas, I knew them well, Mallik. I taught them advanced bowcraft. And now, they are dead!”

“Come, lad,” Mallik said. “We don’t need to linger here among the dead.”

“They are not simply the dead,” Nock hissed. He strode to each victim in turn. “This is Roserin, a keener eye than mine and twice as precious to the queen. Her best friend, Elenah died with her. Elenah had just sworn allegiance to King Eliam. And…poor Stodgy. You would have liked him. As clever a wit as any I’ve met. Josihed, now there was a lad bound for greatness. Brave and loyal to a fault, he’d have been Argent someday. And this last is Nahill. Tinkerer, I called him. The lad was always building things. Vex me, Mallik! All these dreams—Gone!”

“Should…should we take them down?” Mallik asked gently.

“We should,” Nock replied. “But we will not. Not yet. Their blood is freshly spilt. Whatever did this might be nearby. We need to find it. Search the ground. There must be a sign.”

Mallik flexed his neck muscle and went to work. Only a moment later, he shouted, “There are tracks! Maybe wolvin, but I cannot be certain. The shape isn’t quite right, and there are strange indentations.”

Nock was there in an instant. He bent low to the ground. “Whatever made these tracks,” Nock said, “was far lighter than a wolvin. And, see here, the bulge just before the top of each extremity. This is one more joint than their should be, and I cannot tell what this mark is. Some kind of talon, but very thin.”

“Over here,” Mallik said. “There is blood among the prints.”

“This is our prey,” Nock said. “Follow them.”

The trail was chaotic, full of half-covered markings and indistinct signs, but it led ever north. The sky overhead became overcast, and a strange crimson twilight fell over them as they continued tracking.

Nock halted. “I have never ventured here,” he said, gazing mutely at the trees.

“The Blackwood is deep.”

“You’re right, of course,” Nock said. “But we Braves have a collection system. It is…very thorough. We spiral to the center in waves, making circles that are both concentric and interlocking. We’ve mapped the entire Blackwood, or…or so I thought. But look at the tree trunks ahead. I am certain I would remember such as those. Why, are they even Blackwood?”

Careful not to obscure the trail, Mallik trod forward and ran his fingers along a dark tree trunk. “Its color is the same,” Mallik said. “Foliage too, but the texture is not smooth—not here anyway. It is dappled with small divots and holes.”

“But they do not go all the way up,” Nock said, stretching as high as he could reach to run his hand along the bark. “Smooth up here. And there is…a kind of lean where the rough bark is.”

“Not a lean,” Mallik said. “Step back from the tree a few more paces. Look not at just the one. See? The trunks bow outward.”

“I wonder at this,” Nock said. “But come, we need to press on. The day is growing late.”

Mallik and Nock trod on, each checking over his shoulder continually. The trees with the strange markings seemed to follow a meandering path but still went generally to the North.

Mallik stopped, wandered back to inspect a tree he’d just passed, and asked, “Where are the tracks?”

“We did not miss them turning off,” Nock said. It wasn’t a question. “But they end here. How could so many large creatures simply disappear? Were they winged? Some kind of wolvin-dragon crossbreed?”

Mallik scratched at his beard. “Wait,” he said. “I understand this riddle at last. The tracks don’t end. Nor, did the beasts fly. They took to the trees.”

“It explains the markings and the bowing of these trunks,” Nock said. “But these are no scraggles. What kind of creature of this size travels tree trunk to tree trunk?”

“Only one way to find out,” Mallik said.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

“Where are they?” Queen Illaria demanded. “They should have been back by now.”

A court messenger rushed to her side. “Have you an errand, my queen?” she asked.

“Yes, Prim,” the queen said. “Report to Steedmaster Hewart at Central Aviary. He’ll know what I want.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Prim replied turning to depart.

“And, Prim,” the queen said, her voice rigid with command, “speak only to Steedmaster Hewart, and keep your inquiry…discreet.”

Prim made a quick bow and left the throne room. The Queen went to the western window and gazed steadily. “Heaven help us, Krask,” she said. “What have we done?”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Mallik crouched down at the edge of a deepening dell. The ground sloped steeply to a sickle-shaped high hedge of bracken and thorn. Because of the shadow that lay over the dell and the bracken’s innate coloring, it was near impossible to see how thick it was or how far back it went. “I don’t like this,” he whispered.

“In this, we agree,” Nock said. “But tree trunk trail leads us here.”

Mallik nodded and hefted his hammer close to his chest. Cautiously and silently, they descended into the dell. Wanting to keep as much of the higher ground as he could, Nock kept a few paces behind Mallik.

The darkness of evening shrouded the world high above, but Nock didn’t believe it for a moment. “Illgrets,” he whispered. “Gathering above us.”

Mallik snarled. “Let them come.”

But the illgrets did not descend. They remained high upon their perches and were content to blot out much of the light. But something moved. And, at first, Nock thought he was seeing things…or that there was some trick of the hedge’s shape and the shadow. It was disorienting and seemed impossible, but huge chunks of the hedge seemed to be moving.

Mallik gasped, “There are eyes.”

“What—” Nock’s voice failed. He stared ahead at the looming shape. If there was any recognizable form, it might have been roughly shaped like a wolvin: thick, sloping neck; massive, mounded shoulders; lumbering, thick forelimbs; and a broad, barrel chest. Its trowel-shaped head was at first difficult to see, low and hunched as it was, until the faintly luminous, pale green eyes opened. But that entire frame was rendered nearly incomprehensible by the sharp shards and quills that seemingly projected from every inch of its body. “Mallik!” Nock whispered urgently. “Mallik, back up!”

Mallik needn’t be told. He retreated slowly from the bristling shape. A deep staccato growl rumbled from very close on his right. Mallik realized suddenly that there were other creatures to his right and his left. The whole thicket seemed to be teeming with them. He wheeled his hammer around, wrenching his torso for as much torque-driven power as he could muster and—

“I wouldn’t.”

The resonant voice was alien and unfamiliar. It stopped Mallik in his tracks.

But not Nock. He swiveled to the voice and found a target: a man shape seated upon one of the massive barbed creatures. “I have you!” Nock cried out. “You cannot move fast enough to deny my Blackwood shaft its place in your eye!”

“Then we are at an impasse,” the faceless voice replied, his voice coarse and low, but piercing. “Slay me, and my pets will not be denied the sport of dismembering you and your friend…and a hearty meal by the look of him.”

“Hey!” Mallik objected. “Let’s not make this personal!”

“Far too late for that,” the stranger replied. “I surmise you are from the Blue Mountains, far from home, and trespassing upon my property.”

“Your property?” Nock scoffed, his fingers itching to loose the arrow. “Woodsman Remy, I believe it is you who are trespassing upon Yewland soil.”

“You know me?” The Glimpse agilely left the saddle and stood in the shadows beside his prickly steed. “I thought certain all record of me would be stricken from Yewland’s histories.”

“Not hardly,” Nock said, trying to pierce the gloom to see the Glimpse’s features. He was tall and somewhat gangly with exceedingly thick forearms and calves. He wore a strange stained headband high on his forehead and leather armor with that same stained patterning. His hair, mustache, and beard were long, mostly gray, and streaked with haphazard blotches of black. His expression was grim, eyebrows thick, arched, and angled to a downward beetling over the bridge of his hawkish nose. His eyes glistened, and though he couldn’t be sure, Nock thought he saw a flicker of blue.

Couldn’t be, Nock thought. He shook the notion away and said, “Nay, Remy, the histories still record your treason and, I suspect, your bloody deeds in the Blackwood will add a few more chapters.”

“My deeds?” Remy asked angrily. “You are impudent and young. I suppose I should not be surprised to hear such naive assumptions. Pray, what do you mean?”

“The murders!” Nock spat, growing impatient. “You’ve been killing Yewland Braves—even young Squires—desecrating their bodies.”

“You—you think I did that?” Remy screamed out something primal and raw, more like a roar. His beasts stirred and growled. They crowded in on Mallik and Nock. “That’s the trouble with you Yewlanders,” Remy said. “You jump to conclusions.”

“We found the prints of your creatures,” Nock said. “They were all around the place where five of my people were massacred.”

“We were there, yes,” Remy said. “But after the killings. We were investigating…collecting, just as we have all of the other slayings since the storm.”

“Collecting the dead for your abominable beasts!” Mallik grumbled.

“They are no abominations,” Remy said. “No matter what you have heard. They are indigenous to certain parts of the Blackwood, some cousin of wolvin and moonrascal. The creatures are related, part of the same family, you know.”

“That is irrelevant to the evidence,” Nock said. “You are an outcast of Yewland, you have every reason to hate us, you live alone, your creatures left their trail behind, and they certainly seem capable of violence, as you pointed out yourself when you threatened us with dismemberment. And, you have rather a history of being treasonous.”

“I did not kill these Yewlanders,” Remy declared. “But I am searching for the ones who did. And for the record, I was not guilty of stealing Blackwood lumber either. And I certainly did not see fit to carve my own Blackwood staff! That staff and that wood were both planted in my home. I was in the midst of discovering them myself when Braves stormed my flet and chained me.”

“Planted?” Nock blurted. “As in: someone put the staff and lumber into your flet…when you weren’t looking…and you just happened to find it one day. And then, after your arrest, you were so certain of your innocence that you knocked some guards unconscious, escaped, and fled Yewland?”

“I was so certain of capital punishment,” Remy argued. “Certain, I would not be heard fairly, not with those powerful ones, lurking behind the accusations—that much is certain.”

“Do you hear this, Mallik?” Nock asked. “Do you hear these delusions? Pray, Remy, who cut down a living Blackwood and planted its timber in your home? What secret powers wrongly accused you?”

“The same ones who refused to hear my testimony,” Remy said. “The same ones who killed all the Braves and collectors here in the wood, and the same ones who sadly killed the squires today.” Remy tucked a pinkie finger into each corner of his mouth and unleashed a shrill whistle. “My pets are backing off, even as I speak. But listen to me, take your search for vengeance elsewhere. The one you should be searching for is—” Blood spurted from his lips. Four thin blades burst through his chest, and Remy was lifted high in the air.

At the same moment, arrows streaked out of the forest and found purchase in several of Remy’s bristling wolvin creatures. Chaos erupted with Mallik and Nock right in the middle of it.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Prim rushed into the throne room and found Queen Illaria seated there, hunched over with her head in her hands. “Your majesty?” Prim whispered. “My queen, are you…are you well?”

Queen Illaria looked up, and her red-rimmed eyes stared out plaintively. “Oh, Prim, at last,” she said. “Please, tell me…what word from Steedmaster Hewart?”

“He was vague, your majesty,” Prim said. “He said to tell you this: ‘The sky is not clear for flying.’ But I have no idea—”

“Gone,” Illaria cried out. “They are all gone!”

Prim rushed to her side. “Who?” she asked. “Tell me that I may find them for you.”

“If only you could,” Queen Illaria replied. “Nay, Prim, please return to your other duties. There is nothing you can do here.”

Reluctantly, Prim retreated from the chamber. Queen Illaria heard her whispering urges to the guards outside. Prim urged the guards to vigilance, heightened awareness, and above all else, careful protection.

“There is no protection,” the queen whispered. “My team is lost. Nock and Mallik are lost. My very nation might be lost.” Then she had a thought. Hoping her attendant was mildly disobedient, she called out, “Prim, might you still be there?”

Prim wheeled around the archway and sped to her throne. “Yes, yes,” she said. “I was just discussing protocols with the guards and—”

“Never mind that,” the queen said. “Please seek out Argent Krask. You should find him in the armory. Tell him I need him. Now.”

Prim bowed and sped from the chamber.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Mallik blocked a flurry of arrows with his hammer, tumbled and ducked just as one of Remy’s creatures bounded overhead. One of its knobby spines scraped a burning gash across his chin. Mallik came up swinging but didn’t need to, for the beast was racing up the hill to where Remy had stood. Other forms sped too and fro, and between the shouts and growls, Mallik felt disoriented. “Nock!” he yelled. “NOCK?”

“DUCK!” Nock screamed back.

Mallik felt something from behind, dropped to his knees, and winced as a Blackwood shaft whistled overhead. He heard a wet thud, turned on his knee, and looked down at a peculiarity his eyes could not at first understand.

Something like a person was sprawled among the dead leaves. But it was utterly black, and its borders seemed to pulse. It disturbed Mallik’s vision to even look upon it, but there was one thing he recognized. One of Nock’s Blackwood arrows protruded from the thickest part of the shadow. Whatever it was, it apparently had a heart for Nock’s arrow to silence.

Footfalls behind him. Mallik sidestepped and cranked his hammer into the back of the black form that had been charging for him. He heard a crunch and a groan, and the dark figure fell atop the one Nock had felled.

There came a shrill whistle, and Nock arrived at Mallik’s side. “What was that?” he asked.

“Illgrets!” Mallik cried. And suddenly a screeching, clawing vortex of black birds descended into the midst of the already chaotic melee. Mallik dove and swung his great hammer into the coming storm, pulping illgrets by the dozen.

Nock slung his bow and swept free his pair of short swords, flailing into the creatures and staggering to keep from being scratched or pecked.

Above it all, there came the swift clang of metal and an agonized groan. There was another sharp whistle. The birds relented and surged up the hill like a teeming wave.

But the dark figures remained. More of them, poured down into the dell. Each one, it seemed, collided with one of Remy’s bristling creatures. Mallik brushed feathers and gore from his face and chin, and stared up the hill. “One True King,” he whispered. “What is that?”

“It cannot be,” Nock cried. “It’s not real!”

Mallik stared up. A massive being stood atop the hill. It was dressed in plate armor and wore a turret-styled helm pronged on either side by stag antlers. In one thick, gauntleted fist, it held a long staff that ended with four wickedly sharp tines like a kind of pitchfork. In the gray twilight, the being looked like a giant formed of ash. Light and shadow played around him, and a black cloak whipped behind him in the intensifying wind. He whirled the staff and jutted the tines toward a figure at its feet.

Remy was there, on his back, but he had a sword in hand. He weakly deflected the tines from again piercing him.

“Hold on, Remy!” Mallik yelled, feeling like the now howling wind was stealing away every word. “We are coming!”

He and Nock scrambled up the hill, fighting the shadow figures and dodging Remy’s beast that had gone mad with fear and rage. The antlered knight jabbed at Remy again, but once more, he managed to bar the blow with his sword.

Nock put an arrow to the bowstring and fired, but whether it was some trick of the light and shadow or by thrust of the wailing wind, the shaft missed its mark. Again, Nock fired…the shot went errant. The ashen giant clanged the pitchfork end of his staff against the hilt of Remy’s blade. He didn’t drop the sword, but seemed to lose some control over it. And that allowed the enemy the space he needed to thrust his fork. All four tines sank into the old woodsman’s chest.

Remy’s coarse scream rang out.

“No!” Nock yelled, clambering recklessly up the hill.

Mallik struggled behind but couldn’t make much headway.

Remy screamed again, but somehow managed to regain control of his sword. It was a wild, unfocused stroke, but such was Remy’s weathered strength that he scored a vicious slash against the his attacker’s forearm. Had it not been for the plate armor, there could be no doubt that the arm would have been severed. As it was, the antlered knight’s bracer was split, and he roared in anger.

Before Mallik or Nock could take another step, the gigantic warrior pulled the forked end of the staff free from Remy’s chest. He rotated the staff and heaved the other end around. That end seemed to be fitted with some bludgeoning metal cap. He swung it for Remy’s head.

What happened next, neither Mallik nor Nock were quite sure. It seemed as if lightning had struck. There was a flash of light, an explosion, and when they looked again, Remy’s headless form came careening down the hillside.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Queen Illaria sat alone on her hand-carved Blackwood throne. She absently traced the intricate designs on the armrest with a fingertip. Her silken hair had fallen over her face becoming an unkempt black curtain, but she hadn’t bothered to brush it away.

She laughed, but it was a weak, pained thing. There were times when she’d sat on this very chair and felt supremely powerful…in command and in control. She ruled an ancient kingdom and enjoyed the status and deference due her position. But now, the throne felt cold and frail, like a seat for a toddler at the knee of someone far greater and near a far greater table.

After all, there was nothing she could do now. Her people were dying. Her armies were terrified into mutiny. Her source of income was impossibly threatened. She’d taken desperate steps to try to fix it all, to try to gain control once more, but had failed. And because of it, more of her people had likely died. It was an empty feeling.

It felt like being…alone.

But, she realized now with stark clarity, in all the times of plenty, in all the full times when the vaults of Yewland overflowed with Blackwood profits, even in glorious military victories…there had never been a time where she’d felt anything but…alone.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

In the chaos after the antlered knight slew Remy, the bristling wolvin creatures went into a violent frenzy. A pack of them converged on the warrior who killed their master. The creatures ripped and tore at the black figures; they attacked the trees; they even went after each other. In the midst of that, the illgrets returned in far greater numbers. The wood fell into a deadly, writhing darkness.

Mallik blinked back to consciousness just in time to swat away a blotch of illgrets. He turned, saw Nock laying motionless on the ground. In the ashen twilight, he looked faded…washed out. Lifeless.

Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed Nock up and slung him over his shoulder. Then he lumbered south as fast as he could. The murk grew less viscous as he plodded closer to the Blackwood’s border. He could even see a glimpse of evergreen up ahead.

But that hope vanished with a searing pain in his left shoulder. Mallik grunted, tripped, and fell down a slope, flinging Nock’s body slid into a pit of dead leaves. Mallik looked up in time to see three of the black-garbed figures advancing on his position. Two had bows. One had a pair of blades.

Mallik clambered to his knees and then to his feet. He reached around to his left shoulder, felt the arrow shaft, and—though he knew it to be foolish—he tore the shaft out. The pain burst into his mind like an inferno, and he roared. Warm blood spilled out of the wound. But, he could use the shoulder again.

Another arrow skipped off his upper arm. Still another bounced off of a Blackwood tree. Mallik stalked over and stood protectively in front of Nock’s sprawled form. He roared again, loosed his massive hammer, and shouted, “Come at me, shadows! Taste the might of my forefathers!”

The two bowmen crouched and loosed their arrows once more. But Mallik’s hammer moved like a boulder careening down a ravine. One arrow shattered on the hammer’s head. The other ricochetted harmlessly into the wood. Again they fired, and again. But Mallik was equal to the attack. No shaft passed his defense. But then, he realized his attackers’ strategy. They were keeping him busy with the arrows so that their blade-wielding comrade could close in unnoticed.

Mallik noticed.

The attackers’ blades came high and low, for Mallik’s neck and gut, but they never hit armor or flesh. Mallik swung his hammer from low to high, a powerful and sweeping stroke. The pulverizing head slammed squarely into the blademan’s chest. At the contact, the attacker spat blood and his life’s breath. He flew bodily twenty yards into the trees and crashed in a tangle of loosely connected arms and legs.

When Mallik regained his balance after the hammer stroke, he found the two bowmen standing ten feet away on either side of him. They had arrows drawn on the bowstring. There was nothing Mallik could do. They were out of reach for a hammer stroke, and they were far too close for Mallik to use his hammer to deflect arrows coming from two directions.

“Well played, lads!” he growled. “Best make your shots count because, sure as my stomach, I’ll take one of you out before you fell me!”

He wrenched the hammer back for the last stroke—

The dragon’s explosive roar stopped all movement. One second, there were two bowmen. A blur. A bone crushing crackle. And then, there was one bowman. And he was falling backward, flailing at the Blackwood shaft that had skewered his throat.

Mallik looked over his shoulder, and there was Nock, laying behind him, bow in hand. “What?” Mallik exclaimed. “You shot an arrow between my legs?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Nock said, “it sounds almost dangerous.”

Mallik yanked Nock’s belt and pulled him to his feet. They embraced, but briefly as their dragon, Petunia, approached and snapped her jaws.

“And you,” said Nock. “You brave, brave girl! You entered the Blackwood to save us.” He patted her on the muzzle and said, “You just wait. When we’re back in Yewland, I’ll hunt you a plump brace of scraggles!” He turned to Mallik. “Let’s get back to Queen Illaria. She needs to know what we’ve seen.”

“A moment,” Mallik said, striding toward the archer Nock had felled. “Let’s just see what or who you are.” He reached down and ripped the material away from the arrow in the figure’s throat. He yanked it up the rest of the way, revealing a pale face framed by oddly curling, slate-gray sideburns. “Do you know him?” Mallik asked.

Nock drew near. “Yes,” he hissed. “I know him. This is Skandrel, the chief accounter we presumed dead all this time.”

“For what it’s worth,” Mallik muttered. “He’s quite dead now.”

“Indeed,” Nock said. “Looks like you had the right of it all along. The pieces are fitting together now.”

“How so?”  Mallik asked.

“The frightening killings, impaling my people on the freshly broken branches…and yet, we never saw the ends that had been broken off. Curious, don’t you think? As if all the branch lumber had been collected. And I think I know how this all came to be. Come, let Petunia bear us to Yewland, and I will tell you on the way. The danger is not yet over.”

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

With Mallik thundering along a few paces behind him, Nock stormed past the guards into the throne room.

“Your majesty!” he cried. “Queen Illaria, we return from the Blackwood—”

“Arrest them!” Argent Krask bellowed. He raced toward Illaria’s throne. “Nock is guilty of stealing Blackwood…he and his accomplice! See to Nock’s quarters. You will find all the evidence you need!”

Queen Illaria held up a hand. “What is the meaning of this, Krask? Where have you been all this time? I have been looking for you?”

“I can answer that,” Nock declared. He turned to Krask. “Planting Blackwood lumber in my flet, have you? Not tired of that old trick yet?”

“Illaria,” Krask said, his voice lowering to a grating rumble, “do not listen to him.”

“Shut yer trap, Krask!” Mallik barked. “Or my hammer will shut it for ye!”

“How dare—”

“Why don’t you answer the queen’s question,” Nock demanded. “Where were you all this time? And why do you look so heated and out of breath? Why don’t we check with the aviary? Might they tell us that you just arrived via dragon steed?”

“What do you mean by this, Nock?” Illaria asked. “Be very careful here. This is an Argent Brave you speak of. Accusation without evidence is ground for imprisonment.”

“I’m sure Krask would like that,” Nock said as he and Mallik drew nearer to the throne. “In fact, I’d daresay Krask would see us both silenced forever. You see, we found old Remy the woodsman. And just as Krask suggested, he had the answers we were looking for. But his plan didn’t quite unfold the way he’d hoped.”

“Remy was still in the forest?” Queen Illaria gasped.

“Yes,” Mallik replied. “And he wasn’t a traitor or poacher either. Krask put that Blackwood staff and lumber in Remy’s flet.”

“Ridiculous!” Krask snarled.

“Isn’t it a little odd, Krask?” Nock asked. “Remy decided to steal Blackwood timber and take the time to carve a staff. And then, only once the staff was completed, you and your troops coming swooping in to arrest him. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“I had been following him for some time,” Krask said. “I was investigating.”

“Weak, Krask,” Nock said. “Turns out you needed Remy out of your way in the Argency. With you in the top chair, you could begin your real plan. You’re a smuggler, Krask. A common, lecherous thief.”

Krask whipped his staff around and strode toward Nock. “I’ll see you rot in a cell for this outrage!”

“Save the drama!” Mallik commanded. Take another step towards Nock and I’ll decorate the ceiling with your innards.”

“Nock!” the Queen exclaimed. “Explain yourself, this instant!”

“Gladly, your highness,” he said. “As you know, we were in the Blackwood today. We tracked and discovered Remy the woodsman, at that point still very much alive. He had been raising creatures as Krask told us. But they were not the creatures responsible for the death of our people. They were some close cousin of both wolvin and moonrascal. They were strong and menacing, but even on their hind legs, they wouldn’t be able to hoist a body up onto a Blackwood tree. Nor would they have the mind to do such a thing. Remy had them well trained, but not that well trained.”

“What did kill our people, Nock?” the queen asked.

“Krask did, of course,” Nock replied. “But I’ll prove that in a moment. You see, the tempest that struck Yewland wasn’t a freak of nature at all. It was, as most tempests are, a conjuring of the enemy who sits the throne in Paragory. It was arranged in a deal brokered by Krask long ago.”

“That cannot be, Nock,” Illaria objected. “His eyes glint green as ever. He has been my trusted servant for many years now.”

“He has not bowed the knee to the enemy,” Nock explained. “He has only bowed the knee to the enemy’s riches. Why do you think Candleforge dropped their Blackwood order so easily? It wasn’t out of protest of delay. They still wanted, still needed the Blackwood timber. But Candleforge has ever been a trading partner for Paragory. I suspect we’ll find that Candleforge now has all the Blackwood they need, fresh from Paragory’s holds.”

“Unfounded nonsense!” Krask growled.

“Unfounded? Perhaps,” Nock said. “But verifiable. And there’s much more. Remy told us he knew who was killing our people. Turns out, he was using his beasts to track the real killers all along. Alas, before he could give us a name, he was slain by a massive knight who wore ashen armor and an antlered helm. He was truly terrifying, Krask. How did you conjure him up?”

Krask didn’t answer.

“Ah, the pitchfork thing!” Mallik exclaimed as if just coming to a conclusion himself.

“Yes,” Nock said. “We consulted Flynn down in the cadaverium. She showed us the unusual wounds on all of the victims whose bodies were recovered. Each one had a peculiar piercing: four through-and-through punctures in a horizontal line in the lower chest or abdomen. This antlered knight had a staff weapon that on one end had such a set of sharp tines. Unfortunately, we got to see just how he used the weapon to lift his victims. We watched him stab Remy in the gut and lift him high in the air.”

“That proves this, what do you call him, an antlered knight? …Proves only that he is the killer,” Krask said. “How dare you accuse me.”

“Everything ties back to you, Krask,” Nock explained. “As chief of the Argency, you’d have the freedom to travel abroad without question. You’d have the most intimate connection with the guild leaders and pressure them to do your bidding. You’d have the queen’s ear. You’d even have unparalleled access to Skandrel, the chief accounter who could change the Blackwood inventory records whenever he wanted.”

“But Skandrel is dead,” Queen Illaria said. “Slain with the others in the Blackwood.”

“Yes, he is quite dead,” Mallik said. “Nock put an arrow in his throat…a few hours ago.”

“Impossible!” the queen objected. “He’s been gone months.”

“Gone, but not dead,” Nock explained. “Not until today. No, until today, Skandrel and the other Braves who had been presumed dead were brokering deals with Paragor and smuggling wood into the West. Skandrel and others tried to kill us in the Blackwood. We brought his body back to Yewland. You can go and see him in the cadaverium, if you’d like.”

“This proves nothing!” Krask spat.

“What about the team of squires you sent into the Blackwood, Krask?” Nock asked. “They weren’t even full Braves yet, but you sent them out there to cause a fresh wave of terror to spread in Yewland. You had to keep Yewland’s armies out of the Blackwood, didn’t you? You and your smugglers couldn’t work efficiently if you had to keep looking over your shoulder. What about it, Krask, was that team your idea? You knew they’d go because they were so eager to become Braves. That’s what you promised them, isn’t it?”

Queen Illaria stood up, glared at Krask, and stepped slowly away from him. “That was your idea, Krask!” she hissed. “You begged me to let them go. You promised me…each time, you promised me that it would be different, that they would succeed where the others failed. Their blood is on your hands.”

“Yes, yes,” Krask said, “I advised you so, but only because I had faith that our valiant soldiers, be they Braves or squires, could get the job done. This—all of Nock’s creative theories—they are nothing but conjecture! It is clear now, that Skandrel has been running a smuggling operation all this time, but there is nothing to tie me to it. This antlered knight is some servant of Paragor. Perhaps, if we storm the Blackwood now, we could—”

“What, Krask, allow you to escape in a storm of illgrets?” Nock asked. “I don’t think so. You see, I’ve saved the best evidence for last. That staff you carry…I’ve always wondered what those metal caps at either end were for. But now I suspect we know. If you twist the staff in a certain place or flick some kind of switch, I imagine we will trigger the four prongs to reveal themselves. Your staff, Krask, is the same size and shape as the one wielded by the antlered knight. And I know that you are the antlered knight because I saw him, just as I see you now.”

Krask laughed. “Foolishness,” he muttered, advancing slowly toward Mallik. “So I wield a staff. So do hundreds of Yewland’s knights and citizens.”

“But only you were there in the Blackwood today,” Nock said. “Only you wield that wretched pitchfork, and only you are the murderer of scores of our people. I can prove you were there, Krask. During the fight with Remy, just before the antlered knight killed him, the old woodsman gave a pretty good hack across the knight’s forearm, split the bracer in half. And, I’ll wager, split the skin beneath. Why don’t you roll up the sleeve on your left arm, Krask?”

The smug look in Krask’s eye vanished. He suddenly looked like a particularly large weasel caught in a trap. He slammed the butt of his staff into the floor. There was a flash of light, and suddenly the four sharp prongs appeared at the end of the staff. He lunged forward and rammed the tines into Mallik’s gut.

“NO!” Nock yelled.

Mallik groaned and dropped his hammer, clutching at the staff and the now blood tines.

“Guards!” Queen Illaria screamed. “I need you!”

But Krask paid no mind to anything else. He plunged the tines deeper and deeper until the end of the staff was flush against Mallik’s bleeding stomach. Krask went to lift Mallik into the air, but struggled. He wrenched at the staff and heaved and levered, but he just couldn’t lift Mallik off the ground. And that left Krask defenseless.

“You wanted Blackwood so badly,” Nock said, taking aim. “Here, have mine.”

Krask tried to spin away, but Nock’s shaft flashed across the throne room and plunged into Krask’s left eye. The Argent Brave released his grip on the staff and crashed to the ground, much like a felled tree.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

“And how is my patient today?” Flynn asked, lightly brushing coppery hair out of Mallik’s semi-open eyes.

“Bwah? Ahhh!” Mallik exclaimed, his eyes now wide. “Why am I in the cadaverium? Am I dead?”

“You are not in the cadaverium,” Flynn said. “Far from it. You are in my medical chamber. I treat the living from time to time, especially when a specialist is needed. It just so happens that I have seen piercings like the ones in your gut before. I have you stitched up and gave you a fair blasting of herbs to ward off infection. You’ll be sore for some time, especially if you eat too much. But, you’ll be fine.”

Mallik exhaled. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, well…that’s good. Where’s Nock?”

“Right here,” Nock said, stepping out from behind Flynn. “You’ve been out for a while, my friend.”

“What…what happened to Krask?”

“Dead, I’m afraid,” Nock replied. “I couldn’t just let him skewer my friend, could I?”

“What of the others? The traitors in the Blackwood?” Mallik asked.

Nock held up a hand. “Captured soon or killed, I expect,” he explained. “Now that the Blackwood threat is exposed, we’ve sent all the remaining Braves and two legions of regular army into the forest. If any remain, we will have them soon.”

“And Illaria?”

Nock sighed. “She…she is not well. Everything about this: the murders, the treason, Remy, Krask, Skandrel…it weighs on her. She bears the burden of leadership. Some of her decisions…well, she feels responsible. And, I suppose, at least for lack of judgment, she might be right. Krask, the murderous, greedy wretch, played her for a fool at an incomprehensible cost.”

Mallik breathed deeply and winced. “Ah, that does smart a bit,” he said, gently patting the bandages over his stomach.

“You were right, you know,” Nock said.

“About what?”

“Lots of things,” Nock said. “But when Krask stabbed you, I thought it a mortal blow. It would have been for most Glimpses. But there really is a ton of muscle under all that fat, isn’t there?”

Mallik started to laugh, but winced again. He said, “That is the painful truth.”

THE END