Heirs of Prophecy

CHAPTER 12

Had Leifander been in elf form, he would have wept at what he saw below. The forest looked as if giant slugs had crisscrossed it, leaving meandering trails of slimy destruction in their wake. Wide swaths of the woods lay in blighted ruin, streaked with mud brown and ash gray that stood out clearly against the surrounding green. Inside the blighted areas, sticklike trees leaned at angles or lay broken upon the ground, and what few leaves remained on them were a lifeless, mottled yellow-gray.

Patches of mist drifted here and there, spreading the blight in new directions with each shift of the breeze. It seemed never to dissipate but instead maintained its deadly potency long after the wands had created it.

To the south, thick plumes of smoke rose from the edges of the great forest: the handiwork of Sembia’s soldiers, whose encampments Leifander could see in the distance on the rolling hills of Battledale. They were burning the edges of the wood, trying to either flush the elves out or draw them into battle.

Glancing up at the flat blue sky, he offered a silent prayer to the Leaflord to send rain. The summer sun was hot, the woods below tinder-dry. If the fires spread….

Leifander flew grimly on, every now and then glancing behind him to see how Larajin was faring. To his great surprise she’d mastered skinwalking in a fraction of the time it should have taken-moments, instead of days-and now was indistinguishable from the tressym that seemed to accompany her everywhere.

The speed with which she’d learned it made him jealous. As twins, they were both destined for greatness, but Larajin seemed far more favored by the gods than he. Magic came to her easily, without effort. Even the difficult balance she had chosen-giving equal reverence to two goddesses, one human, one elf-didn’t seem to slow her down. Any spell she turned her mind to, she accomplished, whereas Leifander had learned his magic only through long periods of fasting and solitary prayer, perched high in a sacred oak.

It didn’t seem fair. Why, if they were twins, had the gods apportioned out their blessings in such unequal measure?

Behind him, he heard a plaintive mewing. Glancing back, he saw that one of the tressym-Larajin-had once again dropped behind and was flying in a circle just above the treetops. It was a warning sign that Leifander recognized. Her spell was coming to an end-much sooner than he’d expected. She needed to land.

At least he had one advantage. Unlike Larajin, who could skinwalk for no more than a morning or afternoon at a stretch, he could maintain animal form for days on end, shifting endlessly back and forth between crow and elf. Larajin had to pray anew each time her spell began to falter and hope that one of her goddesses would answer.

Leifander swooped back to where Larajin circled, surveying the forest below for a place to land. They’d come far already. They’d left the crystalline towers two nights before, crossed the River Ashaba, and had come to a place above the Vale of Lost Voices. The slash in the forest below was the trail that linked Essembra and Ashabenford. Rauthauvyr’s Road lay perhaps ten or fifteen miles to the east. If they paused only briefly then flew on through the afternoon and evening, they could reach Moontouch Oak by the next day’s dawn-assuming Larajin’s strength and magic held out.

As he drew nearer to the spot where Larajin and-Goldheart circled, Leifander caught a glimpse of movement in the forest below. Several dark shapes were moving along the trail-two or three, maybe more. He cawed and banked sharply to the left, trying to direct Larajin to a clearing a safe distance from the moving figures, but with catlike perversity she ignored his warning. Instead she dived down and landed on the trail itself, in a spot that would place her directly in the path of whoever-or whatever-was moving along it. Even the tressym had better instincts than that. It circled above the spot where she’d landed, refusing to join her.

Angry, Leifander changed his course, flying toward Larajin. She ought to have more sense than to risk exposing herself to what might turn out to be an elf patrol. He swooped down to treetop level, angling toward the trail.

Leifander gave a strangled caw as he passed over the trail and got a good, close look at the figures moving along it. They were enormous spiders-four of them. Bloated and hairy, as large as dogs, they moved in a tight group like a pack of trained hounds. Even from treetop level, Leifander could smell the foul stench that clung to them like mold to a dead leaf.

What were they doing in this part of the wood? Had they been feeding on the corpses of the human caravan drivers along Rauthauvyr’s Road? Or was there a more sinister reason? Leifander prayed it was not so. This part of the forest was supposedly free from drow.

The spiders glanced up at Leifander as he soared past them. More than one set of legs flailed in the air in his direction, as if the creatures wished they could climb into the sky. Leifander flew on, shuddering. One bite from those venomous creatures would cause a slow numbness to spread through the body until it was paralyzed, and the spiders would feed….

Larajin had landed about a hundred paces up the trail, where the spiders couldn’t see her, but they could see the tressym that fluttered nervously above the spot where she stood. They paused, questing Larajin’s scent. Avile chuckling sound filled the air, and they broke into a skittering run.

Frightened, Leifander flew as quickly as he could to the spot where Larajin had landed. He saw her on the trail below, crouched on the ground with arms outstretched and head bent. She must have just completed shifting back to human form. Unable to do more than caw at her, Leifander was forced to land and shift. As he rose to his feet, the spiders came into sight.

Larajin, however, gave them no more than a quick glance.

“It’s Dray!” she said, pointing into the trees at a spot where the mist had blighted the underbrush, opening up the forest to view. “Something’s happened to him.”

Leifander gave the briefest of glances in the direction she’d indicated and saw a human, either unconscious or dead, who appeared to have been hung by his doublet upon the broken branch of a massive oak tree like a coat upon a hook. The man’s feet dangled a full pace above the ground, just above where drifting mist had discolored the trunk.

Leifander had no time to wonder who the fellow was or how he’d wound up hanging from the tree. The spiders were almost upon them.

“Pray to your goddess!” he shouted at Larajin. “Either skinwalk or do something to help me fight the spiders.”

He heeded his own advice. Touching the feather in his braid, he uttered a quick prayer to the Lady of Air and Wind, beseeching her for just a fraction of her power. At the same time he raised his right hand and fluttered it, as if fanning a breeze.

The spell came-swiftly, thank the goddess. Leifander’s hand speeded to a blur, and a roaring wind sprang from it. He directed the wind at the spiders, no more than a dozen paces away. As it struck, they slowed and hunkered to the ground. Struggling like men in a gale, they at first were blown backward a step or two, but after a moment’s confusion they bent low and used their claw-tipped legs to drag themselves slowly forward.

“We’ve got to shift,” Leifander shouted at Larajin over the roar of wind. “These spiders can climb trees. Flying is the only way we’ll escape them. You go first!”

Larajin shook her head and pointed stubbornly at the spot where the man was hanging. “We can’t just leave Dray. The spiders will kill him.”

“He’s probably already dead.”

“What if he’s still alive?”

“Why do you care?”

“He tried to save my life,” Larajin said. “I owe the same to him.”

That, Leifander could understand, even if he didn’t like it.

He nodded at Larajin and said, “Then we’ll make a stand.”

It didn’t look hopeful, however. The spiders had taken advantage of the twins’ exchange of words and were making headway against the wind. Even with it howling against them, so close were they now that the stink of them filled the air, making Leifander gag.

Larajin clasped the locket around her wrist and called, “Keep your spell going. I’m going to try something.”

She began to pray.

Had he the time, Leifander would have told her that it was probably too late. His spell was already failing. The fluttering in his hand was slowing to the point where his fingers were no longer a blur, and the strength of the magical wind was starting to drop. Made bolder, the spiders forced their way closer-too close to keep them all within the blast of wind. With a triumphant chitter, one of them suddenly found itself unimpeded, and leaped forward. It bit down, grazing Leifander’s forearm even as he jerked it back.

Leifander quickly shifted the aim of his spell and forced the spider back, but too late. A numbness seized his arm, and it felt as if he had banged his elbow against something hard. His fluttering hand slowed, nearly stopped, then one of Larajin’s hands began to glow.

In that same moment, the air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers. She grabbed for his wounded forearm, and the numbness disappeared. For a wild moment Leifander thought that negating the venom was all she intended-that it wouldn’t be enough. In another instant they would be swarmed by the spiders. Already the foul things were crouching, preparing to leap.

The tressym dived from the sky, howling a challenge. Brilliant wings flashing, it hurled itself straight at the spider closest to Leifander and Larajin-then swerved at the last moment, just out of reach. Legs bunched and the spider leaped, trying for this new prey. The tressym, however, was too swift for it. The spider fell back to the ground, venom dripping from its mouth.

The distraction was only momentary, but it was enough. Larajin’s hand slid down Leifander’s arm, toward his hand.

“Sune and Hanali Celanil, lend me a little of the water of Evergold-add your holy waters to my brother’s storm!” she shouted.

A rush of energy flowed through Leifander and pulsed from his fingertips. His hand again blurred and seemed to fuse with Larajin’s. A spray of rain erupted from their fingers.

The rain, blown horizontally by the wind, shimmered with a golden glow. It struck the closest spider as it was preparing to leap, pitting its hairy flesh like sling stones. Chattering with rage and pain, the spider turned and tried to run but only managed a step or two before collapsing into a tangled heap of broken legs.

With the closest spider down, Leifander was able to direct his magical wind full force at the remaining three. He drove the magical rain at them, and as it struck it created sizzling pits in their flesh. The spiders cowered, trying to protect their heads by lowering them to the ground-then as one they turned and bolted. Blown by the wind at their backs, they skidded down the trail, chattering in terror as they tried to outrun the deadly rain. They made it no more than a few dozen paces, however, before crumpling to the ground like the first. There they seemed to melt, like lumps of dark clay in the rain. Still the shimmering drops, blown by the relentless magic wind, drove into them.

When nothing was left but a few scraps of hair and broken bits of leg, Larajin let go of Leifander’s hand, and the spells ceased. Her eyes closed in relief, and she whispered a prayer of thanks to her goddesses.

Leifander echoed it. “Our spells…” he said slowly, nodding down at the little that remained of the spider that had fallen closest to them. “They shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

Larajin gave him an exhausted smile. “Not on their own, but together …”

He nodded, understanding. “The gods joined forces-through us-just as Hanali Celanil and Sune come together in you to augment your magic.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and offered a contrite word of thanks-not just to the Winged Mother, but to Larajin’s goddesses as well-for this twist of fate. Thanks to Larajin’s stubbornness, they’d come close to being killed, but as a result, he had learned an amazing truth. Their spells, when joined, could be as powerful as those of the mightiest cleric.

It was something worth thinking about.

But first, there was the matter of the man in the tree to deal with. Larajin was already hurrying through the woods toward him, feet slipping on the rotted vegetation underfoot. Leifander jogged after her, and as he drew nearer to the oak tree, he got a better look at the man hanging from it.

The fellow was in his early twenties-fully adult, when measured in terms of the human life span-and had a handsome face. His jaw, framed by a thin line of neatly trimmed beard, hung slack, and his eyes were closed.

Was he a friend that Larajin knew from Selgaunt, perhaps? He was certainly dressed like a Sembian, in a doublet of blue and purple, dark blue hose, and what remained of a lace-collared shirt, its sleeves torn off at the shoulders. One of the sleeves had been tied around his arm in a makeshift bandage that was dark with dried blood.

As he drew closer to the oak, Leifander could see that the fellow was indeed breathing. Eyes roved beneath the closed lids, as if he were dreaming. Not unconscious, then, but the victim of some sort of spell.

Goldheart, having followed Larajin and Leifander, landed on a branch just above the sleeping man. With catlike curiosity, she stalked along the branch, sniffed him, then pawed at his cheek. When he did not respond, she settled back onto her haunches, considered a moment, then began to groom herself, as if she’d lost all interest in the fellow.

Leifander, however, remained curious. The magic that had induced the man’s slumber must have been powerful. Either the person who had left him hanging on the tree-or someone who had come along the trail later, after the blight had revealed the spot where he hung-had stripped the fellow of his valuables without managing to wake him. A scabbed-over crease in his earlobe showed that an earring had been torn from it, and the little finger of his left hand was twisted at an odd angle and swollen to twice its size, as if someone had wrenched a ring from it.

As Larajin reached up to grab the man’s legs and lift him down, Leifander saw clumps of loose earth around the base of the tree, partially hidden by the blighted vegetation. Suddenly he realized the oak’s significance.

“Don’t!” Leifander shouted. He leaped forward and knocked Larajin’s arms down. “You’ll be caught up in the spell.”

Irritation smoldered in Larajin’s eyes. “It’s only a sleep spell,” she said. “It doesn’t rub off on other people.”

“It will if you touch the tree.”

Larajin gestured up at the tressym. “It didn’t affect Goldheart.”

“Of course it didn’t,” Leifander answered, exasperated at Larajin for missing a simple explanation. “She’s a magical creature.”

Leifander pointed up at the trunk of the oak, just above the spot where Dray hung.

“Do you see that?”

Larajin squinted. “Those scratches in the bark?”

“Yes. It’s a warning, in Espruar. This is holy ground. An elf lies buried beneath that oak. This man,” he pointed up at Dray, “must have been trying to loot the grave. He triggered the ward on the tree, and the elves probably hung him on it as an example. If either of us touches the tree, the magic of that ward will send us into a magical slumber. We’ll be as helpless as babes.”

“I thought elves were immune to magical slumber,” Larajin said.

“We’re half-elves,” Leifander reminded her. “We may resist the magic-or we may not. Do you really want to take that gamble?”

Larajin considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I can’t believe that Dray was trying to rob this grave,” she said. “He’s a Foxmantle-a wealthy Sembian merchant who led the caravan that I traveled north with. He has no need to stoop to tomb robbing. In fact, when some sellswords he hired to protect his caravan turned out to be brigands and looted an elven tomb, Dray ordered them to stop. He’s a decent man.”

Leifander glanced down at the disturbed ground, then up at the sleeping man, and asked, “Then what happened here?”

“I don’t know,” Larajin answered, “but Dray might. Let’s wake him up and find out. Will you help me lift him down-carefully, so we don’t touch the tree?”

Leifander nodded, and together they grasped Dray by his legs and eased him off the branch he’d been hanging from. They carried him a short distance through the woods, away from the area blighted by the mist, and laid him on clean ground. After a few moments, he began to stir. His eyes opened, and he stared up at them-then he sat up quickly and looked wildly about, as if expecting something to jump out from behind a tree at any moment.

“What’s happened?” he gasped. “Where’s Klarsh?”

Larajin seemed to recognize the name. “He’s not here,” she told Dray.

She explained how they’d found him hanging in a tree-alone. Leifander added his own observation: the rotted vegetation that surrounded the oak had been devoid of footprints. Whoever had left Dray in the tree had done so before the mist drifted into that part of the forest.

“How long have I been here?” Dray asked. “What day is it, Thazienne?”

Larajin-who didn’t seem to find it unusual to be addressed by her half-sister’s name-gave him a date from the human calendar.

“By the gods … that long?” Dray said in a whisper. “I’ve been asleep for more than a tenday, then.”

He rose to his feet unsteadily, like an invalid climbing from bed. Larajin reached out to help him, careful not to jostle his injured arm.

“Can I heal that for you?” she asked.

Dray nodded eagerly. “Please. If you could.”

Larajin placed her hands gently above the makeshift dressing and whispered a quick prayer. A glow spread from her fingers into his arm, and Dray breathed a deep sigh of relief. Gingerly at first-then with increasing confidence-he unwrapped the dressing. The skin underneath was puckered but whole. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand. Thanks to Larajin’s magic, the broken finger had straightened, and the swelling was gone. Flexing it, he smiled.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

Larajin gestured east.

“Back to Rauthauvyr’s Road? “Dray asked. “Can I travel at least that far with you?”

“Not unless you can fly,” Leifander said bluntly.

“We’re using magic,” Larajin explained. “We’d soon leave you behind.”

“Ah,” Dray said. He glanced at the trail, looking uncomfortable. “Perhaps I should try to reach Ashabenford, then,” he said nervously. Then he added, “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to accompany me?”

“We haven’t time,” Larajin told him. “We’re trying to find someone. We believe she’s to the east, deeper in the woods. She-”

Thankfully, Larajin caught Leifander’s curt head shake, and changed the subject.

“How did you escape the ambush?” she asked Dray. “I thought the elves had killed you.”

Dray glanced nervously at Leifander and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Is he one of them?”

“Yes,” Larajin answered, “and no. He’s a half-elf. He’s my … friend. You can trust him.”

Leifander gave this no comment. Instead he merely waited, arms folded, for Dray to tell them what had happened.

“Ah,” Dray said. He spoke to Larajin, but kept an eye on Leifander, heedful of his reaction. “My escape was a fortuitous one-and not at all due to my own merits, I’m ashamed to add. After I grabbed the sword, an arrow struck my arm. I thought I was going to faint from the pain, then suddenly everything was gone.”

Leifander frowned, and saw the same expression on Larajin’s face. “Gone?” he asked.

“I’d been transported to another spot in the woods,” Dray explained. “Magically-by Klarsh, as it turned out. It seems, having lost his chance at the, ah … spoils … he was trying to salvage something of value from the caravan: me.

“I had nothing to fight Klarsh with-I’d dropped the sword after the arrow struck my arm-and I knew he had powerful magic. I had no choice but to accompany him through the woods. I expected him to head for Essembra and on to Hillsfar, which was where that lout Enik had said the brigands would lie low with their loot. I was surprised when we went west, instead. When I asked Klarsh why, he said the north was hardly the neutral haven that Enik had expected. He said he didn’t want to be ‘conscripted,’ and that Enik had been a fool.”

“Conscripted?” Larajin echoed. “By whom? Have the cities of the Moonsea also declared war on the elves?”

Dray shrugged.

Leifander stared at the human, his patience wearing thin. When would the fellow get to the point? “How did you come to be digging up an elf grave?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the oak.

Dray paled and glanced imploringly at Larajin but continued when she urged him on with a nod.

“I didn’t want to do it. Klarsh forced me-with his magic. I was no more than a puppet, jerked by magic strings. It was terrible, being so helpless. The last thing I remember was grabbing one of the roots, to pull it free and suddenly feeling very tired. Then I woke up, here, with you.”

The story sounded reasonable to Leifander, but Larajin had one more question.

“Why didn’t Klarsh use a spell to move the earth aside, as he had before?”

Dray shrugged. “Maybe he thought it would attract too much attention. He thought there might be other elf patrols in the woods. Perhaps he just wanted to humiliate me by forcing me to do manual labor.”

“Or perhaps,” Larajin said, “Klarsh intended you to fall victim to the tree’s magical ward. As a wizard, he should have recognized the glyph on the tree for what it was. He’d probably decided to abandon his treasure hunt and ransom you instead. I’ll bet it was he who took your ring and earring, as proof that he held you captive. The sleeping spell made you easy to handle-and to store. I suppose he intended to leave you here in the woods, hanging on that tree, for your relatives to pick up after they had delivered the ransom.”

She glanced at the mist-scarred oak, then at the trail, and the four spider bodies that lay on it, and shuddered.

“You could have been killed by the mist, had it been just a little higher-or by spiders. You’re a lucky man, Dray.”

“Lucky to have met you, Thazienne,” Dray answered with a bow.

Leifander, aware that he might as well be invisible to the human, bristled. His magic had played an equal part in saving Dray’s life, and yet it went unacknowledged. It was not in his nature to boast his valor or to seek acknowledgement from a human. Even so, it rankled.

Larajin was oblivious to this slight. Instead she seemed troubled by something. She glanced at the ground, as if collecting her thoughts, then up at Dray.

“I’m not actually Thazienne,” she said. “I’m a … relative of hers. My name’s Larajin.”

Dray’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? A relative, you say? You’re an Uskevren, then?”

“Yes, but my mother was from a … part of the family that’s not well known.”

“Ah,” Dray nodded sagely, as if this explained everything. “A dalliance, then.” He studied her a moment, his head tilted to one side. “You’re too young to be one of the illegitimate brats Roel was so fond of siring. Was your father Perivel, then? But no, he died when the first Stormweather Towers burned to the ground, years before you would have been born. That would leave …”

Leifander, growing impatient, supplied the answer. “Her father was Thamalon Uskevren,” he told Dray, ignoring Larajin’s frantic motions for silence. “I am also Thamalon’s son.”

Dray glanced at Leifander’s tattooed face, then burst into laughter. Only when Leifander glowered at him was he able to choke it back.

“Oh that’s a good one,” Dray sputtered at last. “I suppose you’ll be laying claim to the family fortune, then, like that fellow who pretended to be Thamalon’s long-lost brother. I heard about that-about the fake Perivel, and the magical chalice that proved him an imposter.”

Leifander dismissed this foolish notion with a curt flick of his fingers. Why did every human he confessed his parentage to assume he’d want to live in a crowded, stinking pile of stone like Selgaunt?

“I’m not interested in Sembian gold,” he told Dray.

“Perhaps not,” Dray agreed as his eyes slid sideways to Larajin, “but she is. Or to be more specific, she’s interested in Foxmantle gold.”

Dray turned to Larajin and nodded at her dagger. “The weapon with the Uskevren crest was a nice touch. It had me fooled. No wonder you were so keen on joining my caravan. You hoped to seduce me!”

Anger blazed in Larajin’s eyes. “Sedúcelou?” she echoed in an exasperated voice. “You were the one who practically proposed marriage. I never-”

Leifander, growing impatient, touched Larajin’s arm.

“This discussion is pointless,” he told her. “You’ve repaid this man by saving his life, but now time is wasting. Let’s shift and be off, before more spiders find us.”

Dray, obviously realizing that he was about to be left to make his own way home alone from the middle of the spider-infested woods, caught at Larajin’s arm.

“Larajin, please forgive me,” he begged. “I’m sorry to have insulted you. Please, won’t you at least loan me your dagger, so I at least have a fighting chance of getting home?”

“I can’t,” Larajin answered. “It’s … an heirloom, but Leifander might be able to spare his dagger.”

“What?” Leifander whirled around and glared at her. He gestured angrily at Dray. “He’s a human. An enemy.”

Amazingly, Larajin moved between Leifander and Dray, as if shielding the human.

“He’s harmless, Leifander, just a merchant. I’d stake my life on it.”

“You’d stake other people’s lives on it, you mean,” Leifander muttered to himself. Then, seeing that Larajin was not going to be swayed from this foolish notion, he added, “Do you think he’ll agree to a magically binding oath?”

Instead of answering, Larajin looked at Dray. The human nodded.

Leifander drew his dagger-smiling inwardly as Dray flinched-then reversed the blade. He spoke a prayer in Elvish, activating the spell that would bind Dray to his oath.

“Touch the hilt,” he instructed.

Dray hesitated only an instant before obeying.

“Now swear,” Leifander intoned, “that you’ll only use this dagger to defend yourself against forest creatures-that you won’t wield it against my people, the elves.”

Dray drew himself up and placed a hand on his heart.

“I swear it,” he said. He blinked once, as Leifander’s spell rooted the suggested course of action firmly in his heart, then he hefted the dagger and added, with a grin, “Truth be told, I’m more a man to avoid fights than prompt them.”

He turned to Larajin. “Thank you for all that you’ve done. Back on the caravan, when I said you were pretty, I wasn’t lying. You’re quite beautiful. If you really were an Uskevren, I’d renew my proposals.” He winked. “But business, unfortunately, must always come before pleasure, even for a Foxmantle.”

Leifander tugged impatiently at Larajin’s arm. “Come,” he said. “Time to shift.”

Leifander squatted and spread his arms, preparing to skin-walk. Larajin nodded, then sank to her knees on the ground, clutching the locket at her wrist. As she began the spell that would shift her into tressym form, however, she cast one last glance over her shoulder at Dray, then she closed her eyes, as if the sight of him was distracting her.

Leifander shook his head at her folly. Dray might be handsome but he had little else to recommend him, and yet he’d won Larajin over with nothing more than a few charming words. It was amazing, Leifander thought, what lengths someone would go to, given the promise of a little romance.