Through the trees, a darkened dream
Shadows stalking through the green.
The forest of Arkana rose around the three travellers, enclosing them in its mammoth, multi-fingered fist. With the grey sky lurking sullenly above, and the thick canopy, little light filtered down to ground level, leaving them wrapped in murky, cold twilight.
It was like entering another world. Ferrian had never seen trees so huge, or even imagine that living things could grow to such impressive heights. Even if he craned his head all the way back, he could not see the tops of them. The trunks were gnarled and unfathomably ancient, wide as houses. In many places it was not clear where one tree ended and another began. And here also, like the rocks in the Tentaryl Ranges, strange magic was in evidence; some of the trees were warped into impossible shapes. There was plant life that neither Ferrian or Hawk had ever seen before, and some of it was disturbingly animal-like. Weird bird song echoed hauntingly through the towering, living pillars, while a few persistent snowflakes found their way down through the maze of leaves.
The old highway continued straight ahead through the forest, though instantly became so overgrown that it could not be seen. So dense was the undergrowth that it was impassable. Hawk took the lead, hacking at the vegetation with his sword to clear a path. After exerting himself this way for some time, and cursing a lot in the process, yet only gaining them a few yards, Ferrian took over with the Sword of Frost.
The Sword cut through everything in its path with ease, and they proceeded much more quickly.
Ferrian marvelled at the way the Sword froze the plants instantly as it sliced through them, so that it felt more like smashing ice than slashing bushes. It also left a shimmering trail of silvery light through the air as he swung it. Guiltily, he found that he was enjoying himself.
They had opted to leave the horses behind in the clearing just inside the gates, as attempting to ride them through the impenetrable thicket was futile.
Mekka walked at the rear, explaining that his dark silhouette would be spotted too easily if he flew above the canopy. He told them that they need not fear any Angel guards down here; Angels rarely ventured into the forest on foot. Their city of Fleetfleer floated high above the ground, suspended by the same magic that they had encountered in the mountains which had produced hovering islands of rock. Most of Fleetfleer was situated above the treetops, inaccessible to Humans and other ground-based races.
Grath Ardan was unique, he said, in that it was constructed entirely underground.
“Although, I suspect it was not built by Angels,” he said contemplatively as they walked, “but a much older race, that is now extinct and forgotten.”
He jumped and plucked a couple of peculiar fruit from an overhanging branch, and took a bite out of one of them.
“You're unusually chipper today,” Hawk observed.
The Angel shrugged, and smiled. “I am illegally infiltrating my own country. What's not to like?”
“Sure,” Hawk replied drily. “I thought you hated this place?”
Mekka shook his head, tossing the other fruit to Hawk. “I do not hate Arkana. Merely the people who live here.”
Hawk eyed the fruit suspiciously. “Fair enough. Though with respect,” he said, looking around, “this forest makes me nervous.” He gestured at the plant life around them, some of which appeared to be actually shying away from Ferrian's Sword. “I swear these plants are moving.”
“Oh?” Mekka glanced around as well. “Oh. Yes,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Do not mind them. They are harmless.”
“No, seriously,” Hawk insisted, pointing. “That one is definitely creeping me out.”
On a tree beside them sat a head-sized plant with eight long, green, vine-like tendrils that radiated outwards like a spider's legs. It's 'body' consisted of a clump of fern fronds.
“I'm sure that thing has been following us since we entered the forest.”
“Hawk,” Mekka sighed. “It's a plant. A weed.”
“Yeah, a weed that's stalking us!” He drew his sword, then looked at both of his companions in turn. “Does anyone mind if I kill it?”
“The greenweavers will not attack a living person,” Mekka assured him patiently. “They are scavengers. They live on corpses.”
“Umm…” Ferrian said slowly, having stopped on the path. “Mekka… there's a lot of them...”
They turned around, noticing that Ferrian was right. A swarm of the green spider-like plants was crawling towards them over the trunks of the trees.
It was as though every plant in the forest had suddenly grown legs.
“Ah,” Mekka said, holding up a finger. “Correction. Not harmless to Ferrian.”
Hawk and Ferrian raised their swords. Mekka's sinister silver spike shinged out of its hidden sheath in his sleeve.
One of the spider-things leapt.
Mekka spun and impaled it.
Then the rest of them surged forward.
Ferrian and Hawk swung.
Tinkling pieces of ice showered around Ferrian as he slashed the plant creatures out of mid-air, but there were too many of them, coming too fast. Tendrils whipped around his body and before he knew what was happening, he was overwhelmed, smothered in green fronds.
He went down.
Mekka and Hawk rushed towards Ferrian, furiously hacking spider-plants away from him.
“Dammit!” Hawk cried, trying to rip the tendrils off with his free hand, but they were wrapped tight and hard as steel wire, and more of them kept piling on. He cut at the vines with his sword.
Mekka dealt with the last of the wave and knelt to assist Hawk. His silvertine spike was far sharper than Hawk's steel, and sliced through the plants effortlessly.
There were a lot of them to get through, however.
They were almost through the last of the vines when Mekka became aware of an unnatural dark shadow in front of them. He looked up, then rose to his feet at once, standing protectively over Ferrian.
Hawk glanced up as well, then also leapt to his feet, sword raised.
Three Murons stood around them, blacker than night, slanted yellow eyes lantern-like in the gloom; one in front, one behind them and one to their right.
“Murons!” Hawk gasped. “What are they doing here?!”
Mekka did not take his eye off the creature in front of him. “They live here,” he answered quietly.
“They… they what??” Hawk turned to him, aghast. “You didn't think this was something worth mentioning earlier?!”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“They have not been seen in this forest for decades,” the Angel went on. “They abandoned Arkana for some unknown reason. There was no reason to believe they would have returned.”
“How did they get through the Aegis?”
“You conveniently left an entrance for usss,” the Muron in front of them rasped in its soft voice, amused. “We mussst thank you.”
Beside him, Mekka heard Hawk muttering curses and something about Dragons not being able to fit through…
The Muron ahead of them stalked with slow steps towards Mekka, yellow eyes boring into him. “You are sssmart, little Angel,” it whispered. “You know much.” It lifted a long talon and pointed at him. “You possssesss but one eye, yet you sssee better than mossst.”
Mekka returned the creature's stare unflinchingly. “Only three of you?” he murmured. “Is this all that is left of your race?”
The Muron regarded him, eyes narrowing, reptilian head turning slowly from side to side. “No,” it replied finally. “There are othersss...”
“But not many?”
The Muron studied him for another long moment. “Not many,” it agreed. “We wisssh to increassse our numberssss.”
A warning shiver passed up Mekka's back, quivering his feathers. Moving his head slightly to the side, he caught a glimpse of another Muron standing directly behind him.
He forced himself to remain calm and still as he felt the creature gently stroke his right wing with its talons.
“Your wingsss,” it whispered. “Ssso black...”
A moment later, it lifted its other hand and ran its claws down his left wing, very delicately. “Ssso pretty...”
He felt it lean in close to him, its long head right beside his ear, black teeth close to his neck, breath rancid against his skin. “You could be…” it suggested, “one of usss...”
“Uh-oh,” Hawk warned from beside him. “That was the wrong thing to say...”
Mekka's green eye hardened and narrowed, the skin on his face tightening.
His gloved hands clenched into fists.
Then he spun, dropping into a crouch, and plunged his silver spike into the Muron's gut.
The Muron screamed and slashed at him, but its claws raked empty air.
Mekka rolled and slashed upwards at the creature's back, but the Muron was fast – almost as fast as he was – and parried with a backhand blow. Mekka rolled away again, ducking the second blow, and came to his feet in time to slice open the Muron's arm.
The Muron screamed in rage and came for him. Mekka leapt upwards and soared away into the branches of the nearest tree.
Below, the third, silent Muron attacked Hawk. Mekka watched him parry the blows until the wounded Muron landed on his branch, forcing him to leap backwards.
Mekka half-crouched on another branch, silver spike outwards. The Muron hissed at him, black blood oozing from its injuries. Mekka knew he would need to pierce its brain to kill it, however. The clashing sound of Hawk's battle rang out from the path below.
Mekka gritted his teeth. Hawk's sword was no use against these creatures. And Ferrian…
The Muron lunged at him. Mekka dodged its claws but it lashed out immediately with a fierce kick, which Mekka was slightly too slow to avoid. The blow caught him in the chest as he dodged the wrong way, knocking the wind out of him and slamming him backwards into another branch.
He threw himself at the trunk as he fell and his spike caught, stopping his plunge to the ground. The Muron's jaws snapped towards him and he pushed himself away with a grunt, just missing them.
Recovering his breath in mid-air, he flapped upwards, landing on another branch and hopping from one to another, ducking through the interweaving stems until he rounded the tree and once again had a view of the scene below.
Ferrian was gone.
As was the first Muron.
Mekka cursed.
A hissing sound caused him to spin, slashing as he did so, and he was rewarded with another enraged shriek. Blood streamed down the Muron's scales in a rippling black wave from a long gash across its chest.
It raked at him.
Mekka impaled its hand on his spike.
The Muron narrowed its eyes, curled its claws around the metal and tried to throw Mekka from the tree, but the Angel was prepared for this reaction. He withdrew his spike just as the Muron pulled, causing the creature to wobble off balance.
He used the opening to thrust at its head.
The Muron lunged at him with its jaws at the last second, but it was too slow. The spike rammed through the side of its jaw and continued upwards, through its head.
Mekka held his pose, panting as the Muron convulsed, then let the body slide off his spike and fall to the ground.
“Hawk!” he yelled as he jumped on to the outward branch again.
Below, the Freeroamer was struggling valiantly with his own Muron, but was tiring. “Go!” he cried back. “Go after Ferrian! Hurry!”
Mekka hesitated.
“Go, Mekka!”
The Angel threw himself off the branch and sped through the dark trees.
Hawk parried a swipe, ducked as the Muron's jaws came at him, and swung his sword upwards. The blade glanced off the creature's head. He dodged backwards, jumping as the Muron swiped a leg out, trying to trip him.
It almost succeeded.
Hawk stumbled backwards, panting heavily. His movements were becoming slower with exhaustion. No matter how hard or fast he struck at the Muron, his blade could not not penetrate those rock-hard obsidian scales. There was hardly any space for a fight, either. The clearing had been widened somewhat with all the slashing and fighting, but thick bushes lined the path on either side. If Hawk got snagged in them, it would be the end of him.
With an effort, he parried another flurry of blows, and dodged aside. The Muron could tell that he was weakening and was pressing hard. It lashed out, snake-fast, and caught him another gash across his upper arm, to add to his growing collection.
I'm not going to survive this, Hawk thought with dismay.
One laceration traced the line of his jaw: he could feel blood trickling down his neck, leaking beneath his uniform.
The yellow eyes mocked him. The black creature wasn't even injured, or tired at all.
Hawk gritted his teeth.
Mekka could take these things down, but Mekka had a supremely sharp weapon. Obviously, ordinary steel was useless…
And then, Hawk remembered the Sword of Frost.
He feinted at the Muron, giving him a second to glance around.
There it was. Ferrian's Sword lay on the ground where he had dropped it: a glimmer of silver in the midst of the shredded vegetation.
With an angry cry, Hawk swung his blade recklessly upwards, directly at the Muron's face. The creature grabbed it with both taloned hands, and ripped it out of Hawk's grip.
Hawk let it take his weapon. He ducked and rolled under the Muron's huge black wing, and ran for the Sword.
He could feel the Muron right behind him, could imagine its long, vicious claws reaching for his back…
Desperately, he lunged for the Sword.
His hand closed around the hilt.
He rolled onto his back, swinging the silver blade with all his might…
The Sword cleaved right through the Muron, black blood and entrails spraying everywhere, covering Hawk in a hot, stinking gush. The two halves of the creature fell to either side of him.
Hawk froze where he was for a long moment, gasping for breath, as the pieces twitched beside him.
Then he lay back on the ground in relief.
Mekka raced through the dark forest, flying hard. Night was approaching and the light was fading quickly, but he could hear the faint thump of the Muron's wings in the silence, and he had an advantage: he knew where it was going.
The same place they were all going.
Grath Ardan.
The Angel weaved through the trees, dodging overhanging branches, until he caught a glimpse of the Muron in the distance, a blacker shade of black against the misty gloom. The creature was swift, but it was carrying a body, which slowed it down.
Mekka was faster.
He banked around a tree and caught up with it. The Muron swerved abruptly to the left.
Mekka followed.
He gained on it, positioning himself above the creature, spike pointed downwards, but just as he was about do drop onto its back, the Muron suddenly rolled in the air. He dodged the Muron's wing, only to find Ferrian's body slamming into him.
He tumbled away.
He rolled into a somersault mid-air and righted himself, feet cushioning his impact on the trunk of a tree, then pushed himself off and sped after the Muron.
This time, he broke away just as he reached the creature, swooping into the trees and flying parallel to the Muron.
It sneered at him through gaps in the trunks.
Mekka sped up.
He flew fast, missing branches by a feather's breath, wind rushing over his body and sleek wings. He flew like a dart, piercing the darkness, intent on his target.
Then his wings snapped open as he suddenly changed direction. He alighted on a branch and crouched there, bow in hand, arrow pulled back…
The Muron came into view.
Mekka released the arrow.
He was rewarded with a shriek and the sight of the shaft protruding from its eye. The Muron faltered and went down, but to his dismay, it recovered and did not drop the body. Still, the distraction was a brief opportunity...
Mekka threw himself onto the Muron's back.
The back of the thing's skull was protected by a cluster of long horns. Mekka shoved his spike into its neck, instead.
The Muron gargled, but kept flying.
He stabbed it again.
The Muron rolled onto its side, and Mekka looked up to see it was heading fast into a tree. He leapt off as the creature crashed into the trunk.
It dropped a few feet but recovered, great wings thumping the air. Leaking blood and half-stunned, still it tried to attack him, jaws wide…
Mekka ducked beneath it and shoved his arm forward, driving his spike upwards through the roof of its mouth and out the top of its head.
The Muron released Ferrian.
Mekka withdrew his spike into his sleeve and dropped, catching the boy, spreading his wings to slow their descent. They tumbled downwards and smashed through the undergrowth, hitting the ground hard. A bolt of pain lanced through Mekka's shoulder.
He lay there for a moment, recovering, his nostrils filled with the fragrant aroma of crushed plants. He had heard the thump of the Muron's body hitting the ground along with them. It was dead.
Wincing, he pushed himself up and attended to Ferrian, slicing away the last of the vines that bound him.
Ferrian was still conscious, and struggled when the vines allowed him enough movement to do so. The boy ripped the remainder of the plant-spiders off him and threw them away from him furiously.
“Why do those Murons keep trying to kidnap me?!” he yelled.
Mekka did not reply, just stood up. His entire body ached and weariness was starting to claim him. “Wait here,” he told Ferrian. “Hawk is in trouble. I have to go back and help him.”
At the boy's troubled look, and realising that he no longer had his Sword to defend himself with, Mekka produced a match tin and bottle of alcohol, and handed them over. “Light a fire,” he advised. “Burn anything that comes close.”
“But...”
The Angel disappeared into the darkness.