~ CAROLINE ~

High in the treetops, a nightingale sang its warbling song. It darted suddenly from its perch, shooting right past General Bradshaw’s face and prompting him to curse loudly. This amused the others, Chris especially. He was in good spirits today. It was hard to see why.

Caroline pulled tight the lapels of her coat. Chris could have picked a warmer day than today to go off to the camp on the high plateau, though at least it wasn’t raining. That was a blessing of some sort. They’d arrived in the midst of a sunny spell, but that had given out, and for the past week it had alternated between insipid drizzle and belting rain. The ground was still damp from last night’s fall, and her boots were slick enough with mud as it was. She needn’t have spent all that time polishing them.

They were ten. General Bradshaw had lead the way out of the valley, heading a deputation from the Council. For some reason he’d insisted on bringing his eldest daughter along. The excuse was that Molly Bradshaw was a soldier, and the General was entitled to have an escort with him. Oliver Wrack had brought along his Lieutenant, after all. Caro was dubious. Molly wasn’t dressed like a soldier. She wore a waistcoat of steel blue over a cotton blouse, and while her overcoat was made of the same woollen serge as a standard field uniform, she’d had it drawn in to tightly hug her figure. Her breeches, too, hugged tightly to her curves. A floral clip of bright crimson hung in the dark braids of her hair. It was a fetching outfit—but it wasn’t uniform.

Of course, none of the men had noticed. Chris spent the entirety of the walk to the camp in hushed conversation with Oliver Wrack, while Wrack’s Lieutenant lurked behind them. Once or twice Caro saw them glancing at Molly’s rear, as though they weren’t both married men twice her age. The Hookbill, the other member of the Council to come, kept to the back of the formation, silently watching with inscrutable eyes. As always, the rims of his eyes were coloured to match his doublet—today a lemon-yellow.

At the camp, they were greeted by Sergeant Malleston, the commander of the barebones garrison there. Malleston was a rake of a man, with a long, narrow nose and an oversized mouth. He wore his uniform with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows; the other soldiers at the camp had gone one step further, and dispensed with their thick overcoats entirely, wearing only the brown jerkins they wore beneath. They peered out at the deputation with muddy faces, from the darkened doorways of wet sod-houses. Some progress had been made towards a permanent fortification; the canvas walls which had been up on Caro’s last visit were gone, replaced by timber. The fort was not yet inhabitable, even if the sod-houses were damp and dingy.

After formalities, Sergeant Malleston chose two of his soldiers to join the procession—stocky Matt Grogan, with untidy hair and a scrappy beard, and petite Kinnet Moray, who had a wave of brown hair down to her chin and a partially-healed scar beneath her right eye. A gaunt Constabulary officer, Lieutenant Baxendale, tagged along to complete the set. A heavy topcoat of green wool kept the cold off, and covered up the gaudier yellows that made up half of the Constabulary’s uniform.

The route involved a long walk down a grassy incline, swinging left to pass through a narrow gulch at times barely wide enough for them to walk in single file. It was in this canyon, at a point where a gently burbling stream took over all the floor space and forced them to walk in the water, that General Bradshaw was set upon by the nightingale. He flapped an arm at it, but it was gone, soaring to the crest of the hills and out of sight.

As the rest of them laughed at the red-faced General—his daughter Molly included—the Hookbill approached Caro. “I trust you didn’t leave poor Bessily waiting for you?” he said, swooping in to whisper in her ear. She could feel the spittle that landed on her, and rubbed it away.

“I talked to her,” she said. “And a good job, too. The girl would be scared out of her wits with someone like you following her around.”

The Hookbill didn’t rise to the bait. “She’s lucky to have you on her side,” he said. “Just as we’re lucky to have you on the Council.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” said Caro.

“I don’t deal in flattery, Mistress Ballard.”

Caro was rescued from the Hookbill by a shout from her husband. “I hope you’re not bothering my wife, Prendergast.”

“I was discussing a private matter with Mistress Ballard,” said the Hookbill, turning. “Or does a man not have the right to speak to a physician in confidence?” He moved away, and Chris came over instead. When he put his hand on her shoulder, she batted him away.

“I can handle myself, Chris,” she said. “I don’t need you always fighting my corner.”

“You’re my wife. I’ll always fight alongside you.” Chris leaned in to kiss her.

Caro giggled. “There’s a time and place,” she said, pushing him away.

They’d been delayed by a sheer rock face, high enough that they couldn’t get up without clambering in an undignified manner. Grogan had made his way up to the top and was lying on his belly, leaning over the edge with his hand outstretched. Moray was knelt at the base of this escarpment, struggling with a pop-up rope ladder. Molly Bradshaw approached, a real swagger in her step. “Here,” she said, taking the ladder from Moray’s hands. “It works like this.” She tugged on something, and the ladder came to life in her hands. Moray took it back off her, a grateful smile, and Molly Bradshaw walked away laughing.

“I’m confused, General,” said Caro, as Moray set to feeding the ladder up towards Grogan’s grateful grasp. “In what capacity is your daughter with us today?”

“Molly will be carrying on my name,” said Bradshaw. “She needs to learn the ins and outs.”

“So no official capacity then?” said Caro. Both Bradshaws scowled at her.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Chris. “Try not to piss off the General, Caro,” he said, out of the side of his mouth.

Sergeant Malleston was the first up the ladder, when Grogan had it secure. Caro went after Chris, with only the soldier Moray left to bring up the rear. Moray had difficulty with the ladder; one of the rungs kept getting twisted around her leg, and she couldn’t get a foothold. Molly Bradshaw watched the whole thing unfold from her perch atop the rockface, taking great amusement from it.

“Here,” said Caro, reaching down to Moray and helping her up.

No sooner had Moray reached solid ground than Molly was on her. “Fair’s fair: that was pathetic,” she said. “Are you supposed to be a soldier? I haven’t had a crease like that for years.”

Moray avoided Molly’s gaze. Caro didn’t blame her. If she said anything to defend herself, General Bradshaw would intervene on his daughter’s behalf. A footsoldier couldn’t stand up to the General himself. Instead, she sought Caro’s eye. “Thanks for the help, Doctor Ballard,” she said, with a mild lisp.

Molly snorted. “What sort of soldier needs your help, Mistress Ballard? With all due respect, you’re not exactly a paragon of strength.”

Caro turned to Molly, shooting daggers from her eyes. “Next time you think of a hilarious comment, keep it to yourself. You’re not exactly a paragon of comedy, Mistress Bradshaw.” She switched on a copperhead to a sweet smile. “With all due respect.” And Caro walked away, before Molly Bradshaw had time to formulate a response.

“This is the place,” said Sergeant Malleston finally, after twenty more minutes of wandering through dense foliage. His outstretched arms gestured towards a clearing; pointed boulders bordered it, while in the centre was a huge willow tree. It must have been at least twice the age of the others around it, its trunk gnarled and covered in dead bark, and browned leaves sprouting from arthritic branches. Caro looked skyward, but she couldn’t see the top of the tree. The canopy was too thick, and it rose too high.

“It’s not often you come across a willow this size,” said General Bradshaw. “It’s a veritable titan.”

“Must have been here for centuries,” Master Wrack mused. Then he laughed. “Good Mother, it’s probably older than Ruddingshaw.”

Bradshaw scowled. “Have some respect. Master Ruddingshaw has a damn sight more experience than you, and I daresay more insight too. He’s an asset.”

“Lighten up, dad,” said Molly Bradshaw, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you know what a joke is?”

The Hookbill walked right up close to the tree, running a hand along its trunk. “There’s an aura to it,” he said, crouching down to trace the path of the ruts in the bark, all the way to the roots. “If only it could talk, it could tell us some stories. The things it must have seen...”

“Unless it can tell us what happened to Corporal Bartley’s team, I’m not interested in the whisperings of trees,” said General Bradshaw

The Hookbill turned to Bradshaw, bewildered. “Wouldn’t you want to know the history of this place? There must be a million ghosts trapped within, frozen in the sap, never to be seen again.”

“Trapped is the best place for ghosts to be,” said Bradshaw. “Trapped, or anywhere else where I don’t have to think about them.”

“What dad means is he’s easily spooked,” said Molly, earning a reproving glare from her father.

Kinnet Moray bent down at the trunk of the tree. “There’s nightshade growing here,” she said. “A whole bed of it. It’s like the story—you know, the tree from which the Gods sent forth the shadow of night. I wonder if this is the tree.”

Caro knew the story Moray referred to. Nana Raine had read it to her often. Long ago, a darkness had spread to cover the land. None could stop it—even the strongest walls were useless—and wherever it went plants withered and died. Eventually, when mankind was on the brink of extinction, Matheld—the Daughter—strode into the heart of the shadow, surrounded by loyal companions. One by one her companions sacrificed themselves, but Matheld made it to an ancient willow tree, the heart of all darkness. There, within its hollow trunk, she looked upon the Gods in all their ghast and glory, and made the most fateful bargain. The Gods would lift the plague they cast upon the land, restoring light to the world, but in return Matheld had to give up that which was dearest to her. Her daughter Taléa was only seventeen years old, the first Foresleeper, and the Gods wanted that power back. So in the shade of the willow tree, Matheld slit the throat of her only daughter. It was said that the first sprigs of nightshade grew from the spots kissed by Taléa’s blood.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Molly Bradshaw sniggered. “It’s hardly likely to be the tree. You know those stories are all a fiction, right? Just some way to pretend we’re not all alone in this universe.”

Moray pursed her lips and stayed quiet. A smart decision, really. A soldier who argued back at the General’s favourite daughter in the presence of the General was unlikely to be a soldier for much longer—especially when the General in question was Mark Bradshaw, who could not stand to hear his family impugned.

Sergeant Malleston brought things back on track. “As best as I can tell, Donea found the stranger just behind this rock.” He pointed to a particularly pointed boulder. “There was blood on the rock at one time, but we’ve had rain since then.”

“We have sketches,” said Lieutenant Baxendale. “The Lord Constable was sure to check the area thoroughly.”

“No samples?” Caro frowned.

Baxendale shook her head. “The Lord Constable didn’t see the need. It was obvious where the blood had come from, and it’d be easy to obtain a sample from the hospital, if we needed the stranger’s blood.”

Bradshaw was grimacing. “I’ll need to speak with Mannam,” he said, “if you seriously mean to tell me that he didn’t do his job properly. Three soldiers disappeared in this area—and we know for a fact that at least one of them was by this very tree, because that’s where her helmet was found. This mysterious stranger must surely be connected. Certainly it should have been worth checking to make sure.”

“The Lord Constable is of the opinion that the blood on the rocks belonged to the stranger,” said Baxendale.

“Are you the Lord Constable’s mouthpiece?” Bradshaw thundered. “Or are you a person in your own right?”

Baxendale stepped backward. “I’m a person, sir,” she said, her voice uneven.

“Then tell me what you think,” said Bradshaw, smiling sweetly.

Baxendale regarded him with wide eyes, a lip quivering. Caro moved to stand between them. “You needn’t intimidate her, General,” she said. “She’s only doing her job.”

“She can handle a simple question, I’m sure,” said Bradshaw. “She handled Arfon well enough.”

Baxendale’s fists were clenched. But she swallowed hard, and spoke. “I agree with the Lord Constable,” she said, definitely. “It was the stranger’s blood. No doubt about that.”

“How is the stranger?” asked the Hookbill, looking directly at Caro. “The Governor informs us that he’s being treated in the hospital.”

“That he is,” Caro nodded. “Doctor Caerlin’s been charged with his care for today. He’s in very capable hands, but it’s a struggle. Nothing we do seems to improve his condition.”

“Well, then I hope no horrible pathogens have followed him onto the Eia,” said Bradshaw. “If he’s to die regardless, then your breaking quarantine for him was a risk that didn’t pay off.”

Caro gave Bradshaw a dirty look. “Don’t tell me how do my job, General,” she said.

“Then don’t tell me how to do mine,” said Bradshaw.

They were interrupted then by a sudden howl, a tremendous warbling that seemed to shake the thin trunks of the trees around them. A second later, one of the bantam brown things scuttled out from the brush, apparently oblivious to the crowd of them there. It darted through the clearing and disappeared out of sight. Oliver Wrack’s Lieutenant reached for the breech rifle slung on his back. “Little critters like that usually keep their distance,” he said. “It’s something mean that’s got the poor thing so frit he’ll run right through us.”

Bradshaw scoffed. “You needn’t try to frighten us, Lieutenant. More likely it’s the potbill all over again.” Potbills were dopey birds who made their home on subtropical islands firmly in the oceans of Arvila, so unused to facing predators that they didn’t learn to flee from the first human settlers to their lands until only a small handful remained. The best efforts of generations of Unity conservationists were all that spared the potbill from extinction.

But Wrack shook his head. “Lieutenant Sharp has the right of it. Hunting these buggers is damn near impossible, you no sooner catch a glimpse of one and it’s gone.”

“And something made that noise, of course,” said Chris. As if in response, another, more plaintive squeal rang out. This one seemed to be an elongated sound, fading to a quiet tremolo but never quite going silent. When at last the noise died, an unnatural hush took its place. Caro sought Chris’ gaze, looking for comfort in his eyes, but found only cold dismay.

Molly Bradshaw was the first to act. “Don’t you think somebody should investigate?” she said, beginning to walk towards the source of the wailing. “We’ll only get to live in ignorance until it shows up on our doorstep. I say we find out what’s out here before it comes looking for us.”

“Molly’s right,” said General Bradshaw. Molly, in the process of loading her freshly unholstered flintlock, smirked, until her father continued. “Somebody should investigate. But not you, Molly. You’ll stay here.”

“I can handle myself,” she protested.

Her father folded his arms. “This isn’t a debate, Molly. Sergeant Malleston, I’ll trust you to see that my daughter stays where she’s been put.”

Sergeant Malleston nodded. “You heard the General. Kinnet, stay with Miss Bradshaw.”

The Hookbill made his excuses and set off for the high plateau, and Lieutenant Baxendale went along with him, so there were six of them who went trudging amidst the undergrowth. Wrack’s Lieutenant Sharp, it turned out, had considerable pedigree as a tracker, and it was he who took point. Caro kept close to her husband, in the middle of the pack. Something about the situation had her hackles raised. Bringing up the rear felt too exposed.

The further they walked, the narrower the trunks of the trees became. Sturdy oaks and yews gave way to brittle things that looked sure to snap in the lightest breeze. All seemed somehow wrong.

“There’s nothing moving here,” said Oliver Wrack. “This whole forest is like a grave.” He wasn’t wrong. Caro hadn’t seen any sign of movement since that mettysnatcher had shot across the clearing. Even the insects had fallen silent, still.

Another warbling cry, far feebler this time than before. It was more an animalistic plea for pity than any harrowing roar. It was also a lot closer. Lieutenant Sharp gripped his rifle tightly, Malleston and Grogan following suit.

And suddenly Grogan darted forward. “Through here,” he said. “Something moving.” They followed him in turn, emerging at the head of a flat, dusty valley. Flowers grew in the shade of protruding rocks, all the way to a distant horizon of skyscraping mountains. Just a few feet from the treeline, a huge grey creature lay, something catlike, bright green eyes focused in their direction. Grogan froze level with the trees, his rifle pointed towards the creature. His shaking hands gripped tightly to the barrel of the gun. It wasn’t steady enough to be of any use.

Caro hung back. The creature hadn’t moved. It was looking right at them, it must surely have seen them. Either it should have fled, or they should have been attacked. Her lungs were heavy with dread, the way they got after her nightmares. In her nose and mouth, the coppery taste of blood. She spat on the ground to clear the taste, and copped a dirty look from Chris. Was he not feeling it too? There was something amiss here, and she had the sinking feeling it was something she’d seen before.

Lieutenant Sharp began to approach the creature. The sloping bank into the valley was dry soil, which crumbled beneath his feet. If he didn’t go careful, he might fall, right into the creature’s waiting jaws.

“Lieutenant,” cautioned Oliver Wrack. “Don’t be rash now.”

“It’s not moving, sir,” said Lieutenant Sharp. “Look at it, it’s covered in blood.” Now that Sharp had mentioned it, it was obvious. All along its back, the creature’s fur was matted, glistening with red blood that shone in the sunlight. Bloated blue flies were swarming around it, making ready.

Chris was shaking his head. “Shit,” he said. “What do we do?”

“If it’s dead, nothing,” Wrack suggested.

“If it’s dead, something killed it,” Chris pointed out. “And look at the size of the thing. It would take three of us to lift it up the slope. How big’s the thing that can kill this?”

General Bradshaw turned to Chris. “I think it’s best we keep this to ourselves. If the Council finds out, it’s only going to cause a panic. My soldiers can keep the valley safe. Until we know what killed this creature, the creature never existed.”

Chris nodded. “It might have been a fluke,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “Something got a lucky hit in. For all we know this thing’s prey’s lying dead a little way along. It took a wound making the kill then staggered here to die. Animals kill each other all the time. It’s no threat to us unless we’re careless.” The thought was comforting. Caro couldn’t help but feel it was wrong. Chris’ first supposition was likely the correct one—big as this cat was, there was something bigger roaming.

Though they’d been in the valley for a month or so now. Long enough, surely, for some trace to emerge of a creature that huge.

“None of the hunters have reported anything odd,” said Master Wrack. “Plenty of game animals, but nothing a good shot can’t kill. I don’t think we need fear the local wildlife.”

General Bradshaw moved with a quickening step down the slope, overtaking Lieutenant Sharp, and came to a stop right in front of the cat. He ran a finger along the cat’s fur, and when that elicited no response he gave it a bodily shove. “It’s definitely dead,” he said. A match was in his hand—Caro was only now noticing it, as he set it alight. He held it against the dead cat’s fur until it caught ablaze, then stood back. “That solves that problem.”

They were heading back towards the clearing when the light came. It was only a flash, blink and then gone, a pulse of the most brilliant blue. It came from the clearing.

“What was that?” someone asked. Caro didn’t wait around for the discussion. This was definitely stolen from her dreams. That horrible coppery smell filled her nose, permeating the sinuses like some alchemical curse to kill her from within. She would not let it. She breathed in through her mouth as she ran.

The creatures of the forest had returned. They gathered on low-hanging branches to watch Caro as she tried to remember the way back. Those brown scamps were the worst, real vindictive bastards, dropping nuts onto her head as she passed beneath them. She pricked herself with a hundred thorns. Burrs stuck to her coat.

But at least the scent of blood had gone. She’d never been so thankful to breathe clearly.

And in the wake of the great willow, she heard the voice of a woman.

Caro was the first one back, and she was struck at once by the smell of burning meat. Molly Bradshaw was on the ground, a metre or so from the trunk of the gnarled yew, clutching her forearm and whimpering. Of Kinnet Moray there was no trace. Shit. How had this happened? Caro ran to her. Molly’s arm was a mess, singed flesh oozing yellow pus. Her breathing was heavy.

“It’s okay,” said Caro, putting an arm around Molly. “Stay calm. I’ll get you fixed up.” Nobody else had made it to the clearing yet. What was taking them so long? “Get over here,” she yelled. “Molly’s hurt. I can’t deal with her by myself.” She turned back to Molly, whose face was beginning to pale. “Don’t look at it,” she said, in a soft voice. “Look at me. Focus on me. Can you stand?”

Molly nodded. “I think so.”

“Good. We’re gonna get you to the hospital, just as soon as we can. You’ve just got a few burns. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, nothing I can’t make better. A few weeks and you’ll be good as new.”

Molly’s eyes were glazing over. “The tree,” she said, her voice shaky. “It was like it was on fire.”

“The tree’s fine,” said Caro. “It’s you I’m worried about. You and Moray. Did you she where she went?” She might be hurt too. She might even be dead.

Molly shook her head. Her unburnt arm was trembling, Caro noticed. “Moray’s started back. I sent her away.”

“What?”

“I wanted to be alone. Told her if she didn’t leave me, I’d have my father expel her from her division. That was silly of me, wasn’t it?” Molly the woman was battling with Molly the little girl, and at the moment the little girl was winning.

Caro gave her a smile. “Don’t you worry about that. No, don’t look at the arm. It looks worse than it is—just needs a bit of salve and you’ll be right on the mend.”

At last, the others returned. Wrack and Lieutenant Sharp were first, with Grogan just behind. Then came General Bradshaw, walking without urgency. The moment he caught sight of Molly his face fell, and he ran over, dropping to his knees beside her. “Molly? My little fréa, are you okay?”

“It hurts, daddy,” said Molly, a tear welling in her eye.

“Help me lift her,” said Caro. “She needs to get to the hospital, as soon as possible.”

Bradshaw nodded. “Of course.” He went round to the other side, clasped his daughter’s hand—miraculously, the arm had taken all of the damage, and the hand seemed unscathed—and on Caro’s signal lifted Molly to her feet. And they began to hobble back, Molly swaying on wobbly legs between them.

As they walked, Caro felt her heartbeat rising. Something unseen was watching her, she could feel it. She wasn’t sure the others had a clue. None gave any suggestion that they were ill at ease. But they should have been—the forest was seething. Like an animal, it had claimed Molly Bradshaw for its dinner, hurt her and left her alone. And now they were taking the dinner away. Little wonder the watching woods were furious.

The trip back to the valley was the longest of her life.