Three-hundred yards from Clæfre, a figure-shaped mound of furs sat by the side of the road.

“Is that a person?” said Milde.

“I can’t see yet,” said Péton.

“It can’t be a person though,” said Leth, “It’s too big.”

“Mrs Tessel, is that one of the foresters?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“They’re dead,” said Mésia, her voice trembling.

“We didn’t find any bodies or graves,” said Cempa,“they could have survived.”

“No point standing around,” said Clæfre, “we should ask it.”

“By yourself?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I’d panic if seven soldiers accosted me when I was alone in a wood,” said Clæfre.

“Very well. Mr Bardolf, accompany Miss Misthliþ with some food and medical supplies. A gesture of good will can go a long way, even if we can’t communicate,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Yes, Sir.”

Clæfre shrugged, she placed her hands by her sides, turned her open palms towards the figure and approached the mound of furs. At fifty yards she stopped and waited, but the figure didn’t move.

“Er, hello?” said Clæfre.

The figure was wrapped in a fox fur cloak and wore a snug leather doublet, a knee length dark brown tunic, and goatskin hose. They were better shaped than Clæfre’s clothes. Brown, frizzy hair covered the figure’s face.

“Definitely a person,” said Péton.

Clæfre nodded, “Stay here.”

“Be nice,” said Péton.

Clæfre saluted Péton with her middle finger and moved closer. At ten yards, she halted and examined the figure.

It was a woman, huddled up and hugging her knees. Her shoulders rose and fell slowly. A massive bow, and a quiver with seven-foot arrows, lay on the road beside her.

What should I say next?

Feeling nervous, Clæfre tiptoed closer.

The woman looked up. She was stunning with fine boned, smooth skin, coloured in a mosaic of forest hues. Her entrancing figure swelled with feminine curves and prominent muscle. Even sitting down, the woman’s face was almost level with Clæfre’s.

“You’re beautiful,” said Clæfre.

The woman remained silent.

“Sorry, I mean, umm…Hello!” said Clæfre. Her face flushed.

What should I do?

Clæfre held out her hand.

“Thank you,” said the woman. Her voice was deep, much deeper than a man’s, but retained feminine timbre. The woman reached out and wrapped Clæfre’s hand in her own, encircling half of Clæfre’s forearm, “I’m Elewýs.”

“Oh!” Clæfre pulled her hand from the huge woman’s grip, “You surprised me.”

Elewýs laughed, she sounded like a musical ensemble and was just as deafening, “Your name?”

“I’m Clæfre Misthliþ,” Clæfre pointed, “and the guy standing over there like a lost lamb is Péton Bardolf.”

“Are you lost?”

“If we knew what we were looking for we would be, but you can’t be lost without a destination in mind.”

“There’s more than one kind of lost,” said Elewýs.

“I suppose,” said Clæfre.

“Who are the others?”

“My comrades in arms.”

“Your friends.”

“I think so, but there’s one, my sister. I’m not so sure about her.”

Elewýs sniffed and rubbed her eyes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Clæfre. “She’s alright, really. I was joking.”

“I know, I know. Excuse me a moment.” Elewýs stood.

Clæfre looked up in awe, she barely reached Elewýs’s stomach, “You alright?”

“No, I’m not and you shouldn’t be here,” said Elewýs. “You need to leave.”

“Are you sick, do you need food?”

“If they were my only problems, do you think I would be sitting by a decrepit road, crying by myself?”

“It’s hard to think in this place.” Clæfre rubbed her ear lobe, “We were attacked by two lynxes, there are wisps everywhere and no one knows what’s happening. Will you help us?”

“Gréatian? I’m surprised you’re still alive. Where did they attack you?” Elewýs said.

“By a big rock on the plains.”

Elewýs stiffened.

“Do you know it?” said Clæfre.

“On the plains?” said Elewýs. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, what’s wrong?”

“They shouldn’t be out there, it’s impossible.” Elewýs chewed her thumbnail, “I’ll help you. Wave your friends over, but don’t come too close.”

Mésia stayed back, lurking behind the horses as the troop approached.

“Thank you for talking to us,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Elewýs nodded.

“Where does the road go?” said Cempa.

“A dead end,” said Elewýs.

Sir Wulfslæd frowned.

“What happened?” said Clæfre.

“I was hunting in the forest when I heard a deep rumble. The earth shook for a few seconds and I almost fell. I returned home to find it was gone.”

“Were you living with anyone?” said Péton.

“I was.”

“Are you one of the Éaggemeare survivors,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I am.”

“How many of you live here?” Clæfre said.

“Just me.”

“You don’t have to tell us, Elewýs,” said Péton. “But will you take us there?”

“Follow the road.” She paused, “Were you really attacked by Gréatian on the plains?”

“She means the lynxes,” said Clæfre.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Gréatian is the name we gave to all the enlarged forest creatures.” Elewýs smiled, “I guess that would make me one too. Please, I really need to know.”

“We fought them a day or so outside the forest,” Cempa said.

“Thank you,” said Elewýs.

“Why is it so important?” Sir Wulfslæd said.

“If they can leave, so can I.”

“What do you mean?” said Milde.

“Gréatian die if they leave the forest, they need a huge amount of magic to live, at least, that’s what I was told. My body is similar.”

“Makes sense,” said Leth. “I was wondering why the lynxes absorbed magic.” He cocked his head to one side, “You do too.”

“Where will you go?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“My old home.”

“Will you be welcome?” said Milde. “I mean, no offence, but you’re huge!”

Clæfre groaned.

“I’m not sure,” said Elewýs, staring towards the horses. “Éaggemeare can’t have changed that much.”

“There’s been several fires,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Has,” Elewýs swallowed, “Has anyone died?”

“Not yet,” said Cempa.

“Are you sure you won’t at least accompany us to the centre?” said Clæfre.

“I can’t go back to Wigsteall,” said Elewýs.

“Wigsteall?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“The town at the end of the road,” said Elewýs.

Cempa and Sir Wulfslæd asked several more questions but Elewýs refused to say anything else and kept shaking her head.

“Don’t you think that’s enough, Sir?” said Clæfre.

Sir Wulfslæd sighed, “Alright. We’ll follow the road and see for ourselves. Will you wait for us, Miss Elewýs?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Wulfslæd, with a small bow.

Péton left a small parcel at Elewýs’s quiver and the troop returned to the horses.

“Won’t we need that stuff?” said Clæfre.

Péton shrugged, “Who knows? We might, but not as much as her. Her hands are covered in scabs and there was soot under her fingernails. She’s probably been digging for bodies with her hands for weeks.”

Clæfre glanced back. Elewýs had disappeared. Clæfre stared at Milde, who was swaying in her saddle, “I hope your kindness reaches her.”

The road ended at the edge of a mile wide maw of scattered stones, charred wood, and streams of sooty, yellow water. A circle of tumbled masonry and fallen trees surrounded the whole space, as if blasted outwards by an immense force.

The forest was reclaiming lost ground at an incredible rate. Proud trees stood among the destruction surrounding a large, yellow pond in the centre of the destruction. Thousands of wisps, almost invisible in the daylight, chased each other like painted starlings.

Clæfre observed the vegetation.

Gods! I can see it growing.

Leth stood and gaped, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Cempa nudged him with an elbow, twice.

“You wanted to know what magic looks like, right?” said Leth.

“Aye,” said Cempa. “Although I get the feeling I should start being more careful about what I wish for.”

“The yellow water,” said Leth. “It’s not water. It’s liquid magic, Feorhlíf aspect: liquid life.”

“Sounds like a fountain of youth,” said Cempa.

Leth snorted, “That’s a ridiculous concept. The pond is dangerous. It’s uncontrolled life.”

“So…run?” said Clæfre.

“Just don’t touch the stuff,” said Leth. “The yellow water is evaporating, spreading through the air. I’ve been trying to work out why the whole forest was filled with yellow fog since we arrived, now I know. It must be why we’ve found it difficult to think.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Milde.

“We’ve been breathing thick magic for days?” said Mésia.

“Yes,” said Leth.

“Will we all end up like the woman on the road?” said Clæfre.

“If we stay for long enough, I expect it will be worse. I’m going to examine the area. Please wait here.” Leth checked his belt and laces, “Milde?”

“Hi Leth!”

“Don’t touch anything.”

Péton tied the horses to a fallen tree and helped Milde down. Clæfre and Cempa hauled some fallen branches into a circle as temporary seats.

“What next?” said Cempa.

“We’ll leave as soon as Letholdus returns,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Good, I don’t like breathing in stuff we can’t see,” said Clæfre.

“Neither do I,” said Mésia.

“Did you know Elewýs?” said Clæfre.

“No,” said Mésia.

I don’t believe her.

Clæfre rolled a stone with the tip of her foot beneath the leaf mould, “There is too much scattered masonry for a small settlement.” She pointed, “I think there was a huge wall and at least a hundred, massive buildings.”

“There were almost thirty people at the logging camp,” Mésia said. “Even thirty, grotesque freaks couldn’t build such a large settlement so quickly. The road’s age is suspicious too.”

A stone jammed into the tread of Clæfre’s sole. She picked up a stick and lifted her foot onto her knee and began to poke it without looking.

Cempa shrugged, “Perhaps the loggers found some ruins and rebuilt them.”

“Why is there a jewel in your foot?” said Milde.

“A what?” said Clæfre. A translucent, yellow stone glimmered between a clod and a twig, “Oh, shiny!”

Clæfre dug out the stone. It dropped into her palm.

Warm and tingly, like the wisp...like magic. Shit! She threw the gem at a fallen, sprouting log.

“What’s the matter,” said Péton.

“Let’s pretend I never picked up that stone,” said Clæfre.

“Don’t leave it,” said Milde, “it’s valuable.”

Clæfre snorted.

*

Elewýs observed the chatting group from the comfort of a tree. The older woman perched on a log, upright and unmoving.

Mésia Tessel, my mother.

It wasn’t until the troop passed that she recognised her mother. Mésia hadn’t spoken, or waved, only maintained her grim countenance, much like the last time they’d seen each other.

Elewýs pulled a few twigs from her hair and tried to brush the dirt from her clothes with her hands. She sighed and pulled off her boot, emptying more twigs and leaves onto the detritus below.

It’s like emptying a bucket of fresh water into the sea - a rather pointless and futile commitment to change something. Sitting in a tree, brushing my hair with my fingers, isn’t going to help me decide what to do. If I remain in the forest, I will die miserable and alone. If I leave with my mother, I might die sooner, but I will be free.

*

Leth skirted tumbled masonry and ash spattered swirls of pooling, yellow liquid. He spooled a trail of glowing white ribbon from his left hand as he wandered.

I should have asked someone to guide me, I can see ten feet, but no more - too much magic.

The ghosts of desolate homes and ephemeral structures reared from the fog.

They’re like the house in Éaggemeare.

Leth encountered a body. Scraps of animal furs lay snagged on a crushed and scattered pale rainbow skeleton. Tiny forest flowers grew between the fissures within the exsiccated bones.

The decay rate and body size are abnormal.

Next, he found a skull lying within the outlines of a massive structure. The skull was pierced by a splintered shake the length of his shin. Grass had taken root in the heat-cracked floor; eight patches were darker and taller. Leth brushed a fingertip through a dark smudge.

Grease. He shuddered. There was a body here.

He raced through the ruined homes.

Hundreds of people were incinerated within seconds. A unique, unheard of people obliterated with barely a trace. It’s the disaster and discovery of a lifetime.

Leth reached the centre of the ruined village and approached the bubbling, yellow pond. It was eighty feet across and almost circular, surrounded by thick undergrowth and mature trees.

I wonder what would happen if I drank raw magic. Maybe I’d become a muscle bound decapitator like Cempa, or a, lithe chromatic Eten like Elewýs. He sniffed the mist evaporating from the pond.

Knowing my luck, I’d explode like Edwin’s horse did. Leth circled around the pond twice. I’ve no idea what happened, or how this pond formed.

He clambered over several yards of rubble into the remains of the largest, visible structure. This close to the epicentre of the blast, little remained: a spoon, six patches of greasy earth, a handle-less chisel melted into a stone, and a three foot mound of yellow gems.

Letholdus was halfway across the rubble before he stopped trying to work out how hot something has to be to fuse metal to stone, accepted the lunacy of what he’d seen, and glanced back.

Petals of magic peeled and curled from the viscous mist down into the stones in delicate whorls. The outline of the pile was hazy. Leth squatted and examined the jumbled jewels. Translucent wisps smothered the rough cut gems and bobbed on magical eddies like dandelion heads.

These should be safe, right?

He picked up a thumb-sized gem. The edges were sharp and the facets smooth, like knapped flint. Red, vein-like flaws ran through the stone; it felt slick and fatty. His fingers tingled and itched.

Leth returned the gem, spat on and rubbed his fingertips together then wiped the sticky residue on his shirt. It must have been dirty from the incinerated bodies. He picked another. The second stone was flawless, but as greasy as the first. He breathed on the gem and polished it on a trouser leg. Leth popped the gem in a pouch and followed his white thread back to the waiting troop.