Chapter Sixty: Enemy at the Gates

“Where Aedrasil’s feet touched the ground, her toes burst from her shoes and splayed into a mass of tangled roots. Her body and waist lengthened as she grew taller, longer, thicker, shooting towards the sky. Where her hands had reached upwards during the casting of the Sealing, her fingers branched outwards and opened into a grand canopy of leaves, the same molten gold and emerald as her eyes and hair.”

—Aedrasil and the Three Kings

Indescribable feelings mounted within Ein as he hurried past the bridge towards Bran and Evaine. After they’d emerged from Nephilheim, Talberon had led them straight through Aldoran’s gates, sneaking them past the trail of fire and destruction with Yselin’s aid, all the way to Uldan Keep.

It felt like he’d been away for months rather than weeks, and seeing their familiar faces brought a smile to his lips despite everything that had happened. They both looked different; older somehow and a touch wiser, Evaine with her black and silver Songweaver’s robes and Bran with his patched working gear.

He stopped a few feet short of the two, panting, the reason he’d returned to the city entirely forgotten. Bran in particular surprised him; though he hated to admit it, he hadn’t expected him to pull through as strongly as he had. His childhood friend looked leaner and more weathered, and there was a hint of resolve in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He itched to learn of what they’d been doing while he’d been gone.

But the city was burning around them, and the enemy was at the gate. There were things to be done.

“Gilfred,” Talberon said. “Where is the King? We have returned, and with us we bring Yselin, last of the House Lachess.” He gestured to where the girl stood behind Rhinne. Yselin stared like a frightened deer at the Kingsblade and the city guard, her strange eyes a reflective silver.

Before Gilfred could reply, a stifled sob drew their attention. Celianna had thrown herself into Aeos’ arms and was crying uncontrollably, speaking muffled words into his chest. Aeos had his sister by the shoulders and was quietly listening, a slow mask of disbelief forming across his features. Around them everyone shifted uncomfortably, giving the two Uldans what little privacy they could offer.

“Aedon is dead,” explained Alend, appearing next to Gilfred. “The Queen as well.”

Relief whirled inside Ein as he saw his father. Alend’s skin was pale from lack of sunlight and he had the gauntness of a starved animal, but some of the spirit had returned to his eyes. There were a thousand words spoken in that gaze; acceptance, remorse, relief, even pride. But his father had been a Kingsblade, and Ein was a Kingsblade now, and their duties bound them across time and generations. Their reunion could wait.

“I can’t believe it,” Gilfred said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You actually did it. You brought her back.”

“We have the Blood of the Three Kings now,” Alend said, gesturing to Yselin and the Uldan siblings. “There is no time to waste.” Celianna looked up at them, her eyes blurred, and she pulled herself away from her brother.

“I will take you to Mother Aedrasil,” she said. “Let us make haste.”

“You two stay here,” Gilfred instructed to Bran and Evaine. “Help the soldiers buy us time. Everyone else, with the Princess.”

With a nod from Gilfred, Celianna wiped her eyes and began to lead the way. Alend and Talberon followed with Rhinne and Yselin behind them, Aeos bringing up the rear. As Ein turned to leave, Evaine tugged him on the arm.

“What happened to Garax?” she whispered.

“He didn’t make it,” Ein said, shaking his head sadly. A look of understanding flashed through her eyes, and she let him go.

The group ran across the courtyard and into the Keep, through the empty halls to the door of the Spirit Garden. The corridors reminded Ein of the city streets—alone, abandoned, rife with the after-echoes of shouts and screams.

“Are the people of the city safe?” Ein heard Aeos ask.

“They’ve been evacuated along the emergency exit, Your Majesty,” Gilfred replied.

Aeos scowled. “We’ll talk about this later.”

The stone-bricked walls past the door quickly gave way to a dark tunnel winding into the ground. The group ran along that tunnel, following Celianna’s lead, emerging into the familiar grove of flowers and trees beneath the earth. Mystical motes of silver light danced in the air around them, casting a luminous glow.

“This way,” Celianna urged. She took them through the trees to where a large source of light shone around the corner. The canopies parted to reveal Aedrasil towering into the air, the Heart of the World glowing around her roots. Rhinne’s breath caught in her throat. Yselin wandered dazedly to the edge.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

The Ward Tree had deteriorated even further since Ein had last seen it. Brown leaves scattered its roots, withered and dry. They fell from its finger-bare branches like dark snowflakes, signalling the end of Aedrasil’s autumn and the beginning of her winter. The season of cold and sleep, and death.

“Yselin,” Ein said. “Don’t touch it.”

The girl snapped to attention and stepped away from the Spirit Font, but continued to look longingly at it. Celianna regained her breath and stood up straight.

“Alend Thoren,” she said. “Yselin Lachess. Let us go.”

Alend strode across the grass to join the Princess by the edge of the pool, but Yselin remained next to Rhinne.

“Go on,” Rhinne said. “It’s alright.” She gave the girl a nudge, but Yselin still refused to move.

“Go with her,” Gilfred said. “It’s all right.” He looked at Aeos and Ein as well. “You two also; make sure you look after the Princess. Talberon and I will wait here.”

Aeos nodded at Ein. “Come on then.”

They walked in three pairs across the bar of raised earth in the middle of the pool, slowing their pace down to a brisk walk. Aeos and Celianna, Ein and Alend, and Rhinne and Yselin. The Heart of the World seemed to flicker around them, the slow pulse of a great heart.

It’s almost over, thought Ein. Everything we’ve done, from the moment we found those dead wolves in the Sleeping Twins to now. Once they revived Aedrasil and resealed the relicts, it would be over. Faengard would be saved.

I’ll be back in Felhaven before long, with Father.

It was a strange thought, returning to a life of normality after seeing and experiencing so much—after becoming a hero. He didn’t think he’d be back for long; after all, he’d promised Rhinne he would help her find the Dragonstone, and there was still the mystery of the black box in his pocket. He had to at least try to find out how to open it, whether it be asking Talberon or some of the other Songweavers in the Legion.

Before long they reached the end of the path, setting foot onto the islet in the middle of the pool. Gilfred and Talberon waited at the shore on the far side, watching. Aedrasil was even bigger in real life, her threadbare fronds hanging over them amongst a carpet of crinkling leaves. Her trunk was the size of a small house, thick and knotted, and each root was like a step in a staircase, a tangled mattress of uneven footing beneath them. Celianna approached the trunk and placed a hand on it, closing her eyes.

“Amazing.” Rhinne came around next to Ein and bent down to touch one of the roots. “I’ve never felt so much magic in one place before. She is old, Aedrasil. Very old.”

Ein studied the ground with a sense of apprehension. He remembered the dream he’d had of a dragon beneath Aedrasil, chewing at her roots. Trad’Atar. What was that?

“Alend. Yselin.” Celianna called over to the two. “Come here.” She drew a small knife from her waist, a sliver of silver that looked more ceremonial than practical in nature. “I’m going to need to draw some blood from you.”

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“Blood?” Yselin paled at the sight of the blade.

“It’ll be okay,” Rhinne assured her. “Come on, Yselin. Just a few drops and that’ll be the end. You don’t want Faengard to be destroyed by the relicts, do you?”

Yselin gave her an uncertain look, but allowed Celianna to take her hand. Alend had already slashed his palm and left his imprint in the side of the tree.

“Will this really revive her?” Ein asked dubiously, staring at the red mark.

Celianna was quiet as she took Yselin’s palm and dug the knife into it. Yselin let out a gasp, but the Princess held on with a firm grip and pressed it atop Alend’s print, holding it for several heartbeats.

Once it was done, the girl snatched her hand back and began to lick at her wound.

“That’s it,” Rhinne said, patting her hair. “That’s all you have to do now.”

“It’s finished now?” Yselin asked.

“It’s finished.”

Celianna approached the tree with Aeos then, staring at the slick streaks before them. The Princess drew a deep breath and pressed the knife into her own palm. Ein winced as blood oozed from her wound, bright and red.

“Wyd watch over me,” she said, and pushed it into the trunk.

She left her hand atop the hardened bark for several moments before taking it back. The three bloody handprints gleamed silver in the light of the Heart of the World.

Then, Aedrasil shivered.

Withered leaves spilled down from above as she shook, the ground shifting and shaking, ancient roots slithering like snakes. The knots on her trunk groaned and shifted and moved apart. A fissure appeared along the three handprints, one that widened with the sound of wood cracking until it was a door-sized opening in her side. The shaking stopped, and the Spirit Garden fell silent again.

They stood around Aedrasil as they had before, only there was a dark cavity in her side. Alend climbed over the roots and gestured to the others. Ein followed him, and then Celianna and Rhinne and Yselin, and finally Aeos.

The inside of the tree was hollow, streaks of violet and fiery scarlet colouring the walls. At the far end was a wall of vines, thick, green-brown stranglers weaving a pattern from the ground to the ceiling.

Submerged in those vines was a woman.

-Ah. My children.-

The woman’s skin was smooth and ageless, though her hair shone as white as snow. She was completely naked, vines coiled across her limbs and torso, leaving only her face uncovered.

“Mother… Aedrasil?” Celianna whispered.

It was her. There was no mistaking it, the sound of her voice and its venerability, all of it as potent as the voice he’d heard in his dream. By the sounds of it, he was not the only one who could hear her.

-You have come, my children, my descendents many times removed. I am happy that my blood still lives.- As she spoke, Ein saw three girls inside his mind’s eye, running through a grassy field under a beautiful crimson tree. The three daughters of Aedrasil, who would go on to carry their mother’s blood down generations of Kings.

“Mother Aedrasil,” Aeos said. “The demons are upon our doorstep. We have need of your protection now, more than ever. Your descendants, the descendants of the Three Kings are here now, and they await your order. What would you have us do?”

Silence filled the room. The sounds of war and strife didn’t exist inside the chamber. There was only them, and the great Ward Tree who protected them from Al’Ashar’s creations.

“Mother Aedrasil,” Ein said. “How do we save you?”

The tree suddenly creaked, as if it were sighing. A strand of silver-white hair fell across the forehead of the woman in the wall.

-It is too late,- she said at last. -Death has already claimed me.-

#

The horde of Worgals stopped before the moat, barking uneasily among themselves as they caught the scent of salt. Evaine watched with Bran from their vantage point on the walls, next to the remaining soldiers who’d gathered to defend the Keep. She spotted Kedryn and Gerrard nearby, their faces stiff as stones as they stared past the mass of Worgals and into the blackened sky. It was like looking at a moving sea of brown and grey, one littered with ugly faces pulled into twisted snarls and sneers.

Several minutes passed without the Worgals making a move. They simply watched and waited, prowling about the outskirts of Uldan Keep, barking at each other as the city burned. The soldiers were silent as well, fingering their swords and spears restlessly, waiting to see what would happen.

The front line of Worgals parted and two figures emerged. Hrongar and Saidon appeared, the two Apocalypse Knights who had single-handedly ripped through the second wall. They were joined by a third, the rider cloaked in black who’d pursued them from the Sleeping Twins. Evaine glanced at Bran, noting his clenched jaw.

“Do you remember if Apocalypse Knights share the same weaknesses as relicts?” Evaine whispered.

Bran nodded. “I think so. In the end, they’re just Faceless hand-picked by the Oathbreaker.”

She felt a tinge of relief, but it was short-lived. After all, nothing but a strip of water separated them from the relicts. They wouldn’t be stopped for long.

The three Apocalypse Knights spoke calmly to each other, their pale masks bright under the false night. Their conversation lasted a few minutes, a conversation as casual as if they were discussing the weather. Finally, they parted and went to stand facing the moat directly opposite the raised drawbridge. Hrongar gave commands in a series of low grunts to a group of Worgals. They barked affirmation and then marched into the moat without so much as a falter in their step.

The first Worgal fell into the water with a splash and immediately howled, thrashing its limbs about involuntarily. The moat ate away at its skin, tearing the fur off its body and burning its flesh a charred black. Matted clumps of hair drifted to the surface as the corpse sank to the bottom, still jerking.

The next one followed suit, jumping into the moat, killing itself, and then the one after that. The guards on the walls whispered among themselves, perplexed. Had the relicts given up and decided to kill themselves?

Somehow, Evaine didn’t think that was the case.

The suicides continued for a while, the Worgals throwing themselves into the water one after another, spending their last moments in an array of flailing limbs and strangled howls. It wasn’t until nearly two dozen of the creatures had died that Evaine realized what they were doing.

“They’re making a bridge,” she breathed.

She wasn’t the only one who’d come to that conclusion. The Captains began shouting orders, yelling at the soldiers to get back from the wall and fall into formation. They needed to be ready for when the gates were broken down. All the while, the Worgals continued to kill themselves. Several of the bodies were already poking out above the surface, forming a path for their brethren to cross.

Evaine and Bran remained watching until finally, enough bodies had been sacrificed to the moat to form a path rising out of the water. The relicts then parted as the final Slazaad was led to the front line, its forked tongue tasting the fear in the air. It crawled across the bridge of corpses, claws sinking into flesh, until it was directly in front of the wall.

“We’d better go back down,” Bran said, as the Slazaad began to ram the gate.

#

“Do you hear something?” Talberon asked.

He and Gilfred had been waiting at the edge of the Heart of the World for several minutes now, watching the cavity in Aedrasil’s trunk intently for any sign of movement. Curiosity itched inside the Druid; he wished nothing more than to fly to the tree-hollow now and look inside. He could still remember the very first time he’d been here, when the Skyward Circle had still been young, and Morene still alive. When Aedrasil had been a woman and not a tree.

However, duty took precedence over all. He had passed on the torch now to the Fateweavers of this era. The least he could do was support them.

The cavern shook, the flowerbeds rippling. Leaves rained down from Aedrasil, some of them landing gently onto the ground, some of them falling into the Heart of the World only to fade into nothingness. Gilfred snapped his head to the trees, watching.

“Do you think it’s Aedrasil?” the Kingsblade asked.

Talberon shook his head. “It sounds like it came from above ground.”

“I’ll go and check it out. Will you be alright here?”

Talberon’s lip curled. “Of course. Who do you think I am?”

He returned his gaze to the Protector as Gilfred jogged back through the trees, his armour clanking with each step. He was a good man, Gilfred. Humble and just, a completely different vein to his father, Rainier. Gilfred shared many attributes with the late King Aedon in his younger days, though much like young Ein from Felhaven, he seemed adverse to the idea of becoming a leader. Talberon didn’t blame him, either. He himself was in those exact same shoes, taking on the mantle of the last Druid of the Skyward Circle since Keldan and Elspeth had left him.

Talberon walked up to the edge of the pool and gazed into its depths. So much Spirit, raw and untamed. Truly, this was the only place Aedrasil could have chosen to take root, to fight the final battle. He did not know of any other place in Faengard with so much untapped energy. The fact that it kept Aldoran fresh and green in the Great Winter was a testament to its power. Aedon had had a point—without the Ward Tree to sustain, the energy could be used for so much more.

But without the Ward Tree, there would be no one alive to use the energy… except the relicts.

Talberon’s face blinked back at him from the pool of silver, lined with age. He’d been alive for a long time—the amount of entries he had in his Codex was proof enough. Druids tended to age hundreds of times slower than ordinary people. He wondered what would become of the Skyward Circle once he finally died. Would the halls of Morene’s Perch remain empty until the end of time, the countless pages of the Archive lost forever?

He peeled himself away from the edge and looked back to Aedrasil. Still no sign of the Princess and her company. He peered over his shoulder at the trees. No sign of Gilfred either. It was quiet. Almost too quiet—he could hear his own breathing, his heartbeat as it began to pick up in anticipation.

Grass shifted as the figure emerged from the trees. Its black cloak made no noise as it wavered around its feet, shrouding its entire body. Emptiness stared at him from the singular eye-hole in the half-moon mask.

“You again,” Talberon said, thrusting his hand into his seed pouch.

The Apocalypse Knight flicked its arm and a hand of shadowy tendrils emerged, like elongated fingertips linked at the base. One of them had been cut short, a result of their last meeting in Caerlon.

“Talberon,” it hissed. “Step aside.”

“Never.”

He scattered a line of seeds between them and sang.