Rough hands tightened the blindfold around his head, flattening the thick tufts of moss that had taken residence above his eyes.
“Really, this is entirely unnecessary,” said Garrain. He knelt in absolute stillness, hands clasped around the shaft of his glaive. It was no Trowbane—just a practice blade with a dulled edge—but it would serve him well enough this morn.
“’Tis more than necessary, alvar,” growled the dwarrow, Ornbur. “Can’t have you peeking now, can we?”
“My word is not enough for you?” said Garrain.
“Och no,” said Ornbur. “We’ve come far, your people and mine, but I’d sooner be poking mine own eyes out than trusting the word of an alvar.” He stepped back. “Begin on the count of five. One…two…”
Garrain stood slowly, listening to the footsteps padding around him, like grawmalkin sizing up their prey. He wasn’t just listening, though. His eyes were covered, but he was far from blind. The song of life came to him with such clarity now, that he could sense each heartbeat, each breath—even the sweat trickling down his opponents’ backs. He could sense the wide, flat platform beneath his feet; it too was alive—part of the enormous redleaf tree that now towered over Redgrove, reaching almost to the high stone ceiling of Dwallondorn. Even the air itself was filled with tiny creatures—invisible to the eyes, but if one listened intently enough, their movement revealed the eddies and currents of the wind.
This is how the whisperers must have seen the world, thought Garrain, remembering the eyeless jailors of Wengarlen. Perhaps their condition hadn’t been the curse he’d always thought it to be.
He stood facing his three opponents: Ornbur, Jodur and Linvi; veteran fighters, all. They came at him simultaneously from different angles, with shield and sword and spear and axe. Garrain felt them draw near; heard the soft whistle of blades cleaving air.
With a powerful kick, he vaulted up and over the dwarrows, planting the roots of his foot on a helmeted head, drawing a curse from its owner. This manoeuvre was needlessly showy. Were his life in peril, he’d have taken a more restrained approach. But in this instance, he was going to draw some extra enjoyment out of the engagement.
Ornbur fell forward, clattering onto one knee as his companions swiped at empty air. Landing neatly behind them, Garrain dropped low and swept the legs out from under Jodur with the butt of his glaive.
The third dwarrow, Linvi, spun about, her shield driving down upon the glaive, attempting to trap it, or knock it out of his hands. Against most other alvari, she’d have succeeded. But the arboreal growths encompassing Garrain’s limbs, among other things, afforded him unnatural strength. The glaive kept going, and instead of disarming him, her ploy only threw her off balance. One swift kick, and she stumbled backward into her fellows.
On a whim, Garrain spun and ran up the tree’s thick trunk, the roots of his feet easily finding purchase against the rough bark. A moment later, he was hanging upside down from the overhead branch, grinning down at the startled dwarrows.
He launched himself at them.
A short time later, he tore aside his blindfold, and reached down to help his fallen foes to their feet.
“You are indeed as skilled as they say,” said Ornbur. “’Twere a good fight. We’ll get you next time.”
“Perhaps, if you bring a pinch more of your fellows,” said Garrain, inclining his head at them.
It had been a pleasant diversion, though hardly a challenge. He was beginning to understand how Thiachrin had felt. There were so few who could train with him on equal footing—dwarrow or alvar, martial or magical. Only Nuille offered him the thrill of a hard-won victory, or narrow defeat.
After they left, Garrain stood at the edge of the sparring platform, looking out across the trees of Redgrove, and the streets of wider New Inglomar beyond. This immense housetree wasn’t the only thing that had grown and changed in just a fistful of fivedays.
Guardian trees stirred across the city, flexing their branches in the chill breeze. At the slightest sign of an assassin, they would burst into action. His binding root spell had ensnared the assassin in their first encounter, so perhaps the awakened trees would be able to see their foe where he could not. Perhaps that was why the assassin had not struck again, even after all these fivedays.
Around the perimeter of the town was a high wall of tangled, thorny vines, much like those that encircled Wengarlen. They wouldn’t keep out an unseen assassin, but Grindlecraw’s dwarrows may think twice before storming those walls.
Garrain’s gaze turned to the large balloon drifting over Redgrove. Standing in the rickety basket beneath the bag of hot air, Dallim looked at Garrain and waved his hand from side to side; a human gesture he and some of the other oracles had acquired from their visions of Saskia’s home world. Garrain raised his own hand in acknowledgement. He hoped the young oracle wouldn’t get himself killed. That thing looked as though it could fall out of the air at any moment.
“It is truly a marvel we have wrought here,” said Dieste, coming up behind him. “Never in all my long life have I dared hope that we might live together in peace with the dwarrows.”
“Some of the dwarrows,” said Garrain. “There are others who would sooner leap into the abyss than share the air we breathe.”
Dieste inclined her head. “Even so, the fact that there are any who would want peace, after all we did to them…” She shivered. “It gives me hope. You and Nuille will help bring about an end to the cycle. I couldn’t be more proud of the both of you.”
“Thank you, grandmother. I…” He trailed off as he caught sight of dark shape flapping down at him on wings of umber. Landing on the platform before him, the feathery form rose up into the oh so resplendent alvesse he knew so well, unclad and covered in dust. Nuille’s lower lip trembled, and her eyes spoke of sorrow—and anger—that must be unburdened.
“What is amiss, my light?” he asked.
“I found them, ardonis,” she said. “The envoys we sent to the surface. They had with them half a hundred refugees—most of them alvessi and nestlings. I found the envoys and refugees piled together in a crevice near the Prime Passage. All of them dead; all pierced by dwarrow bolts.”
“Grindlecraw,” growled Garrain.
“His followers, I’m certain of it,” agreed Nuille.
“Baldreg needs to know of this,” said Garrain. “I warned him we should have taken action sooner. They grow bolder every day.”
The dwarrow in question was in the meeting hall with advisors and townsfolk, discussing crop distributions.
“Apologies for the intrusion, but we must have words,” he said to Baldreg. “It cannot wait.”
When they were alone, Nuille described what she’d seen to the dwarrow leader.
Baldreg grimaced. “We should have sent more fighters to guard the Prime Passage.”
“We should have done far more than that,” said Garrain. “We should have struck at Grindlecraw directly; laid siege to his colony!”
“You ken as well as I do New Torpend isn’t just a colony,” said Baldreg. “’Tis a fortress. We lack the strength to breach those walls.”
“Those walls only exist because we were too slow to act!” said Garrain.
“If we kenned they could build their fortifications so fast, mayhap we’d have struck at them sooner,” said Baldreg. “I were the one proposing such action, you may recall? Grindlecraw surprised us all, and now our best chance is gone. We must accept the reality of it. Rushing in now, when conditions are unfavourable, will just get us all killed.”
Baldreg spoke true, Garrain had to admit. The presence of the highly defensible fortress in Hilterbunt had caught them all by surprise. Until recently, they’d thought Grindlecraw’s colony to be little more than wooden shacks, or perhaps a cave. Baldreg had assured him that Hilterbunt had held no walls nor towers when he and the trow, Rover Dog, had scouted the area in the highfall. Garrain couldn’t fathom how the dwarrows had built it in such a short time. Perhaps if the stoneshapers still held their power—and if there were enough of them—they might be capable of such a feat. But now, with the seed of stone destroyed?
However implausible, its existence couldn’t be denied. Nuille had seen it with her own eyes—or at least the eyes of the swiftlet whose form she’d taken. It was an ill fortune indeed. New Inglomar had lost their advantage, and an all-out attack on New Torpend would cost more lives than Garrain dared consider, even with all the magic he and Nuille had at their fingertips.
Still, they couldn’t just let things stand. The latest slaughter of alvessi and nestlings was just more proof that Grindlecraw wanted nothing less than the annihilation of the alvari—even if it would ultimately doom his own people as well. The longer they let the wound fester, the worse it would get.
“I know a frontal assault is out of the question,” said Garrain. “But we must do something. We can still blockade the passage to Hilterbunt. Cut them off from the Prime Passage entirely, as they have tried to do to us. To that end, we need to build up our own fortifications in eastern Dwallondorn.”
“And commit more fighters to the task, as I were saying,” said Baldreg. “I agree, and I have been preparing to do just that. Though it does leave New Inglomar vulnerable to an attack from the rear, should they find another way around. There are more passages through the Outer Hollows than we ken.”
“It is a risk, but a necessary one,” said Garrain.
“There is more we can do,” said Nuille.
Garrain and Baldreg both turned to her.
“I can kill the fucker,” she said.
Baldreg frowned at her. “Grindlecraw? Didn’t we just say ’tis nigh impossible to get to him?”
“Impossible for you, Baldreg,” said Nuille. “Not for me.”
Now it was Garrain’s turn to frown, as the realisation dawned on him. “You would take the guise of a dwarrow, steal into his chamber, and assassinate him while he sleeps.”
She tilted her head in the negative. “I can’t easily pass as a dwarrow. They are too close to my natural form, and lack the animal instincts to suppress my own life-learned behaviour. As a dwarrow, I’d still walk like an alvesse, and they would see something wasn’t quite right.
“No, I propose something simpler. I would approach from the air in the guise of a small animal, and attempt to pass unseen. No lives would be risked, save my own.”
“It’s too—”
“If you say, ‘It’s too dangerous,’ I swear you’ll be sleeping outside for the next year.”
Garrain closed his mouth.
“You ken, if you fail, and they witness an alvesse attack their leader, it may harden all dwarrows against you, not just those in New Torpend,” said Baldreg.
“The only one who sees my true form will be Grindlecraw, in the moment before he dies,” said Nuille. “We can blame his death on the invisible assassin. With Grindlecraw out of the way, a reconciliation may be possible.”
“Unlikely,” said Baldreg. “Like as not, they’d replace him with someone equally despicable. Still, ’twould disrupt their plans and lower their morale, which would only be good for us. I say aye.”
“I agree, this might be our best chance to strike an early—if not decisive—blow,” said Garrain. “But I would make one small revision to your plan. I will come with you.”
“You can’t fly,” said Nuille.
“Indeed I can’t. But I can conceal myself from sight with a shade walker spell.”
Baldreg’s eyes narrowed. “I have not heard of such a spell.”
“Grindlecraw has, unfortunately,” said Garrain. “I used it against his stoneshapers in the tunnels above. Still, it will allow me to gain entry to their fortress.”
“How do I ken you’re not the original invisible assassin?” asked Baldreg.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was there in plain sight—with no bow in hand—when the assassin shot the mer. Besides, as I already explained to Saskia and Ruhildi, the greenhand spell works very differently. Were I the assassin, the demon would have seen me.”
“Alright.” Baldreg barked out a laugh. “Let’s send one invisible assassin, and claim ’twere another.”
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“Two invisible assassins,” said Nuille. “You must teach me that spell, ardonis.”
“I will,” said Garrain. “But it is not something you can learn overnight. And it won’t work on your animal forms.”
Nuille frowned in disappointed. “Very well. I will approach from the air then, while you try to sneak in from the ground.”
“I trust you will not speak of this to anyone,” said Baldreg. “I will deny all kenning of it, should anyone ask.”
The two of them set off with the bare minimum of equipment and supplies. The shade walker spell would not hide anything he carried on his person. Similarly, Nuille could not transform clothing or other items when she shifted forms.
Trowbane he would bring, though he wouldn’t carry it all the way into New Torpend; it was merely a contingency, should their stealth fail them.
There was only one person to whom they needed to explain their departure, save for Baldreg.
“You cannot come with us,” said Garrain to Morchi, who followed alongside them, tail swishing in agitation. “We’ll be back before you know it, I promise.” As the grawmalkin turned away, tail still swishing, he added, “And no sneaking after us this time!”
Deus, turning his furry friend away always tore at his heart. But it had to be done. New Torpend was no place for a grawmalkin.
Once they were beyond the gates, Nuille stripped off her armour and crouched low. A moment later, he found himself staring at…another grawmalkin. This one considerably larger than Morchi.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
The grawmalkin lifted a paw and tapped her back.
Garrain felt his mossy eyebrows ascend his forehead, but he did as she asked. Then they were off, galloping eastward, faster than his two legs (or the roots of an awakened tree) could ever have carried him.
“This is exhilarating,” he said. “Though there are other ways to ride you that I find even more agreeable.”
Nuille bucked her flanks, and he found himself sprawled in the dirt behind her. She turned to look at him, and he could see there was mirth in her slitted eyes.
“How unfair,” he said. “You speak such innuendo to me all the time. Yet when I do it, this is what I get?”
She inclined her head in agreement.
Sighing, he climbed atop her once more, and they continued on their way.
It was a full three days’ ride before they found themselves standing on a ledge overlooking the labyrinthine walls and tall spires of a bustling dwarrow fortress. It was just as Nuille had described. Those walls had been formed out of the solid rock of the valley at the rear of the immense cavern. Neither the walls nor the structures within were smooth or flat or evenly spaced. They weren’t elegant. But they looked as though they’d hold off any army New Inglomar could bring to bear.
They were also clearly the work of stoneshapers. Yet he still couldn’t understand how such a thing might be possible.
Behind the walls, metalsmiths and tanners and tailors and cooks plied their trade under the watchful eyes of the armoured dwarrows stationed at every corner. Across the walls and atop the towers, guardians cast their wary gaze outside the fortress, seeking dangers lurking among the shadows. Thanks to his magic, their eyes passed right over him. Nuille, briefly returned to her alvesse form, crouched further back, out of sight.
Their equipment was safely hidden in a nearby grove. They were nearly ready. There was just one thing to do first. Calling upon the thread of magic the demon had left for them, Garrain spoke softly. “Saskia? Are you awake? We require your assistance.”
Silence followed, stretching forth for several long heartbeats. Then a voice sounded. “What is it?” said Saskia. “I’m—oough—kinda busy right now.” She sounded out of breath.
“If you would share your…mi-ni-map with Nuille and myself…” He paused as a gasping moan sounded in his ears. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” shouted Saskia. Garrain got the sense of a door being rolled shut in his face. A moment later, a circular map appeared before his eyes, covered in colourful dots.
Nuille’s lips curled up in a sly smirk. “It seems you’re not the only one who’s been for a ride.”
He glowered at her, though he knew she couldn’t see his face. “Now you steal my jest as well?”
“Oh ardonis, you’re not even close to being the first person to have used that one. How about this, then? The Age of the Gods called. It wants its jest back.”
“Pardon?”
“Earth humour,” said Nuille.
Garrain frowned. He had no idea what she was talking about. All he knew was that she’d been spending far too much time with the oracles. This hardly seemed like the time for levity, in any case. They were about to…
His frown deepened. “What is that dark purple dot in the central tower? I’ve not seen one that colour before.”
“I don’t know,” said Nuille. “That is where we are most likely to find Grindlecraw. Perhaps Saskia marked our target out for us.”
“But we haven’t told her we’re going after Grindlecraw.”
“That is true.” Nuille gave another smirk. “We could ask her what it means.”
“Let’s, ah, leave her alone for a while.”
“I very much doubt she’s alone, ardonis.”
“You know what I mean. Just be on your guard.”
“I will.” Nuille took to the air, flying high above the walls. Returning a short time later, she told him, “I can’t get a view of him from outside. If that purple dot is him, he’s deep inside the keep.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the keep, and we can go in together.”
She wouldn’t be able to speak to him while transformed—nor see him while he remained cloaked in shadows—but they could both see each other on their respective maps. It would have to be enough.
The gates were shut, but that hardly mattered to Garrain. He scaled the walls with ease, letting the roots of his hands and feet find purchase in the cracks of the rough stone. Stepping carefully past the guardians atop the walls—with their torches, they may still see him if they drew too close—he dropped down the other side, landing silently in the shadows behind a taffle pen. The beasts snuffled as he drew past; they could smell him, even if he remained hidden from sight.
From there, he made his way quickly and silently between the spires to the open entrance of the keep, hewn into the cavern wall at the back of the valley.
Garrain climbed up to the window where Nuille the swiftlet awaited him. If luck were with them, they’d find Grindlecraw on this very floor.
Once inside, Nuille shifted into the form of a tiny murid—the tailless rodents common in Dwallondorn and Hilterbunt. They made their way quietly through the dimly lit halls and chambers, keeping their distance from any dwarrows who wandered nearby.
The final door to Grindlecraw’s abode was locked. Garrain was puzzling over how to open it when it rolled aside of its own accord, and a female dwarrow bearing the mark of a servant stepped out. He and Nuille slipped inside before she could close the door.
Their target sat reading a thick tome before a roaring fireplace. There was no mistaking that immaculately trimmed beard. It was Grindlecraw, alright.
Garrain made his way carefully to a crossbow hanging on the wall, picked it up, and nocked a bolt from the quiver lying on a shelf below it.
He took careful aim—and fired at the back of the dwarrow’s head.
There was a burst of movement; a loud crack. The bolt flew into the wall, splintering as it struck side-on. A spike of stone jutted from the floor where an instant earlier there had been empty air.
Grindlecraw rose to his feet, set his book aside, and turned to face Garrain. His eyes were white as bleached bone.
For a long moment, Garrain just stood there, stunned. A dwarrow Chosen? Had the Arbordeus gone mad?
“She said you would come,” said the Chosen. “I had doubts. No longer. Together we will see your filth expunged from the arbor.”
Garrain’s mind whirled, struggling to comprehend what had happened. This dwarrow must have ascended quite recently, because he still had his hair, and he was referring to himself as I rather than we. Thiachrin had lost his sense of self within a season of his ascension. Who was this she Grindlecraw spoke of? Another Chosen? The assassin? Was she here?
A warm hand clasped his own. It was Nuille, newly restored to her alvesse form. He squeezed back. Knowing what they faced now, the next chance to feel her skin against him may not come until they both found themselves in the Vale of Echoes.
Even as she held onto him, he could feel her working her dark magic; that which should tear the Chosen apart from the inside. At the same time, Garrain drew on every drop of the vast flood of essence Saskia availed to him.
There were no plants or fungi within the fortress walls for him to call upon. Indeed, there seemed to be a ward in place to prevent any such growth from taking root.
But Garrain had one advantage no other greenhand of this Age possessed. He was his own reagent.
Roots uncoiled from his arms and legs, splitting off and transforming into a whirling vortex of thorn-covered vines that enclosed both himself and his lifemate, even as they reached out to strip flesh from the bones of their enemy.
At the same moment, Nuille completed her own spell. Garrain felt it fly from her, taking root inside the Chosen’s chest.
Grindlecraw’s flesh shimmered, and turned to white crystal. Garrain’s vines ripped the clothes from his body, but as for the flesh beneath, there wasn’t a scratch. And if Nuille’s spell hurt him, he showed no sign of it.
No flesh, thought Garrain. No blood. Only cold, hard stone.
Then their feet began to sink into the floor.
Garrain reacted instantly, grabbing hold of Nuille and leaping away from the patch of what now appeared to be sand. The walls were sagging; the floor flowing; the ceiling drooping. The body of his lifemate shrank in his arms, becoming once again a small, furry murid, which scurried up onto his shoulder, nestling against the rough bark of his neck. Garrain danced across the shifting stone, reaching for the door. They needed to get out into the wider Hollow. Here, in this confined space, surrounded by stone, the Chosen was in his element.
The door burst open. Two armoured dwarrows came to a sudden halt, staring open-mouthed at the mayhem. An instant later, their chests burst open, spraying their life’s blood across the shifting floor. Twisting vines tossed them aside. Garrain dove through the door, even as spikes of stone drove at him from every angle.
He sprinted through collapsing halls, past shattered steps and broken bodies, out into the open air. A flapping against his cheek told him Nuille had shifted back into swiftlet form. He opened up a gap in his vine barrier, allowing her to fly free. This was a manipulation of the spell he’d only discovered recently. Had he mastered it sooner, Nuille’s brother, Tuleon, might still be alive.
Shouts sounded all around him. Crossbows twanged.
By his will, the vines expanded twentyfold, spilling out into the streets, rending apart metal and flesh with equal ease. Crossbow bolts clattered harmlessly onto the stones. The nearby screams fell silent, while more distant ones began anew. Nuille, now standing atop the outer wall, had unleashed her cruorgy upon the hapless defenders stationed there.
Amidst a maelstrom of rock and dust, Grindlecraw shot out of the keep, shattering the ground beneath his feet as he landed.
Much as Garrain longed to battle him right then and there, this place was the dwarrow’s home ground. If they were to have a hope of defeating this newly-ascended Chosen, they needed to lure him to a place of their choosing. And so he turned and sprinted away, running across rooftops, and flinging vines to carry himself up and over the outer walls.
Nuille awaited him outside in the form of a large grawmalkin. Parting the coil of vines, Garrain, leapt astride her back, clutching on for dear life as she bounded away.
The ground shuddered and swayed. Cracks split the arbor asunder in their wake.
Only when they reached the sanctity of the nearby grove did they draw to a halt. Garrain plucked Trowbane and his reagent satchel from the spot where he’d stowed them. Nuille stood at his side, once more his resplendent alvesse.
They waited as the purple marker on their maps drew close, and the shaking grew so intense they could barely remain on their feet.
“Are you ready?” he shouted over the cacophony.
She grimaced. “Let’s get it over with.”
Garrain cast his eyes skyward—though there was no true sky in this vast Hollow beneath the arbor. All around them, the trees and fungal towers began to stir.
Grindlecraw stepped into view, his stone features set in a mask of hatred. “Don’t think this grove will save you, alvari,” he growled. “I will annihilate—och bollocks.”
A large branch had ensnared the Chosen, lifting him high up into the air. The shuddering in the ground subsided.
If Garrain had learned anything from his encounters with stoneshapers, it was that most of their spells had a rather short range. Many of the more powerful ones required at least their boots to be touching the ground. That limitation didn’t seem to have gone away now that this stoneshaper had ascended to—
“Ardonis!” shouted Nuille.
He sensed it before the word had left her lips: a huge boulder hurtling toward his back. Both he and Nuille dove to the side, rolling onto their feet in perfect synchronicity.
Alright, so clearly the limitation didn’t apply to all stoneshaper magic. They had to be quick.
Even as another boulder lifted off the ground, Garrain gathered his magic for one final spell. It was the simplest of spells—one he’d used time and time again—but no less effective for it. Nuille channelled the very same spell, mixing her essence with his to form a vast, swirling globule of amber-coloured liquid.
The guardian tree tossed the dwarrow high into the air. And at the apex of his flight, the globe of scorching sap engulfed him.
Scorching sap did not burn through metal. But as for this crystal that made up his body…
A limp, sodden shape tumbled end over end, billowing smoke. The tree snatched it out of the air. Garrain would not be letting it go anywhere near the ground until he was certain there would be no unpleasant surprises. Moments later, he stood on the branch, staring down at what remained of their foe. Grindlecraw’s limbs were stumps. His head was a misshapen lump. Yet still he stirred feebly in the tree’s grasp.
Hefting Trowbane, Garrain swung again and again and again. A hundred and a half swings later, what remained of the head fell free, landing in a pile of crystal shards, and the remnants of the body finally stopped twitching.
Shouts and screams echoed across Hilterbunt as the dwarrows’ home crumbled around them. The Chosen’s magic, it seemed, had traded longevity for expediency. Without him around to sustain it, New Torpend would be rubble come the next morn. Some of its inhabitants would survive, but they would not be the threat they were before today. Not unless another Chosen arose to lead them.
Several days later, as he rode the final stretch of the path to New Inglomar, Garrain’s apprehension was growing. How would the dwarrows react to the news that the rival colony was no more? That most of its people lay buried in the rubble? And that its leader had (briefly) been a Chosen?
But as they drew closer to the gate, he realised they had far greater cause for concern. The air was thick with smoke. Distant shouts reached his ears.
Stepping through the gate, Garrain saw that the buildings on this side of the town, thus far, were still intact. The smoke billowing into the air was coming from…
Redgrove.
Oh deus, no! They’d taken precautions to ensure the housetrees couldn’t burn. But burn they did. Every one of the trees of Redgrove was aflame, or already reduced to charcoals. Bodies lay strewn across the forest floor; some bloody, others burnt.
“’Twere the assassin,” said Ornbur, kneeling in the ash. “He killed them all. Most every alvar, and many dwarrows who tried to help. We tried to stop him, but the fire, ’tweren’t natural. And how can you fight someone you can’t see?”
Nuille let out a small wail. Garrain slumped, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of him.
“Did anyone…did any of my people survive?”
“Just a few fistfuls who got away, or hid and didn’t get burnt—and some the lad in the…balloon pulled to safety. I’m sorry.”
Garrain clutched his lifemate as a storm of weeping swept over her. They didn’t know yet if Dieste was among the living, but her chances seemed slim. And Morchi…where was Morchi?
“There’s more,” said Ornbur. “Baldreg were one of the first to respond; no-one has seen him since. We fear he too met his end in the flames.”