Lorik The Protector (Lorik Trilogy) (28 page)

Lorik walked for what felt like hours. His grief and his wounds made each step painful. The afternoon mists rose around the massive redwood trees, and Lorik, resting his axe on his broad shoulder, felt the eyes of the forest on him again, stronger than ever. He moved carefully between the massive tree trunks and over the gnarly roots that could have easily hidden a group of raiders waiting to ambush him. Lorik looked over his shoulder and turned his head constantly back and forth, always wary and searching for the eyes he felt watching his every move.

When darkness fell, as suddenly as candle being snuffed out, Lorik tried to keep moving. He expected to see lights from the large party of Norsik raiders and their slaves, but the forest was pitch-black. Finally, he gave up and lay down on the cold, wet earth. He shivered through the night, hardly sleeping more than a few moments at a time. His hand ached through the night and in his mind’s eye he saw vividly the bodies of his fallen men.

When dawn came at last he moved on again, walking through the day, pushing his pace as much as possible, even though his mouth felt like cotton and his tongue was thick and swollen inside his mouth. Hunger burned his stomach and fatigue hung on him like the hairy strips of bark that hung from the trees.

As the afternoon wore on, he thought he heard the flutter of wings, but looking up he saw nothing but massive tree trunks. The mist rose and his head began to swim with hunger. He knew he needed to find water, but all the times he had been in the Wilderlands he had never seen even a small trickle or spring.

Knowing that night was once again approaching, Lorik thought that perhaps he could use his dagger and axehead to make a spark. He remembered making a torch with the tree bark and he lifted his axe to cut some hairy bark from the tree, but before the blade touched wood, he felt a sting in the back of his shoulder. He dropped the axe and reached over his shoulder, feeling a little feathery spine sticking out of his skin.

He pulled the little dart out of his shoulder as two more hit his lower back. He shouted and swung around, raising his axe in the air, but his vision began to blur and the axe felt extraordinarily heavy. He staggered around, still not seeing anyone or anything that might be attacking him.

Then another dart struck, this time in his stomach, and he reached down to brush it away, but found that he couldn’t hold his axe any longer. Then his knees buckled and he crashed onto his side. His axe fell beside him and the world went dark.

Lorik woke slowly. He felt rested, as if he were rousing from a good night’s sleep. He started to move and felt his body swaying. Then he remembered that he was in the Wilderlands and had been attacked by something. He remembered the stinging darts and he opened his eyes. He could see bright sunlight, filtering through green boughs. He was warm, and as he struggled onto one elbow he realized he was alone.

He turned his attention to the bed he was resting on and found that it was made from soft, hairy twine. It was a hammock of sorts, made, he guessed, from the hairy bark of the massive redwood trees. Then he noticed that his hammock was stretched out over nothing but air. Below him he saw the great tree trunks stretching down into darkness far below. He couldn’t see the forest floor and a wave of dizziness made him clutch the edges of the hammock he was resting on. His right hand ached terribly when he squeezed the thin twine, but he refused to let go.

Then he heard a muffled laughter and a light, sing-song voice speaking in a foreign tongue. He didn’t understand the language, but he recognized a rebuke when he heard it.

“Hello?” he said, his voice a bit shaky. “Is someone there?”

“We are always here,” said a high-pitched, playful voice.

“Who are you?” Lorik asked. “Where are you?”

“We are here,” said the voice.

It was coming from behind Lorik’s head. He turned carefully, craning his neck to see where the top of his hammock was connected. An arm’s length from the top of the hammock was a hole in the tree. He could see at least a dozen small faces watching him intently.

“How did I get up here?” Lorik asked. “I’m not crazy about heights.”

More giggles and more harsh words in the sing-song language.

“We put you there, tree cutter. Until you explain why you’ve come into the forest to cut down the ancient trees.”

“I didn’t,” Lorik said. “I’m not here to cut trees.”

“Your kind is always cutting,” said the voice.

Lorik strained to see which of the tiny faces was talking and finally saw a sweet-looking little boy—the creature looked like a child to Lorik, at least. All of the faces were the size of a toddler’s, their skin just as smooth, their faces just as innocent.

“You chop down the forest and burn, burn, burn. We have seen you searching through the forest. We have seen you kindle fire. These are crimes in the Wilderlands. Crimes you must answer for.”

“I didn’t mean to commit any crimes. I was here scouting and fighting the Norsik.”

“Ah, yes, that is another trait of your kind, always warring.”

“The Norsik took women and children. I was trying to stop them.”

“By cutting down trees?”

“I didn’t cut down any trees,” Lorik said.

“We saw you. You raised your axe to cut the tree.”

“I was just cutting some bark to make a torch to see by.”

There was a collective intake of breath by the small, childlike creatures.

“So you admit your crimes,” the leader of the little people said.

Then he began to talk, and his voice seemed to dance or sing, the words coming fast and unintelligible, but pleasant to listen to just the same. Finally, after a long silence, the voice spoke so that Lorik could understand again.

“You are guilty,” said the voice. “You have only two options, death or the Kingtree, it is your choice.”

“My choice?” Lorik said. “Please, this is just a mistake. I didn’t mean to hurt the trees or scare anyone with fire. I just need to find the Norsik raiders who took my friends. Please, help me find them and I will leave the Wilderlands, I promise.”

“You have confessed your crimes freely, tall one. There are only two options left. Our laws are as old as this forest and just as immoveable. Your sentence is death or the Kingtree. Which do you choose?”

“What is the Kingtree?” Lorik asked.

“It is the tallest and oldest of the ancient trees. Long ago our ancestors hid the swords of Acromin in its lofty boughs. If you wish to prove your innocence, you can attempt to climb the Kingtree and retrieve the swords.”

“My hand is broken,” Lorik said. “I want to climb the tree and prove my innocence, but I’m not sure that I can.”

“Then we will mix the sleeping nectar. It is a painless death and swift.”

“No,” Lorik said. “I choose the Kingtree. Please, let me climb the Kingtree.”

The voices erupted in what sounded to Lorik like a celebration. And then, although he couldn’t see anyone or anything moving him, the hammock moved closer to the tree and tiny hands pulled him inside. He was amazed to find not just a room, but a village, all made of wood within what appeared to be the limbs of the tree. There was no bark here, and the buildings were stained different colors, some with intricate artwork. There were arching windows and doors, broad walkways spiraling up, and swinging bridges made from the same hairy fibers as his hammock.

“What is this place?” Lorik said in wonder.

“This is Erkadine,” said a small female. Her hair was long and braided with threads of silver. Her clothes were made from a combination of what appeared to be hemp and leaves.

“Erkadine?”

“It is our village. I am Shayah.”

“I’m Lorik,” he said, still staring around him in wonder.

“Take him to the Perkote to prepare him for the Kingtree,” said the little boy who had passed sentence on Lorik.

“Wait, please,” Lorik said. “Who are you people? I mean, what are you? Are you children?”

The group of toddlers giggled and the boy spoke again.

“We are the Drery Dru, guardians of the forrest. I believe in your language we are known as Druids.”

“You mean forest elves?” Lorik said.

“If you say so,” the boy said. “And no, we are not children. We have been the guardians here since the trees were saplings. Don’t judge our age by our appearance, tall one, we have been here much longer than you have been alive, and we will continue to be here once you are gone.”

“I meant no disrespect,” Lorik said. “I’ve heard of you in stories, well, legends really, but I didn’t realize the legends were true.”

“I assure you, the Drery Dru are real. We once ruled forests as vast as your Five Kingdoms, but that was before the time of man in this world. Now, we are all that is left. This tiny, ancient forest from another time that your kind calls the Wilderlands.”

“I am honored to meet you,” Lorik said.

“Hennick, I am known as Hennick.”

Lorik stuck out his hand to shake the elf’s tiny hand, but the elf merely frowned and bowed.

“Don’t think that you can escape your fate, tall one. Man is a devious race, and why the Maker chose to give man his power is a mystery. We will not be tricked or fooled into letting you go.”

“I understand,” Lorik said. “And though my honor may not be what you would call valuable, I give you my word that on my honor, I will not try to trick or deceive you. I did not mean to give offense when I cut your trees. I did not mean to threaten your forest with fire. I am truly sorry. The Wilderlands are a strange place to me, but I want only to rescue my people from the Norsik. I will do whatever it takes to do that.”

“Fine,” Hennick said. “Take him to the Perkote and prepare him. You have one hour.”

“Come, Lorik,” said Shayah. “This way to the Perkote. We shall see that you are ready to attempt to climb the Kingtree.”

They led Lorik down a long, winding staircase. The stairs were narrow for Lorik and he took them three at a time, but he made it safely down to the lowest level of the tree village. The Perkote was a bowl-shaped indention in the trunk of the tree. Although bark covered most of the tree village, internally the trunk stopped at the Perkote. The bowl was filled with dark water and the lighting was dim. Elves floated or swam in the Perkote, some merely soaking along the edges.

“Disrobe, tall one,” said one of the elves. “You must bathe and prepare yourself for the climb.”

Lorik felt silly, but he did as he was told. A group of elves whisked his clothing away and Lorik lowered himself into the water. The pool was deep and he had no trouble submerging himself in the warm, pine-scented water. He scrubbed his body and hair, then he climbed out. More elves brought a light-colored, sleeveless, short robe and kilt.

“It is tradition for a climber to wear the Anglone,” Shayah said. “It is made from the tree spinners high in the canopy.”

She helped him arrange the garment and clip it into place. She also gave him a comb and mirror. They were both tiny, but Lorik was able to see himself and comb the tangles out of his hair and beard, which he had not shaved since the Norsik had invaded Ortis en masse.

Then food was brought, berries and tender root vegetables. There was a sweet syrup to dip the food in and light refreshing cider in small cups. Lorik’s hunger and thirst returned with a vengeance and he ate ravenously.

“You look better,” Shayah said as he ate.

“I haven’t eaten in a few days.”

She smiled and served him more food. When the meal was over Lorik stood up. He was completely satisfied, but not bloated or overly full.

“Now you are ready,” Shayah said.

“Don’t I need my boots?”

“Nay,” Shayah said. “Your feet will grip the Kingtree better without them. Come!”

She led him back up the tree village. Horns blew and soon a large crowd of the forest elves were following Lorik and Shayah. They reached a long, thick branch with a large opening. There Hennick was waiting.

“I will take you to the Kingtree,” he said.

“Good luck, tall one,” the elves called out.

“I will pray for you, Lorik,” said Shayah.

“Thank you,” Lorik said.

He was suddenly very nervous. He followed Hennick out onto the branch. It was a thick limb, but it swayed under his weight just the same. None of the other elves followed.

“Your village is magnificent,” Lorik said to Hennick.

“Erkadine is but one village. Every tree in the forest is home to many Drery Dru. Now, perhaps you understand why your crimes grieve us so.”

“Every tree?” Lorik asked. “What about outside the Wilderlands?”

“The young trees of your Five Kingdoms have no guardians, though in some places the Dryads born of dark magic rule.”

“Dryads?” Lorik asked.

“They are part tree, part Drery Dru. A wizard created them centuries ago, but their minds are stunted and their nature is selfish. Not unlike men.”

“Not all men are that way,” Lorik said. “Some are good, noble even.”

“Is that why your kings and warriors lay waste to the land around them? Because they are noble?”

“No,” Lorik said. “I admit, many people called nobles are not noble, but they can be.”

“Your kind has always been full of hope and dreams. Perhaps you are noble, Lorik. Perhaps you will be the first to climb the Kingtree, but I have my doubts.”

“Tell me about the Kingtree,” Lorik said.

“It is the heart of the forest,” Hennick said. “It towers over the other trees, but its heart is gnarled, grieving over the loss of its Drery Dru and the pain it sees over the wide earth. Acromin was once a great and noble king of your kind. He was the last friend of the Drery Dru, but he was killed. Murdered by one of his ignoble nobles, and the king of the Drery Dru, along with his entire village, was killed with him. The descendants of Acromin brought his weapons here, to be guarded by the Drery Dru. The swords hold great power, but only the true protector of the Wilderlands can possess them. If you are truly innocent, if your heart is noble and your honor is strong, perhaps you can climb the Kingtree and restore the friendship between man and Drery Dru.”