Melforger (The Melforger Chronicles)

The Melforger Chronicles

BOOK 1

™

DAVID LUNDGREN

For the diaspora

W
esp coughed into his sleeve and then spat over the side. Shivering, he peered up angrily at the threatening swirls of grey cloud that could just be made out through the foliage high above. Rain was coming, and lots of it.

The wagon wobbled its way along a worn path that curved around the base of one of the enormous trees that the locals called
Ancients
. Apparently, the ground here was actually
on
the branches of these scattered forest giants. Another trader back in Miern had once tried to explain it to him, how the huge branches that grew out from the trunks had been cemented together by vines and plant roots over the centuries until they formed this natural, compact layer that ran above the actual forest floor. Wesp was dubious. And yet, perhaps it was possible; despite having travelled here before, he still found himself bewildered by the sheer,
staggering
size of the
Ancients
, soaring upwards to form a distant canopy a hundred yards above the normal sized trees. Nowhere else in the world had he ever seen anything like it, and he’d travelled more than most.

A clap of thunder pounded through the forest, bouncing between the towering trunks and then fading into silence. An eerie silence. Instead of the usual cacophony from countless birds and insects, there was this muffled stillness with only the occasional ominous creaking of branches. It was as though the heavy skies had taken a deep breath and it was only a matter of time until they burst.

Automatically, he reached under his coat and brought a battered, leather bag to his mouth, taking a long, noisy swig before recapping it in a practiced motion. It wasn’t the potent whisky he drank in the gambling pits back in Miern, but some sort of mead from Three Ways, the main forest town. It was dwindling fast though. Hopefully, he could stock up on more at the main village in the south before looping back up to the Pass for the long trip home.

There was also one last crucial item on his list still to find: a local delicacy they called vinehoney. If he could get some, it would justify the entire wretched journey from Miern. There was a craze in the city for the jasmine-tinted syrup that could only be found in the Aeril forest and Wesp had managed to strike a deal with the chief cook at the Gerent’s palace. He was desperate to obtain a few jars for some royal function in a few weeks’ time, and willing to pay a fortune for it – enough that Wesp could perhaps even think about retiring.

He had a good feeling about this last village, and if they had some vinehoney, it would be easy enough to do some trading for it. They were keen on trading, these foresters. Wesp smiled. Keen, but not particularly good at it. Whereas he had made his fortunes in Miern, and if you could say anything about Wesp Tunrhak, it was that he knew how to haggle with the best. He reached down to pat the leather case that was stowed under the bench and there was a familiar clinking of coins in response.

Taking another disapproving look at the darkening skies, he turned to spit over the side again and then poked his sandal into the back of the young boy sleeping on the wagon floor.

“Get up.”

The boy grunted in pain and then sat up, rubbing his eyes and scratching the tangles of blonde hair that fell around his freckled face.

“We’re stopping here for the night.” Wesp pointed at the three burly goats. “Get them tied up and fed before this rain sets in.”

“Why? Where are you g–“

He cringed as Wesp’s hand sprung out and flicked his shoulder. “Just do what I tell you!”

Quickly climbing out of the wagon, the boy untied the animals and led them away towards a clump of blackberry brambles. Once he had gone, Wesp jumped down and pushed his way through the dense undergrowth that bordered the path. Drawing a small axe from his belt, he began hacking at a thick web of vines until they fell away. He moved further and further into the brush, carving up branches that stood in his way and kicking over young saplings.

He stopped when he discovered a small tree wrapped in thick vines and decided to chop it down to use as a base for a fire. Stepping up to it, he hesitated as a sudden whiff of something repulsive filled his nostrils. Covering his mouth and nose with a sleeve, he poked the axe blade tentatively into the vine. It pushed through as if it was made of butter. On the outside it seemed healthy, but on closer inspection, Wesp saw that the inner flesh was a dark mouldy color, so he left it alone and moved to collect branches from the other side of the clearing.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .

Raf curled his toes up in his sandals and poked at the leaves that lay scattered around him in a thick mat. It wasn’t an
Ancient
, but the hollowed section half way up this dead oak was still big enough for him to stand in. And surrounded by leafy strangler vines, it was well hidden from the path below.

He combed his fingers through his shaggy hair and tried to brush out some of the dust from the climb up the inside of the tree. Probably time to get a haircut soon, really. While most foresters let theirs grow, Raf had inherited his father’s thick, almost black hair, and unless he had it cut every month or so, it turned into an unruly mess that seemed to just attract dirt.

He’d just managed to escape from a tedious music lesson with Madame Ottery while all of his classmates were still trapped there. He just wasn’t in the mood for school after the incident that morning. His friend Nedrick had overheard someone saying the Festival might not happen, and when Raf had tried to speak to his parents about it during breakfast, his mother
completely
hit the roof and banned him from mentioning it again. It wasn’t like
he’d
started the stupid rumor! Sometimes, having two parents who were on the village Council was a huge pain.

W
hy was everyone so stressed, anyway? The Festival wouldn’t be cancelled, it was far too important
. This time last year, the whole village - the entire
Aeril
Forest!
-
had been fired up about the Festival; and that was when it had been hosted way up north. Now, for the first time in many years, it was Eirdale’s turn, and you could almost taste the excitement in the air. Well, until the rumor, anyway.

As long as it doesn’t mess up my sojourn plans
, he thought.

Sojourns happened at the end of school for every forester. For a few weeks or even months, school-leavers would travel and experience life outside of their village. Raf wanted to go somewhere outrageous. Somewhere far. The furthest he’d ever travelled was up north to Three Ways - and that was still in the Forest! The Foreman himself had said sojourns were good for ‘broadening your perspective’, so why be boring and go somewhere close or similar to home? Cisco’s older brother had spent seven months way south of Sayenham on the coast where he had apparently managed to get work on a fishing boat. His tales about the turquoise sea and whale music were fascinating. Proper stories, those.

Raf looked up at the ledges around the hollow chamber that gave him somewhere to prop up his recent attempts at carving. There was a short, rough pipe he’d carved out of rosewood, a hollowed gourd that was the start of a lute, and an attempt at making some panpipes that could’ve been decent if he hadn’t made such a hash job of cutting the holes into the bamboo pieces.
Sighing in frustration, he reached up to retrieve the piece of soft cherry wood that he’d picked up on his way from school
and ran his fingers over it.

“All right, here we go again,” he muttered. “I think I’ll name you… Orfea.” 

He pulled out his knife and, giving it a quick wipe on his shirt, set to work whittling away at the wood, his hazel eyes focusing intently on his work. Shavings fell to the floor as he scraped and cut, but only a few minutes later, he sighed again and put his knife back in its sheath.

“Rubbish.”

He held the stick up and grimaced at the mess he’d made of it, before throwing it down on the floor in disgust.

The wind whistled softly through the cracks in the bark around him and as he relaxed against the trunk there came the soothing rustling of leaves, the subtle creaking and groaning of the dead tree, and of course, the never-ending backdrop of birdsong. Two young marmosets sprinted past the window, chasing each other excitedly and he smiled to himself as their chatter faded away. From nowhere, a tune sprang to his mind and he found himself humming it quietly. It was soft and lilting, and his eyes grew heavy and then closed.

A streak of colors lit up the darkness behind his eyelids.

What….?
His eyes shot open and he straightened his head, but the colors were gone. He frowned and rubbed his eyes before closing them, and waited curiously to see if anything would happen. But when nothing did, he felt himself slowly relax again. After a few moments, he started humming the same tune. There was no mistaking it this time when a wave of colors washed across his eyes, so he kept them tightly closed and peered blindly forwards, still humming.

He waited for the colors to fade, but instead, they lingered in front of him, flittering aimlessly like feathers being buffeted by the wind. The tune he was humming moved to his favorite part and as it drew more of his attention, the colors grew in intensity. Then they suddenly started moving with purpose, red and purple patterns spinning and spiraling through each other – right in front of him! He stopped humming and sat up in astonishment. Instantly, the colors were extinguished.