The Iron Sword (The Fae War Chronicles Book 1) (38 page)

Chapter 30

F
ull dark fell over the forest. Sleep was out of the question, even though I was more tired than I’d ever been in my life, exhausted emotionally and physically from the events of the harrowing day. I hoped fervently that Finnead didn’t suffer because of my escape, even though he’d made it clear he was willing to sacrifice himself for my freedom. I leaned my head back against the rough bark, wrapping my fingers around the cool, smooth circle of Gwyneth’s pendant.

I needed to get to the river-tree, that much I knew. But I was on foot, without any help, wanted for treason by Mab and an easy target for Malravenar’s forces as well. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. I shifted on my branch, keeping one leg stretched on the tree-limb and dropping the other leg to one side of the branch to keep my balance. My sword hung down from my belt on the other side.

I half-closed my eyes, unwilling to shut them completely despite the fact that I could barely see my hand in front of my face in the pitch-black of the night. I’d never slept in a tree before and it was too long of a fall to the ground if I did lose my balance. The chorus of howls and shrieks had died down into near-silence just after I’d climbed up into the tree. Suddenly, back in the direction of the barracks, an ear-splitting shriek tore through the air. I crossed my arms over my chest and pressed myself back into the tree-niche, aching with pure loneliness and fear. The shriek wasn’t a
garrelnost
—it sounded like some kind of hawk-like creature. And soon after, I heard terrible sweeping wing-beats above my head.

I froze, curling into myself and trying not to breathe, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to press down the fear choking me. The huge flying creature—by the sound of its wing-beats, it was far larger than any bird I’d ever seen—passed once, twice over the top of my tree. The third time it flew so close that the downdraft from its wings rattled the leaves. I clenched my jaw, listening harder than I’d ever listened in the pitch blackness of the night forest, willing the creature to go away, to leave me undiscovered in my tree. I thought about climbing down, but surely my clambering noise would alert it to my presence. I crept my hand toward my boot-sheath, realizing at the same time that a dagger would probably be useless against such a huge creature.

For a desperate hopeful moment, I thought it had winged off, back in the direction of camp. Then that heart-stopping shriek ripped apart the air just above my head and the creature crashed into the tree, its thrashing wings and grasping claws tearing through the branches just above me.

“Shit,” I spat, hesitated for a moment with my hand on my dagger-hilt, and then the creature slammed into the tree again, making the entire trunk of the sturdy oak groan. The creature bellowed its cry and a wave of fetid carrion-stench made me gag as I slid down off the opposite side of the branch, clinging with my arms as I blindly searched with my feet for the next branch. Wood splintered. The creature tore branches off the oak, flinging them away into the night. I heard them crashing onto the forest floor.

I found the next branch, dropped down onto it, my heart pounding in my throat. A piece of wood hit my cheek. The side of my face went instantly numb and I gasped a little as warm liquid spilled down my face. It was blood, and I knew it was blood, but I grabbed the branch and swung myself down, pointing my toes in search of the next branch. The creature didn’t shriek—it was industriously silent, the cracking and splintering of wood substitute for its terrifying cry. Panting, trying to ignore the left side of my face, I lowered myself onto the next branch, then the next, as quickly as I could, slipping down through the branches one after another.

A hideous black claw gouged the tree trunk above my head, gripping the branch just above me and ripping it away. The creature screamed in triumph, setting off ringing in my ears. Every hair on my body stood straight up, alerted to the vicious danger just above me. I swung down to the next branch, and then—nothing. I hadn’t climbed the same route that I had taken on the way to my refuge. I took a hitching breath—I couldn’t see the distance to the ground—but then the claws reached for me and I slid off the branch into the open air.

I fell long enough for a stream of curses to course through my mind, lightning-fast, and then I hit the ground. I hit feet-first and then tried to roll; my sword got caught in my legs and I ended up in an undignified tangle of limbs, breathless with pain. But I scrambled to my feet as the creature screamed, and I ran. One of my ankles tried to give out, a little starburst of pain radiating from the tender tendons, but I shook my head and ran, panting from the climb down the tree and the terror of that black misshapen creature. The thought of its claws digging into my arm, ripping off one of my legs just as it had demolished the oak tree, galvanized me, pushing me to run faster.

I ran until my legs began to shake and a knife-stabbing side-stitch split my side. I must have cut a deeper angle into the forest then I’d thought—or Kaleth had covered more ground than I had estimated, because the forest head was still thick with trees. I strained my eyes in the darkness, and still couldn’t catch a glimpse of any open ground, much less the path.

“Well, trees are out,” I muttered to myself, trying to catch my breath. Just for my own comfort, I took out my dagger. As I walked, the throbbing in my ankle receded to a dull ache, and I started to worry about the numbness on the side of my face. When I reached up to touch the cut—I knew it had to be a cut, since it was wood that had hit me—my hand started to shake and I changed my mind. I would take care of it in the morning, or when I was out of the forest, whichever came first. Never mind that crimson stained the collar of my shirt, and I could still feel it dripping down my chin. I blinked a few times and covered my right eye with my hand, breathing a sigh of relief when I ascertained that my left eye was unharmed and fully functional.

The shriek of the winged creature sliced through the night again, from back in the direction of the barracks. A
garrelnost
howled in answer, and then the creatures raised such a chaotic chorus of terrifying sounds that I shivered, even far away. I walked a little faster, gripping my dagger tightly, its silver glimmer my only reassurance against the unknown darkness.

I stopped to rest, shivering. I leaned against the trunk of a tree, closing my eyes, feeling the slide of blood down my face. I wanted so badly to sit down and just…rest, for a while. Lying down sounded even better. The sounds of Malravenar’s misshapen creatures were far enough away to fade into the background. I felt myself sliding down the trunk of the tree until I was sitting. My feet ached. My ankle throbbed. I still couldn’t feel my face.

“Tess,” said Gwyneth.

I knew it was her, before I opened my eyes. There was something in her voice that reminded me of the way my mother’s voice had sounded in early childhood memories, before my father died.

“Yes?” I murmured.

“Go to sleep,” Gwyneth told me. “And come Walk with me.”

Some small part of me remembered the
garrelnost
s, the terrible winged creature, and the shadow-servants that were all roaming the woods. I resisted sleep, despite its enticing call.

“Trust me,” Gwyneth said.

“All right,” I whispered, and I let go of the waking world.

My well of
taebramh
was no longer covered with the impermeable film of fear, but it was still difficult to draw a thread out of it. I siphoned off enough to propel myself out of my sleeping body. The pain faded as I stood up out of myself. I held out one arm: my spectral form glowed faintly, looking convincingly solid in the darkness. I began to turn, to look at my solid self.

“I do not think that would be a particularly wise decision,” Gwyneth said.

I looked forward with a jolt, realizing that Gwyneth herself—or at least, her Walking form—stood an arm’s reach away from me. She was wearing dark close-fitting breeches and a white shirt, just as she had been wearing when the pendant had shown her to me. The same silver glittered at her wrists and throat and ears, intricately wrought charms hanging from fine silver chains. With a spark of surprise, I saw that she wore
my
pendant at her throat—except a miniature sword glowed in the center of her pendant, pulsing with the blue fire I had seen flowing down her blade in my vision.

“Is it that bad?” I asked, motioning back toward my body.

“It is not pleasant,” she replied, “and you have not been in battle yet, young one. You have not seen the suffering and the blood.” Her words lilted, heavily accented with an Irish brogue. Then she stepped forward and embraced me, feeling very solid and very real. When she drew back, she put one hand on either side of my face. She was a bit taller than me, but not by much; her gaze was level with mine. I could see a bit of myself in her face—not in the fierce otherworldly beauty, but simple things, like the curve of her nose and her dark eyebrows. She wore her thick golden hair in an intricate braid, pinned like a crown about her head. “It is good to see you, daughter of my heart,” she said.

“I don’t understand. How are you here?” I asked softly. “I thought you were…”

She tilted her head, a spark of mischief entering her wise eyes. “You do not believe in ghosts, Tess?”

I shrugged. “I’ve never really thought about it all that much. But I suppose it’s not a stretch, considering everything I’ve been through in the past couple of months.”

Gwyneth smiled. “I knew the blood would come to the right one.” She opened her belt-pouch and took out four polished dark stones. “Wait for just a moment.”

Without directly looking at myself, although I did get the brief impression of slick blood and a hideous gash on the side of my face, I watched Gwyneth as she placed the stones upon the ground in a deliberate, precise pattern. One stone represented each point of the compass, forming a diamond around the tree and my unconscious form. She spoke a soft rippling word under her breath, and the stones glowed briefly with blue light. After a moment, the blue light faded, leaving the stones gleaming softly in the slight moonlight.

“There,” Gwyneth said in satisfaction. She turned back to me and scowled when she saw me watching. “Didn’t I tell you not to look, my
galya
?”

“I didn’t look at myself. I wanted to see…what you were doing,” I finished lamely.

“You could have asked,” Gwyneth said with the tone of a mother in her voice. “And I would have gladly explained. A spell-stone at each point of the compass, and a touch of the fire, will keep out most dark beings. Your body will be safe, while we Walk.”

“Shouldn’t I be getting to the river-tree as fast as I can?” I protested as Gwyneth took my arm and guided me away from my body.

“If you are to be the Bearer,” my ancestress replied, “you must first understand that you do no one any good at all if you don’t take care of yourself.” She held up a finger against my reply. “No. It is not an opinion, or an arguing point, my
galya
. You must make sure you are strong enough to wield the Sword. Only in dire need do you go into battle less than full strength.”

“It seems like dire need back at the barracks, or it will be when Malravenar attacks,” I pointed out as we glided through the forest.

Gwyneth’s silence and the chorus of horrible cries rising from the forest in the direction of the barracks told me all I needed to know. My blood ran cold as I thought of Ramel, Emery, Donovan....and even those I knew only for fleeting moments, like Eamon and the guard who had lent me his whetting-stone, Moryn.

“I need to help them,” I said desperately. “They’re trapped in the iron circle, and they’re surrounded.”

“They are Sidhe fighters,” replied Gwyneth crisply, “and they will be able to handle themselves for a good while without your help.”

I noticed that Gwyneth was wearing the sheath of the Iron Sword on her back, the battered black leather sheath completely incongruous with the buzz of pure power emanating from the sword within it. We came to a small clearing in the forest and Gwyneth stopped. She turned to me.

“Tess,” she said, “this night is a turning point. There are certain days, certain hours, that define past and present and future. This day, and the coming hours, will define the future of Faeortalam.” She took my hands and pressed them between her own. I felt the sword-calluses on her palms, rough against my own skin. “And, daughter of my heart, you stand at this crossroads. The path you choose will determine whether Faeortalam falls under shadow, and our own world slowly loses its dreams and its beauty.”

A heavy stillness settled over me as I listened. I nodded and waited for her to continue.

“I am able to speak to you here because you are the daughter of my soul—my blood runs as strong in you as it did in my own daughter, in the child of my flesh.” Her vivid green eyes bored into me. “And you stand here, at the edge of the cliff, at the crucial hour.”

I swallowed. “I don’t see what choice I have, Gwyneth.”

She smiled slightly. “I know why you say that. But there is always a choice, Tess.” Gently letting go of my hands, she stepped back and in one smooth entrancing motion she reached over her shoulder and drew the Iron Sword from its sheath.

The Sword looked like any other blade, its hilt wrapped in worn black leather, an emerald in the pommel. But a wave of power swept out from the weapon as Gwyneth drew it out of its sheath, knocking me breathless. A fierce hot longing consumed me, burning in every ounce of my being as I stared at the Sword. I realized I had taken an involuntary step toward it, as though I had been tugged closer by an invisible wire.

“It calls to you,” Gwyneth said softly. “But it is your choice to heed the calling. You may choose to go back, and let this burden pass from you.”

“Go back? To where?” I stared at her.

“To your home. To your brother, and your mother, and the mortal world.”

I blinked, stunned. “That’s not possible. I would need to go through one of the Gates.”

“The Gates are only one way to travel between the worlds, Tess,” Gwyneth replied. “The Ancient charged me to lay this choice before you.” She looked away, and my eyes were drawn to her face, despite the siren-call of the ghostly Iron Sword. “The Sword is a great burden, Tess. Being Bearer is an honor unmatched by any other, but it carries a price of pain and suffering, and perhaps even death.”

I could see the heaviness in her green eyes, and I wondered what Gwyneth had suffered while she bore the Sword. The gravity of her statement frightened me. But I took a breath and shook my head. “I won’t walk away just because I might suffer, Gwyneth. I can’t turn my back on Ramel, and Molly, and Finnead.”

Gwyneth nodded. “Loyalty has always run strong in our line.” She smiled slightly. “I did not expect you to choose differently, but some small part of me wished to spare you the trials of bearing the Sword.” She lifted the Sword and launched into a series of lightning-fast strokes, making the blade sing through the air. With each pass, a ripple of power hit me, as though the Sword was creating waves in water. Gwyneth stopped, just as suddenly as she had sprung into motion. “The second lesson of being Bearer,” she said in her thick accent, “is that the
idea
of the Sword is often enough to suit your purpose. Only an enemy strong enough to counter the power of the Sword—and there are not many—or an enemy stupid enough to underestimate the Bearer will come against you, once it is known you wield the Blade of Greatest Power.”