None returned.
More time went by. Portage was founded by a small group of colonizers without military aid. They were content to settle on the eastern bank of the lake. None pushed further east.
Until Mortis Ironclad.
Not long after he’d departed Portage, he’d discovered a road of sorts, the grass trampled down, broken and greyed until it was more dirt than anything else. The trail was arrow-straight on what Mortis determined, after studying the positioning of the sun, was an easterly course. As he’d traveled, he saw not a single human, though the lands were home to a multitude of creatures, from spotted hares that dove into their burrows as he approached, to enormous elk with broad racks of antlers. He hadn’t tried to harm any of the creatures, for he’d departed the colony with a sack heavy with dried meat and berries. The sack was lighter now, but far from empty.
His water skins were refilled by occasional rainfall, and he never thirsted. All in all, he’d enjoyed sleeping under the stars on the plains. Sometimes loneliness pressed in around him, but he fought it off with thoughts of discovering whatever lay to the east, even if it was the last thing he did.
Am I seeking death? he wondered from time to time. After all, he knew the history of the four expeditions. “No,” he said now. He spoke aloud, for it felt natural when one was alone. “I am starting fresh.” But wasn’t Portage starting fresh? Why wasn’t it enough for him? Would anything ever be enough, or was he destined to walk these lands, from sea to sea, from horizon to horizon, for the rest of his days?
It was a question that nagged at him each and every day.
Mortis stopped, finally seeing with his mind what he suspected his eyes had seen for a while now.
An end to the flat grasslands. He squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Is that…metal?
Spires rose high into the sky, reflecting sunlight. Not one or two, or even a few, but hundreds. Thousands. But these were no ordinary spires, for they had an asymmetry to them that seemed almost random, with beams shooting off to the sides at disjointed angles. Attached to the beams were millions of smaller tiny sheets of metal.
No, Mortis knew in his core. Not sheets. Leaves. And the beams are branches, the spires trunks.
This was the secret the four expeditions had taken with them to their graves.
An iron forest.
From afar, the forest had seemed more faery tale than reality. Up close, there was no doubt it was real.
Mortis approached slowly, his eyes wide with wonder. There was no gradual shift from plains to forest. The first tree was several hundred feet high and so broad around it would take a dozen men linked hand in hand to surround it completely. The bark—if he could call it bark—was completely smooth, and appeared no different than the face of an axe.
Metal, he thought. There was no other way to describe it. He reached out to touch it, but stopped suddenly, his hand hovering a few inches away.
Had the tree…rippled?
He swore he saw it move slightly, like a pond disturbed by a dragonfly landing on its surface.
He shook his head, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. His mind was clearly playing tricks on him. Trees, whether made of wood or metal, didn’t ripple. Solid things didn’t carry the same characteristics as liquids.
Without another thought, he touched the tree.
His eyes widened as his finger sank into the surface, which hardened around it like water turned to ice in an instant. He tried to retract his hand, but it held fast. Panicking, he pulled harder but stopped when pain shot from finger to wrist to forearm. There was no give at all. If he wanted to dislodge his finger, he’d have to snap the bone in half.
His breath tight in his throat, his heart hammering, Mortis stared at the tree, trying to decide what to do. He was all alone. Even if he could muster the courage to remove his own finger, he had no blade. He couldn’t imagine the pain of trying to snap his bones and wrench his shattered flesh from the tree.
And then things got worse.
Further along the tree’s metal surface, something moved, an iron tendril darting out and grabbing his other hand. He cried out, fighting against the force, but it was impossibly strong, dragging his hand into the tree, where, once more, it stuck. Again, he tried to pull it out, but this time his efforts only made his arm sink further in, up to his elbow.
Desperation gripped him as tightly as the tree.
It all became clear to him in an instant—how those prior expeditions had vanished without a trace. The lone survivor had ranted about people made of metal and starlight, but what he’d seen were these ravenous iron trees eating his companions alive.
And this one was about to devour him, pulling him inside its liquid-metal surface until he no longer had air to breathe.
I’m sorry, Scarlett, he thought. I’m sorry I didn’t do better with my new life. I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you more.
One of his legs had been yanked into the tree now, but he barely noticed as he craned his head back to look up at the sky one more time.
His eyes, however, focused not on the sky but on an unexpected form, sitting high on a metal-sheathed branch. Her hair was made of starlight and her eyes as bright as jade. She appeared to be formed of metal, almost like another branch of the tree. She held a tall iron bow with the familiar grace of one who’d done so for years.
She smiled, and it was a young smile, a contradiction to her colorful eyes, which seemed full of the kind of experience one could only get from the passage of years.
And then she pulled back the bow, an arrow already nocked.
“Duck,” she said, and then she fired.
Even if Mortis had had the presence of mind and time to duck, he wouldn’t have been able to, his arms and legs held fast by the liquid-iron tree.
That’s when the strangest thing happened:
Time slowed down.
He could see the approach of the arrow, which seemed to be fully constructed of iron, from tip to shaft to feather-like tail. He saw the rotation of the shaft, Saw the sharp tip as it flew toward him. Seconds passed, and it moved so slowly he could’ve reached out and snatched it from the air if he had the use of his arms.
Instead, it would be a painfully slow death, every beat of his heart moving the dart an inch closer. Its aim was true and there was no way to avoid it. He refused to blink, his eyes burning. His eyes crossed as it moved directly between them, moments away from splitting his skull in two.
This was it, and though it wasn’t the end he had imagined, at least he had seen this place.
Time stopped completely.
He stared at the tip of the arrow, which hovered before him, frozen. And then, like a memory replayed in reverse, it rocketed backwards, high up into the tree, where the iron woman caught it, a laugh falling from her lips.
Mortis managed a shuddering breath. He was still alive, for now at least.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The woman’s laugh vanished. “The stranger comes into our wood and begins asking questions? Humans.” She spat the last word out like a bitter taste.
Mortis was still held fast by the tree, but at least it wasn’t actively trying to entomb him any longer. He wondered if the woman had something to do with that, or if the tree had decided to spare him. Also, was she really a woman? She was unlike any woman he’d ever seen before. The pupils of her eyes were too narrow, black ovals amidst an effervescent green sea. He struggled to find words.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
“I—” Why did I come here? Mortis wondered. Nothing about his decision to leave Portage was logical. Yes, he could tell himself it was to get even further away from those who might still pursue him, but that was a lie. “I couldn’t be around people anymore.”
His own words shocked him. Was that the truth? And if so, what did that mean for the rest of his existence, however long that may be?
She seemed surprised by the response as well. “The others came to steal our lands. Th
ey came with soldiers and weapons.”
“You killed them?”
She shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. Ironwood does not like strangers.”
Information that would’ve been useful before he’d touched the tree. “I got that.”
She chewed her lip, seeming to consider the situation. Then she slung her bow onto her back and swung her body over the branch. She dropped into empty space and his breath caught, because the height was too great for anyone to survive. Tendrils of liquid ore shot from the tree and she caught one, released it, and twisted in the air, catching another with her knees. Several more twists and acrobatic maneuvers and she landed just before him.
Mortis stared. He couldn’t help himself. What he could see of her skin was like fine porcelain, nestled between the curving lines of her armor. For that’s what it was, he realized now. It wasn’t that she was made of iron—it was that she was wearing iron. From a distance, the mistake was easy to make, because Mortis had never seen armor so exquisite, fitting her lithe body so perfectly it must’ve been forged directly onto her skin.
Which was impossible, because she’d be burned to death while the ore was shaped.
“Is there something on my face?” she asked, feeling around with mock interest.
“I’m—I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve never seen such armor.” Nor a woman with the eyes of a cat. Nor hair like starbeams and silk.
“Of course you haven’t,” she said. “Only the Orians can channel the ore of the forest.”
“Channel?”
She ignored the question. “Tell me why I should let you live.”
He gaped. The way she said it was as easy and light as if she were asking him if she could borrow a cup of sugar. “I—I don’t know,” he said.
Her eyebrows arched and an unimpressed smirk filtered across her lips. “That’s your answer? The others begged, threatened, and tried to charm us.”
“And they failed, right?”
She seemed to concede the point. “You don’t have any weapons,” she said.
He shook his head. “I’m not here to fight.”
“Then why are you here?”
Again, it was a question he wished he knew the answer to. The only response he had was, “I walked.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. He could tell she was tiring of the conversation. When she opened them again, irritation flashed. “Why did you walk? Answer me or die.”
It would be so easy. Give another cryptic answer and she would shoot him with an arrow, for real this time.
Maybe there was a place after this life; maybe Scarlett was there.
It would be so easy.
But Mortis, despite all he’d been through, didn’t want to die. So he told her the truth—all of it, staring with, “My name is Mortis Ironclad…”
When he’d finished, she no longer looked angry. She looked at him differently, though he couldn’t tell whether the change was positive or negative.
She said, “My name is Sparrow Storm. And you are my prisoner.”
The tree had released Mortis, but neither his hands nor feet were completely free, shackled together with iron manacles.
Now he marched through the magnificent iron forest—Ironwood, Sparrow had called it, an appropriate name—gazing at the wonders that surrounded him. It wasn’t only the trees that caught his interest, though they were impressive. The ground itself was iron in many places, spotted with sections of dirt from which plants grew. The smaller ones were mostly green, leafy things, but the larger they grew, the more the iron covered them. It was…
“Impossible,” he said, shaking his head. His body felt light, despite the iron cuffs he wore, like he’d entered a dream.
“You say impossible even though you see with your own eyes? Foolish human.” Sparrow’s eyes narrowed on him, and he thought he knew how a mouse felt trapped under a cat’s paw.
“You call me…human. Which means you are…”
“Not human,” she said. “Not fully.”
“Then what are you?”
“Orian. My people have lived in this forest for thousands of years, before we understood the ore. Before we could channel it.”
“You mean, control it.”
“No, I mean channel it. Why must humans control everything? Life should be a partnership. If everyone understood that, there would be no war, no violence. Forests would flourish rather than being chopped down.”
Mortis felt his cheeks warm. He was suddenly glad he’d decided to leave his axe behind. After all, what good would an axe be in a forest made of iron?
A different kind of feeling struck him too, a more abstract one. Who am I? His entire life he’d been a woodcutter. But who is a woodcutter without trees to fell?
His thoughts disappeared when Sparrow said, “You are Crimean, no?”
“I come from Crimea,” he said.
She frowned, her thin eyebrows like silver rainbows. “I don’t understand the distinction.”
He sighed. “People like me came seeking a new life, a new place. We remained Crimeans for a while, but then there was a war of independence. We won.”
She nodded, understanding filling her expression. “And now you seek to take our independence.” There was venom in the statement, and Mortis couldn’t blame her.
“There are those who are never satisfied,” he said slowly.
She stopped and he did the same. “But you are? Satisfied?”
“I was,” he said.
“Before this…Lord Farley Loren…murdered the woman you loved?”
The words were almost worse than if she’d shot a dozen arrows into his chest. He bit his lip and nodded.
She shook her head and continued walking. “Savages,” she muttered.
He couldn’t argue with that, even as he blinked away tears and followed.
One week later
Being Sparrow’s prisoner was better than it sounded.
Though he was kept in a cage—formed of iron, of course, which seemed to shift and change whenever he wasn’t looking—it was open to the fresh air. A warm breeze passed between the bars. The cage was nestled in the boughs of a tall tree, well above the forest floor. At first the height was dizzying, but Mortis soon grew accustomed to it, appreciating how far he could see through the jumble of trees.
And there was much to see.
The animals, for one, were a beautiful curiosity. Butterflies with iron-sheathed wings danced and played on the wind around his cage, occasionally settling on his fingers, staring at him with strangely intelligent eyes. The first time he’d seek an ore hawk land on a nearby branch, with its broad silver-tinged wings and regal neck and scalp, it had taken his breath away.
And though waking up in the dark to a pair of glowing eyes was somewhat discomforting, Mortis had even learned to appreciate the ore panthers, even if he sometimes felt like they would eat him if Sparrow hadn’t told them not to.
The only animal he hadn’t seen yet was an ore monkey, and though the Orian children often called him one, he was beginning to believe they didn’t truly exist.
The children were looking at him now, as they often did, giggling and daring each other to go closer to his cage. Their hair was dark and only beginning to glisten with streaks of vibrant colors like the adult Orians. Their eyes were, however, cat-like, but the color was only beginning to come in, pale lavenders and oranges and sunflowers.
“I won’t bite,” Mortis said, though they never believed him. “My teeth aren’t even sharp.” He bared his teeth and they screamed and ran away, fighting for space on a narrow iron walkway that connected with a platform on the next tree. The entire forest seemed to be tethered together by the ore bridges, which allowed its inhabitants to cross large distances without ever setting foot on the ground.
It is no wonder the previous expeditions never stood a chance, he thought. They couldn’t fight an enemy they couldn’t see.
An enemy, he thought, watching the children scamper away. Is that what
the Orians were to humans? Or had they made them their enemy by invading their lands with steel and helm?
Another form came into view, though she refused to use the walkways, channeling the ore into long vines that she gripped with only a single hand as she swung toward him. Sparrow’s long, silver hair caught the wind behind her, stretching out like a cape. When she reached the peak of her swing, she released the vine, somersaulted twice, and then landed atop his cage. The ore shifted and a hole began to open. Her feet came first, then the rest of her and she landed beside him. Ore trailed from her fingertips, but was swiftly channeled back into the roof, sealing it once more.
Watching Sparrow in action never failed to cause Mortis’s heart to skip a beat.
“The others want to kill you,” she said without preamble, a tiny smirk already on her lips.
Such threats no longer sent fingers of fear up his spine the way they did at the beginning of his captivity. In fact, they were part of his daily routine now. I eat threats for breakfast, he thought, accepting a piece of fruit that Sparrow handed to him. He bit into the plum, which was as sweet as a handful of sugar. “They should probably kill me then,” he said, still chewing.
“There’s juice on your chin,” Sparrow said, gesturing.
He shrugged. “I’m going to die, so…”
She laughed. “That’s not what I said. You’re mine, and no matter what they say, it’s my decision.”
Mortis knew it should’ve been disconcerting and offensive to be thought of as a possession, but it wasn’t, at least not yet. Perhaps it is the magic of this place… “But why?”
“Why haven’t I killed you? I don’t rightly know…”
“No. I mean why am I your prisoner. For what purpose?”
Another laugh. “I get bored easily. And you’re interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
“Like a new bug,” she said, shrugging. “I might be a century old, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to have things to play with…”
Wait, what?
“You didn’t know? I figured one of the children would’ve told you by now. Orians are fully grown by sixteen and then don’t age much physically until they’re at least a century and a half old.”