Chapter Nine
Deadly Forest Knight
Weir Hewn was a marvelous weapon. Art pulled it out of his belt as he rose and brushed off the dirt and dead leaves. Slightly longer than his other knives, its balance was perfect; the blade shaper than anything he had ever seen. It could likely cut a single hair out of the air. Art tried not to grin. He had never seen a blade so finely crafted or anything that fit in his grip so well. He could not help but say the name aloud.
Lucid was next to him, eyes pouring over the weapon as well, smiling as Art was.
“Want to see it?” Art offered and the boy nodded, taking it carefully in his hands. His fingerless gloves allowed him to touch the stunning detail of the designs on the sheath, admiring, as Art did, the craftsmanship.
“Your father may be a loon, but he sure does make beautiful things.”
Lucid chuckled and agreed, handing the blade back to Art. The man, having recovered his pack, started to place it inside next to the lantern when he had a thought.
“Do you know if I’m allowed to use this?”
Lucid nodded vigorously, shaking his wildly cropped hair and bangs up and down with the motion.
“There won’t be anything bad that happens? I’m allowed to wield it like a normal blade?”
Again Lucid nodded, mimicked a slicing act with his hand and then pointed to Art with even more nodding. Art took the boy at his word and standing again, removed his more dominate knife and slid Weir Hewn in its place, fastening it to the waist-high holster. Again, he went to put the knife in his pack but had another thought.
“Can you use this?” He looked at Lucid who cocked his head a little to one side. “Do you know how to fight with a knife?”
Lucid looked at the blade and then with both hands pushed them together, leaving a small space between.
“A little?”
The boy nodded.
“All right, well why don’t you take this? I know you have abilities, but having a weapon is also good too.” He leaned down and fastened it to the boy’s belt. “If we have time on the way I’ll show you a few things. I’m good with a blade. I’ll teach you.”
Lucid seemed overwhelmingly happy and surprised Art by saying out loud, “Thank you, Brother!”
Art chuckled and nodded. “Why do you call me Brother? You can call me Art.”
Lucid’s face became very serious. “We are brothers. We are very alike.”
He said no more and Art decided it was enough for now. Perhaps it was just another odd thing the Weaver thought, and his words had a heavy impact on the boy. He never did learn Art’s name so perhaps that’s all he gave to Lucid when he made them traveling companions. Art did not think them very similar.
“You are coming with me now, right?”
“I go with Brother, yes,” Lucid nodded, looking happy again, which made Art smile. The boy would be positive company, something Art felt he would be sorely needing before long. A shiver ran through him again thinking of the demon and before they planned their next move he retrieved the Umbra Sweet twist and munched it down. Both the encounter with the demon in his mind and the ice moat had left him feeling more tired than he would have liked. He hoped the candy would help mask his Weir’s scent as they progressed through the haunted wood.
“Any ideas on how to get out of here?” Art said once he had finished his candy and replaced his gloves.
Adjusting his cloak and hood, Art glanced at where Lucid should have been. The boy was no longer by his side but standing just beyond the reach of the arm-filled trees. Crouching, animal-like the boy’s attention was on something in the woods. Walking up to Lucid, he peered into the forest. The darkness had rapidly fallen and the haze of the day was now a mixing fog and twilight.
“We have not been in here that long,” Art murmured. “It could not possibly be nightfall.”
“The moat and tree,” Lucid spoke softly, “it holds time.”
Art was confused at first but then recalled the “holds time” term from his classes. Some places in the world had pockets that time either traveled faster or slower. Often they centered around places of great magic or great evil. Being at Willow’s Unrest had robbed them of the day and now they were on the verge of night. Art had hoped they would be out of the woods by the time night fell.
“We need to get out of here before the demons of the night come out,” Art said, his eyes scanning the area for an opening with less arms.
“Too late,” Lucid said before doing something that made Art step back a foot.
Peeling out of his cloak and pack, Lucid hunched forward, rolling his shoulders. The dreamcatcher tattoo on his flesh flexed with the movement of his muscles but then took on a motion all its own. The woven strands of thread and twine that made up the circular form of the design lifted and started to unwind from one another, as if Lucid’s back was a screen for a moving motion picture. Astonished, Art watched as the threads traveled up and over the boy’s shoulders before spreading all over his body in growing black sketched lines until Lucid was completely wrapped in them, like a thread mummy.
It was only a moment more before all the threads fused together and blended into his skin like water colors on an artist’s canvas. When the boy opened his eyes again his skin was onyx black, his iris white. He had become the nightmare form of himself. Fanged teeth and black hair, Lucid turned his handsome face into one, that now bore such a haunting look.
“Run that way.” He pointed with a long clawed hand. “I will follow after. The path will lead out.”
“That’s the opposite of the way we came,” Art protested before he heard a pack of low growling, rumbling up through the woods. The hands on the trees in the direction in which Lucid had been looking had disappeared, pulled back into their tree trunks.
“That way. Go now.” Lucid said nothing more but turned towards whatever was now rushing through the woods at them.
Art obeyed, hoping the boy knew what he was doing. He snatched up Lucid’s cloak, rolling it before attaching it to his bag. Pulling his blades, he rushed into the woods cutting arms that grabbed for him as he went. He heard a fight start up behind him: growling, snapping jaws, the wrestle of bodies in the leaves. He hated leaving the boy. But he had to trust him, knowing he might be a hindrance to Lucid.
The narrow path was barely visible in the darkness of the wood. Pulling up his facemask, Art whipped out a pair of goggles from a side pocket on his bag and pulled them on, cutting his way through more arms. Flashing red before dimming again to just red glass, the goggles enabled him to see better in the low light. The arms were starting to thin and he had only received minor cuts and clawing on his way out. Art was counting himself lucky. The forest might be coming to an opening or an end soon.
He was right. The space between trees grew and soon he burst out of the woods into the night, running at full sprint through a meadow bathed in moonlight. The heaviness of the forest was leaving him, the whispers dimming. Art was smiling behind his mask and starting to slow when he entered another wood.
It was not like the Woods of Reaching. He felt no malevolent presence, heard no voices. He wanted to stop there and wait for Lucid but there was another problem. It was fast, so fast that Art had just barely enough time to duck and roll before a large beast leapt at him from the trees. Blades ready, Art jumped back to his feet, steadying himself, eyes on the creature.
It was huge, much bigger than a normal bear, its head strangely deformed. It had only a slight resemblance to what it used to be, before a demonic force infused with it making it the grotesque thing it was now. Drooling a yellowish smile, the thing glared at Art, eyes sickly and white blue. The teeth were most prominent, almost swollen too large for its mouth but sharp and lethal. Art had no confidence he could take on a monster of this mass and speed. He would die quickly facing this thing.
Growling, an odd clicking in the back it its throat, it sniffed the air. Art knew it was smelling him, his Weir.
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“Yeeessss,” a voice hissed from within the beast’s throat. “There is the flavor, do you hear the melody?”
Demons. Art could sense them embedded deep within the thing, which was likely once a ram-bear. Perhaps the thing had been caught and infested with them, lumbering too close to the Woods of Reaching. It was now a perversion of nature, just a flesh wagon for the demons to move from one place to another, looking for souls. Without aid, he would be unable to exorcise this poor beast, to at least set it free from the suffering it was enduring. He wished he had a Scarborough Knight from the train ride with him now. This was the kind of things they dealt with.
There was nothing he could really do and eyeing the woods behind him, he turned and sprinted into the thickest collection of trees nearby. The creature roared and the demons inside it wailed and commanded it forward. Dropping into a dead run, the thing headed after him, busting through trees and other forest growth that got too close for its width to fit through unimpeded.
Art was cursing, knowing there was little he could do, other than to try and find a place to hide or run until the thing tired of the chase. Climbing a tree would not stop something that could fell one by smashing it down. Running blind, Art had at least a small lead, the closeness of the old forest slowing the thing down a little. His breath was labored before long. His lungs and legs both screaming at being pushed so hard. The howling of the beast behind reminded him he had to go on, despite his body’s limits.
He was certain he was going to have to do something other than run when the Demon Touched gasped a horrific cry. Trees were still breaking, the sound of snarling and growling indicated the massive thing was struggling with something. Art slowed just a little until he was certain something was doing battle with the monster. He hoped it was Lucid.
Finally the thing went still, its huge body making a tremendous thud, echoing through the woods, sending birds out of the trees and into the night’s sky. Art waited for a moment but when the boy did not come to him, he headed towards where the fight had taken place. Broken trees, and sickly black blood splattered the area but the Demon Touch was dead. Art could feel the small demons inside wailing and crying in horrific sounds.
Not seeing Lucid, he knelt by the monster. He knew he should exorcise the demons for they could possess another animal or person nearby. He tried to slip his mind into that of the demons, the realm which they were floating about, angry at losing their vessel. He could sense them, a little cluster of six lesser demons and they were sensing him.
“A Weir is open!” One hissed.
“The flavor!” Another bayed.
Art did not listen but proceeded to press his will down on them. They all screamed at the pain and pressure it caused.
“Your names,” he demanded. They screamed and tried to claw at his mind with their own but they were no match for Art’s skill. “Your names!” He demanded again.
They were going to speak, going to tell him, they could not compete with him but there was something else. Art suddenly felt it. It was as if in the corner of his mind, watching this whole time, the demon within him had been curled up, waiting. It could almost see behind his eyes, it rose out of the darkness, twisted horns smoking and gleaming, bellowing his name. Pain shot through him and he pulled back from the little demons who flushed themselves into the night, taking the chance to escape the Weiriman.
Art’s body writhed with pain as the demon within him loomed as if in his face.
“Give into me, boy, release me!” Its voice shot through him like liquid fire and Art screamed again, blades dropping, hands going to his head. He had to push it back. His struggle would attract all kinds of things.
“No,” Art screamed and mustered all the strength he had to pull the bottle of Scarlet Extinction from his pack and force a candy into his mouth. The sugary flavor poured over his tongue and the pain started to subside. The demon withdrew but not before whispering it would not be long before he would succumb.
Panting, Art gathered his blades and pushed himself to his feet. He swayed on them a little, stomach churning, but he knew he had to get out of there. The foul odor coming off the beast was threatening to make him sicker. He knew it was disintegrating, as all Demon Touched creatures did when demons vacated their bodies and they were set free of the suffering, but the process was foul.
Staggering into the woods, Art sheathed his weapons and wandered without direction. He hoped Lucid would find him soon. He was so tired, so sore again. He hated that he had to take another candy so soon after having had one before. He could not take them so close together, he would run out before he completed his quest. But the demon was so strong. He had no idea how else he was to keep the thing at bay.
Wandering through the woods at night, still so close to haunted ground, Art knew he would be attracting more demons soon. The evil inside him and his cracked Haunting Weir were like the scent of fresh cooked meat to a hungry man. He then had a thought, remembering the lantern Cindervail had given him. It was the one used in the ritual, but he also thought it might give him some slight protection against evil. Other soul lanterns could emit such an aura, he hoped this one did too.
Stopping for a moment, he went to remove his pack, when Art felt something. Deciding he should not stop, he started into the woods again, pace quickening. The feeling did not relent and soon he was sensing the presence again, until finally his eyes caught a glimpse of a dark form rushing through the shadows. Almost part of the trees, Art was uncertain what he saw. A second glance made him think it was possibly part of the forest.
Yet, Art did not think this was a demon, it was different, cleaner somehow; a presence like a whisper of soft autumn wind. An elf. Only those creatures closest to the earth, to the life stream of the world, had that feel about them, ancient, wild, and pure. The knowledge did not slow Art’s feet though. He had escaped the Wood of Reaching but he might not be in any less danger.
Elves could mean a lethal end to his desperate dash through the woods, just as any demonic presence. If he had stumbled into the territory of an elf that did not care for mankind, he might dispatch the man like he would a dangerous demon or predator. The world had not always been such a dark and dangerous place. Many elves placed heavy blame on man for inviting the evil in, with their dabbling in other worldly practices. Not all worked within the world of men like the Scarborough Knights. The elves of the wild were unpredictable, and in their own lands could do as they pleased.
Art had no idea on whose land he was in, so he kept moving, knowing a Weiriman, or one that smelled like he should be one, had an equal chance of being slain by an elf as he did befriending it. He hoped that his run and his general state of panic might dissuade the elf from putting an arrow in his skull. The deeper he plunged into the wood, the greater Art’s concern grew. The elf was still tailing him, though why and for what purpose Art could only wildly guess. He had no defenses up, if the elf had wanted to kill him, it would have been easily done by now.
Not knowing what else to do, Art slowed his gait to a jog and then to a stop, breath ragged. He bent to his knees for a moment, trying to slow his heart all the while listening for his pursuer. Silence. Elves could be almost untraceable, even expert hunters could miss them, but Art has senses most men did not, and he knew the elf was nearby, very close.
“Look,” he spoke softly, not wanting to end up dead should he offend or startle the elf. “I know you’re there. I can sense you. Why are you following me? I hope I have not trespassed into your wood. I was just fleeing the Woods of Reaching and this forest was where it let out. I’ll be on my way if you’ll only let me pass.”
Art’s voice suddenly fell silent as part of the wood moved. He stifled a gasp as what he thought a dark mass of shadows and branches, took the long elegant form of an elf. Strong, but slim, lank but toned, his clothing was deeply green, nearly black, subtly textured like vines, leaves and bark. A dark hood shadowed his face, but it was to his long arms an
d beautiful hands Art’s eyes were drawn to as the elf held a large bow, an arrow strung and knocked.
“I really hope you didn’t reveal yourself just to shoot me with that.” He quirked an eyebrow and the elf’s hood shifted a little, seeming to notice Art’s fear of the bow he carried.
There was a pause and Art felt perhaps the elf was deciding whether or not to kill him.
“Really, I mean to be on my way, I didn’t mean to disturb your wood. I—”
“This is not my wood,” the elf spoke, his voice low and smooth.
“Oh,” Art muttered when the elf did not go on. “Then, can I ask if there’s another reason you have your bow drawn?”
Again, there was a moment of thought on the elf’s part. Then the tension went out of his arms and he drew the arrow out of the bowstring, before sliding it back into his quiver. Fastening the bow into his pack, he turned and dropped his head slightly to pull the hood. Art knew he would be stunning. All elves were beautiful beyond most of the races of man. High cheek boned, with hair of black green, he stared intensely at Art with eyes emerald as summer foliage. Perhaps some kind of Tree Elf, Art speculated but he did not know much about the different races of the elves.
Art removed his goggles as they stared at one another, seeming to size each other up. The elf was close to his height, only slightly smaller. Hair flowing around him, some tied back in small braids here and there. His clothing was hard to make out in the darkness but seemed meant for travel and Art frowned.
“If this is not your wood, I can’t help but wonder what your business with me is.” He did not mean for it to sound so straight forward, but having just escaped with his life more than once this night, he was in no mood to play games with a stranger, elf or not.
“I too have traversed the Woods of Reaching. Yet, I was not as successful as you and did not acquire what I know you have at your hip.”
Art’s heart jumped into his throat, his foot instinctively taking a step back. His hand went to Weir Hewn.
“You mean my blade? You were after it too?”
The elf did not answer but Art did not need him too.
“I require it for unique purposes.” The elf dropped his gaze heavy on Art.
“I also need this blade for unique purposes,” Art said cautiously.
The elf’s eyes narrowed to two almond shaped slits. “I will have it and no man, not even a Weiriman, will keep it from me.”