The Dogwood Tree
A Short Story
Laurie Y. Elrod
The Dogwood Tree
A Short Story
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, no known or hereinafter invented, without the express permission of publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, ideas, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, ideals, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art and Design
Laurie Y. Elrod
Copyright © 2013 Laurie Y. Elrod
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781301412563
https://www.laurieyelrod.com
She was freezing. Her bare skin could not hold any heat against the cold, damp ground or the stiff wind that tore across the mountainside. She opened her eyes and found herself lying on her side, as usual, staring across the broad expanse between Noble and Honor Mountains that was Paigorya Vale.
With a small sigh she resigned herself to the fact that she had left the land once again, and pushed herself up from the worn dirt path, wet from a recent rain.
"You were gone longer this time, Ake'omo," a tiny voice said, as she knew it would. They watched for her . . . made sure she stayed safe when she returned.
"How long?" she asked, turning to look up into the branches of a dogwood tree. Fall had stripped the limbs bare, yet the snows had not yet come as normal this time of year. Sitting comfortably on a lower limb sat a tiny figure, no bigger than her hand. He was one of the magical Spriht folk — a humanoid life form sporting dragonfly-like wings, capable of flying faster than any raptor in the vale.
"Two weeks," he said.
She grimaced at his words as she stood and wiped the black grime off her skin. The times away seem to be getting longer with each leaving. "Has anything happened while I was gone?"
"No, Ake'omo, the vale is safe," he responded, then laughed a laugh that sounded similar to the twitter of a hummingbird. "But Pok unfurled his wings last week and Mylah has a near heart attack any time she hears something thud or crash."
She smiled at the visual of a young Spriht just learning to fly and could imagine that his mother’s fiery red hair would go gray before Pok grew into manhood. He had already shown signs of being headstrong and independent. Now that he had his wings, she was sure his independent nature would become almost uncontrollable.
"You and Mylah better get used to it, Pik. It won't be long and he'll be wanting to fly with Team Hawke." She strode to a rock storage well underneath the tree and slid the protective cover off. Inside was a wooden box that held boots and clothing for her. They had learned long ago to keep it supplied. She kept leaving and when she returned it was the same—she returned naked.
"Ach, don't say that! There's years ahead, yet." Pik zipped to a limb closer, watching her dress. He fell silent for a moment, then asked the question they always asked when she returned. "Do you remember this time?"
She frowned, not really seeing the deep amber shirt she had in her hand, wishing she could answer yes, but, as always, her memory was a black void. For her, there was no time passage. She should still be standing on the terrace of her home looking at the moonlight shimmering off the lake, cooling off from an argument with Nate.
"No," she slipped the shirt over her head, "it is the same. I do not know where I go. Is Nate still mad at me?" The argument with him should never have occurred. She loved him enough to take their relationship to the intimate level he longed for, but it didn't feel right—somehow it felt like a betrayal, but that did not make sense. There was no other, for either of them.
"Of course not, Ake'omo," he said, respectfully using the title of village chief that they had bestowed on her against her vehement protests after she had successfully led a small band of Paigorya Guard against a Polongi ambush outside of the valley. "He is worried. He fears that one day you will go and never return."
She feared the same thing. "I won't let that happen," she vowed, wishing she could make it true, but how could she control her leaving if she never knew when it was going to happen or where she went when she left?
She leaned against the edge of the well and pulled on a pair of thick wool socks.
It had been a little over a year ago, the first time she found herself naked on the sheep herder's path. Scared, disoriented, overwhelmed with an inexplicable sense of utter despair, she sat under the dogwood tree wrapped into a ball and crying until Mylah who had been gathering thistle seed on the other side of the hill had heard her and zoomed in to investigate. The poor Spriht had been unable to console her or get her to speak one coherent word, and had to whisk down to Paigorya Village for help. That was the first time she saw Nate. He and his sister Natia had hiked up the mountain, carrying blankets and clothing for her. They then coaxed her to follow them back to the village and to their home.
Nate had been the one who finally gave her a name after she had given up trying to recall her true name — Mayenta — meaning beautiful newborn. He said he couldn't go around calling her “hey you,” or “naked girl who just shows up out of nowhere,” or “pain in the ass” forever, and since she had arrived in this world as any newborn babe would, he figured the name fit.
She smiled at the thought as she dragged on a pair of durable trousers, then stomped her frozen feet into a pair of boots. Not the supple deerskin boots with thick soles that she preferred, but a plain pair of oxen hide that were more fitting for the trek down the rugged path of the mountain.
She rubbed her hands together and blew warm air into them. A hot fire was going to be her first order of business when she got home. "The temperature has dropped," she said as she cast a glance at the sky. Thick gray clouds lay like a blanket over the land. "Do you think it will snow?"
Pik hitched up his shoulders. "I have no clue. Mylah says it will before the week's out, but we'll see. It would help if it did."
"Yes, it would," she sighed, knowing a good deep snow would grind the Polongi raids to a halt until spring.
Now there was a cutthroat greedy bunch of rogues—the Polongi—a tribal people who were never content inside their lands over the other side of Noble Mountain. She shot a quick glance across the valley to the three tall granite towers standing sentinel along the ridge. They were manned by the Paigorya Guard who would light a signal fire if any trouble was detected. Since the battle routing the Polongi force in the spring, four fires had been lit, two from the Noble Mountain towers, one from a matching tower near Honor Pass Road, and one from the two towers that guarded the mouth of the lake where it met the choppy waters of the Teraquovee Sea. The Polongi were not going to give up. They did not believe in peace, and would keep coming until either all of the Paigorya people were dead, or the last Polongi warrior fell.
"Pik, did Priya and Titen return?" she asked. She had sent the Hawke’s two best scouts over the mountain to gather information of the Polongi movements the day before she had disappeared.
"They did, Ake'omo, three days after you left."
"And what did they find out?"
"I think it best you hear it straight from them," he frowned. "The news is not good."
She reached for the last of the well's contents—a pair of gloves and a dirk as long as her forearm. Her hand closed over the cold leathe
r encased hilt just as a whistle of wind pierced the air behind her. She dove to the ground and rolled. An arrow pinged off the rock well where she had stood and thumped into the grass. Once again her acute sense of hearing had saved her.
Pik shot off his limb. "Polongi!"
Three burly warriors clad in various pelts of woodland animals rushed down the path. Wild hair flying, the one in the lead took aim and fired his bow on the run. Mayenta scrambled behind the well. The arrow embedded into the soft turf at her feet.
Pik zoomed up the hill. Using the magical powers of the Spriht folk, he shot a flaming bolt of red at the archer. The warrior tried to dodge out of the way, but the bolt was dead on. It sizzled deep into his eye, then exploded. His head blew apart like a melon.
The other two warriors jumped over his body without hesitation. One held a strange, cylindrical weapon she now knew to be a Spriht stick. He pumped the lever on its end.
"Pik, move," Mayenta yelled at the Spriht. She picked up a hefty limb that had fallen from the tree and cracked it against the trunk. The weak top half shattered away, giving her a good sturdy length to fight with. Dirk in one hand, dogwood cudgel in the other, she rushed uphill.
The warrior fired his Spriht stick at Pik. A sticky mass of liquid sprayed out in a wide arc. Pik zoomed skyward and rolled. He shot through a narrow hole in the spray, untouched by the deadly stuff that would encase him like a cocoon and kill him either from the impact when he hit the ground or from the suffocating mass that would cover his mouth and nose and be impossible to remove.
Pik shot another deadly bolt of red at the warrior as he passed. It zoomed wide and hit the turf with a tiny explosion. The warrior skidded to a halt and aimed the Spriht stick again.
Mayenta met the third warrior on the narrow path. Growling deep in his throat, he swung his serrated blade at her head. She ducked and swung her wooden cudgel. It connected with his ribs and snapped. The man grunted in pain, but was not slowed by her attack. He swiped his sword at her. She jumped back as it whistled by mere inches from her neck. She lunged with her dirk. The warrior backhanded her on the side of her head, snapping it to the side. Pain shot through her skull. Ears rang. Furious, she twisted around and kicked him in the gut. He doubled over. She whacked him in the back of the head with what was left of the stick. It shattered. He dropped to his knees, but blindly swung outward. His blade nicked her thigh—pain, white hot, seared upward. He lost his balance and had to use his fighting hand to catch himself on the ground. Thankful for a moment of sheer luck, she stomped it. Bones cracked. He howled in pain, trying to grab her with his free hand. She kicked away the hand and drove her dirk into his neck. Eyes wide, he gurgled as blood spewed out of his mouth. Drawing her blade from his body, she stepped away and allowed him to drop to his side and drown in his own blood.
Breathless, she glanced uphill. Pik was zooming her way. He had killed the other warrior.
"Ake'omo, you must go." He waved for her to run. "These are scouts. There must be others nearby."
She nodded as she ripped a sleeve from her shirt. She wrapped it around the bleeding gash on her thigh. It burned like fire, but she would ignore the pain. "Pik, go find out for sure. I will get back to the village and warn them."
"No, Ake'omo, I cannot leave you." He buzzed around her head, watching the path behind her.
"Yes, you will. That is a direct order," she growled. "We need to know what we face. Go, I will be quick."
He frowned his displeasure. He was her personal bodyguard and leaving her was the last thing he wanted to do. "Yes, Ake'omo, as you wish."
She dipped her head in acknowledgment and rushed down the path, every other step excruciating. Pik zoomed the other way.
Honor Mountain was covered mostly by low-growing shrubs and grasses, but it did have a few pockets of trees and laurel, and it was those pockets that concerned Pik. They were dense enough to hide an enemy. She would be vigilant in those areas, knowing that the path was the easiest way down the mountain, but not the only way.
Half an hour later, she had to catch her breath. She bent over, huffing huge gulps of cold air into her lungs. Her leg, wet with her own blood was partially numb. She glanced back up the path—all clear. A quick glance downward told her she was midway to safety. The village, hugging the shoreline of the lake, beckoned her like a mother calling a child home. She blew out a huge breath and jogged with a limp downhill.
A cry broke through the wind and the loud wheezing of her exerted lungs. Fear lanced through her body and she picked up her speed. Pik had been right, there were others nearby. Another cry echoed over her head. They were coming down behind her at a rapid pace.
She stumbled and slipped down the rutted and rocky path. Dirt and stone dislodged and skittered in her wake. Then she heard the whirring of tiny wings. Pik came straight down the mountain and zoomed across the path far below her.
"Pik," she yelled. He veered around in a wide arc and flew to her.
"Ake'omo, hurry, it is a full band. They found the dead scouts and are not far behind you."
"Fly to the village. Have them raise the alarm."
A full band meant upward of fifty warriors.
"Ake'omo . . ."
"Don't argue," she shouted. "The village is more important than me. Go!"
Without a word he zipped out of sight.
Another war cry issued from above, closer.
Running as fast as her injury would allow, she prayed she would not go down before she reached the road at the bottom. If she could get that far, there was hope.
Minutes turned into eons, passed. The distance to the bottom grew shorter, but it seemed to take far longer than normal. Then the wind carried a welcome sound up the mountain. A frantic bell tolled. Pik had raised the alarm and the guard would jump to action. Nate would be on his way.
She concentrated on staying upright, on drawing in each and every painful breath. An arrow with the dreaded black and white fletching flew by her head and landed far down the path. She threw caution to the wind and jumped off the trail. Sliding on her rear, she skidded down the dangerously steep face of the mountainside. The grass was slick and there were no handholds, but she didn't want to slow down. Arrows thudded around her.
The herder's path ribboned back along the mountainside and rushed up to meet her. She hit it hard. Renewed pain lanced through her leg as she rolled over the path and off the other side. She was out of control, rolling and sliding over rock, grass, and prickly brush. Bruised and bleeding she hit the next leg of the path like a load of bricks. Her dirk flew from her hand and all the air rushed out of her lungs. Painfully, she rolled to her side, trying frantically to draw in air. She wheezed. Nothing. She tried again. Nothing.
The yells of the Polongi echoed across the valley.
She started to panic. Pushing to her hands and knees, she willed cold air into her lungs. It flooded in like water breaking through a dam, almost making her pass out. She stumbled to her feet, tripped, and fell back to her hands and knees. Growling in exasperation, she crawled across the path and grabbed her dirk, then scrambled up despite the pain. She could no longer run like before, and for the first time, she thought she might not make it to safety. She ran, anyway. The valley was near. She would make it. Darting a brief glance to the side, she saw what she hoped to see—a steady stream of Paigorya Guard poured out of the village gates at a dead run. They would have to travel the half mile or so of road until they reached the point where they could cross the valley river and get to the Honor Mountain path.
Stone and dirt rained down the slope in front of her. A Polongi, dark and threatening, smiling with the look of a crazed wild man, had used her tactic and was skidding down the mountain. He whipped a sling around in circles over his head. She ground to a halt. There was nowhere to go. A sheer, two-story drop to stony ground was on her right. The Polongi let his stone fly. She turned to protect herself. The stone slammed into her shoulder blade. She cried out against the massive pain. Tears blurred her v
ision.
The Polongi landed on the trail and almost pitched over the other side. On his hand and knees, he held that maniacal grin that said he thought he had her.
She was going to prove him wrong. Yelling like a banshee, she charged.
He scrambled towards her on all fours. They collided and flipped down the path. She ended up on his chest and tried to stab him. He caught her arm in a painful grip, stopping her blade mere inches from piercing his eye. He punched her in the ribs. The pain made her want to vomit. She lost her grip on the dirk as she doubled over. He pitched her off of him and landed on top of her. Pinning her down with meaty hands around her neck, he grinned in victory as he choked the life out of her.
A flash of light and a tiny explosion—the side of his face blew apart. Flesh, splinters of bone, and a spray of blood splattered over her face. The Polongi fell heavily to the dirt beside her.
Gasping, she dragged in gulps of cool, life-giving air.
"Ake'omo," Pik hovered over her, his face fierce with worry. "Are you okay?"
"I am now," she coughed. Explosions popped all along the face of the mountain. The Polongi yelled their war cries as the Spriht force known as Team Hawke swarmed to her rescue and attacked.
"Come," he urged, "you are still in danger."
Her body was one massive ache. Groaning, she struggled to her feet. The Hawkes had engaged the Polongi up the path, slowing their progress, but the Hawkes would not be able to hold them long. Already, sprays of the deadly liquid from Spriht sticks had the Hawkes zipping back and forth out of their range.
Rock rattled down the mountain. More Polongi were sliding down.
"Please go, Ake'omo," Pik pleaded. He zipped away to attack.
Hating that she could not make a stand and fight with the Spriht, she snatched her dirk from the ground and limped towards the valley. Yells, screams, explosions, and arrows followed her down. When she finally reached the last long hill into the meadow of the valley, the first of the Paigorya Guard was rushing towards her. At their head was a tall figure dressed in the dark oiled leather armor of the guard, his dark helm of polished steel sported a long plume of white horse hair and he carried a black shield emblazoned with the crest of a white dragon—Nate.
He saw her and ran harder. They met halfway and he enveloped her in a leather encased embrace as the rest of the guard poured around them and continued up the mountain.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeated over and over as he kissed her face.
"Don't," she protested, placing her fingers on his lips, "don't apologize." She stepped away from him. "Did anyone bring my bow?"
He jerked his head once in affirmation. "Dongal has it," he looked her over, "but you should go out of harm's way. You are hurt."
"I am Ake'omo," she said. "If I can move, it is my responsibility to fight."
His brown eyes flashed heat as he lifted his gaze to the mountain behind her. "That is what I thought you would say, stubborn. It is also your responsibility to stay alive." He pierced her with a hard look. "Let us handle this battle."
"Ake'omo," a deep voice called.
A handful of stout figures lumbered across the meadow—the Grovins. They were one of the giganticus races, tall and bulky in stature, their mere appearance would strike fear in those who did not know their nature. They were a peaceful people unless provoked, then they became a force of magnificent strength and cunning, their only drawback—they were slow.
A cry from the battle drew Nate’s attention. "I must go, but promise me you will stay in the rear. Stay with Dongal." Nate pointed a finger at her as he rushed away without waiting for her reply.
Dongal ambled to her side. "Your bow, Ake'omo," she said in that deep voice that reminded Mayenta of the low notes played from a tuba.
Mayenta shook her head at that thought, wondering where such an analogy had come from and just what was a tuba?
Dongal produced Mayenta's ash bow and a quiver of arrows. They looked like child’s toys in her giant hands. Mayenta slid her dirk into her boot top and took the offerings. She slipped the quiver strap over her head, wincing when the quiver landed heavily on her bruised back.
"Mother said to tell you that, if you insisted on fighting after your flight down the mountain, she was going to make your life miserable when the battle is over. Pik told her you were hurt and she is not pleased."
Mayenta barked a laugh. Dongal was referring to Mylah, and Mayenta knew the Spriht would make good on her threat. Mylah was a fierce force loved by all in the village who had nicknamed her Mother, since she tended to mother all.
"Then I will have to ask the entire guard to not speak of my actions this day," she said, turning to assess the battle. "I will fight."
"No one expects any less from you, Ake'omo," Dongal's deep voice rumbled.
The Polongi were streaming off the mountain. There were more than she expected. Fifty to seventy-five warriors were on the lower trail, but she could see just as many rushing down from further up. Paigorya archers fired at will. Sporadic Polongi warriors fell in their tracks. The Sprihts zoomed everywhere. Lances of red light tracked across the air, exploding into the enemy like fireworks.
Fireworks? What are fireworks? Why were words flashing into her mind that were unfamiliar to her? She decided to figure it out later. She did not have time to contemplate the mystery. The Polongi and Paigorya forces had collided at the base of the mountain. She followed in the wake of the Grovins, half-jogging, half-limping back up the hill. Dongal remained by her side, easily keeping up with her injured gait.