The Eyes in the Dark

  Mother

  Well, here I am. I cannot believe the honor that I am privileged with. I keep thinking I’ll wake and it will all be a dream. The Mother Tree is beyond description. Her boughs stretch the length of the skyline when you stand below her. She is larger, by far, than even the Tower Tree. Her majesty infuses the very air we breathe with peace and contentment. I can imagine here, the wolf and lamb laying together harmoniously. If only I’d known what wonder my life would entail, I wouldn’t have been so anxious all the time.

  — from the recovered diary of a young druidess, archived by the Order of Faune

  Approaching the heap cautiously, both Aehyl and Portean felt a slow, rising dread churning in the pits of their stomachs.

  On the glade’s floor, a thick carpet of fallen leaves and broken twigs lay scattered, mingled with waist-high, razor-edged grass and mint-colored thistle.

  The stench hit them like a wall. Aehyl doubled over, gagging, forced herself upright, then gagged again.

  Around them, the mindless hum of gnats and mosquitoes buzzed through the trees, joined by the steady chirp of woodland crickets. A twig snapped far off in the distance. An owl hooted once, the sound echoing hollowly through the trees.

  They felt exposed, watched, but necessity rooted them to the spot.

  Swallowing her fear, Aehyl parted the long grass partially concealing the heap. Her fingers trembled as she pushed the blades aside, revealing tattered gray robes. You are a druid of Faune now, she reminded herself sternly. Act like it.

  The robe was not empty.

  Still clad in the garment even in death, the decomposing corpse of either Shali or Vectra, one of the sister ecowardens charged with protecting the Great Oak, lay twisted in unnatural repose. Her presence, even in death, was a potent reminder of how hostile the Crystal-Mist had become.

  Sighing heavily beside her, Portean stepped closer to the corpse. His sharp eyes swept the scene with practiced detachment. He quickly noted the awkward angle of the body’s limbs and silently accounted for their own ignorant trampling during the frantic retreat from the Great Oak earlier that day.

  Even discounting the tracks they had inadvertently dragged through the glade, the ranger picked out several distinct sets of footprints entering from the south. Only one, heavier and deeper, led away to the west, pausing briefly at the body before continuing on. Whoever it was had tampered with what must have still been a freshly dead corpse at the time.

  The trail was old now, and Portean knew it wouldn’t hold up for long outside the glade. Still, he made a mental note to try following it once daylight returned.

  “The position of her arm—twisted as it is—that appears to be our doing,” he said quietly.

  “I... I thought it was a branch,” Aehyl answered numbly from behind him.

  She didn’t dare move. Tracking had never been her strength, truthfully, neither had hunting. The wisest course now was to let Portean survey the scene without interruption.

  Besides, she could hardly bring herself to breathe, afraid that even that small act might further disturb the poor woman’s final resting place. Her own clumsy, panicked movements earlier already filled her with guilt.

  “You couldn’t have known what you tripped over,” Portean said gently. “It makes no difference in any case. She feels no more pain in this world.”

  “Can you tell how she died?” Aehyl finally asked, her voice hollow. Watching the ranger move methodically around the corpse was torment.

  “She’s been dead for some time,” Portean replied evenly. “But I’ve noticed a few things. Look, do you see the wounds around her neck and face?” He crouched beside the body and pointed with two fingers.

  Aehyl stared at the ecowarden’s remains for the first time without flinching. Slowly, the puncture marks came into focus, dozens of small wounds scattered across the neck and cheeks. They looked like thorn pricks, or the sting of many tiny darts.

  A shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the sensation of the beetle swarm at her back. Her breath caught. Had she not run... had Portean not been there... she might have joined this sister in the tall grass, another forgotten victim of the unnatural plague. The thought left her feeling selfish and small.

  “The swarm killed her, then,” she whispered, horrified.

  “Actually, it didn’t,” Portean corrected quickly, gesturing to the corpse’s midsection. “She was struck by an arrow, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Following Portean’s gesture, Aehyl leaned in and spotted a thin wooden shaft, barely a quarter inch protruding from the corpse’s sunken, mottled skin. The fabric around the wound had been deliberately cut—likely with a knife—exposing the injury. Without that, she might never have noticed it.

  It looked as though someone had tried to pull the arrow free, smearing blood across the midsection in the process. The once-vivid stain had dried into a black, crusted mess over the pallid, decaying flesh. Whoever it was must have abandoned the effort halfway through, snapping the shaft at the skin and leaving the rest inside.

  “I didn’t think those reptilian creatures could even get this close to the Great Oak,” Aehyl murmured, her voice sharpened now with suspicion as she glanced warily at the darkness pressing in around them.

  “I doubt they can,” Portean replied solemnly. “This arrow appears to be of elvish make.”

  “You don’t believe Shali and Vectra were killed by one of us?” Aehyl asked, incredulous. The very idea made her skin crawl. It wasn’t unheard of among her people, but any elf who committed such a crime would almost certainly have had a hand in the dark magic still gnawing at the Great Oak’s heart.

  She couldn’t believe it. No matter how disillusioned some of them had become, who among the Order would go so far? Who would commit such a sacrilege, such a betrayal?

  Gently shifting the corpse to one side to check for any remaining clues, Portean snorted louder than he intended.

  “Aehyl, you’re going to have to get used to the idea that not all of Avonmora still believe in the Council’s unifying vision. The Swiftfalcons have been monitoring the movements of those pushing for a split from the Order’s leadership for years now.”

  Still, the ranger shook his head, voice low with regret. “We hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

  Suddenly, he grunted in surprise as the earth beneath one of his knees gave way slightly.

  Aehyl noticed too, but for her, it was something deeper. She felt it: a sudden, minute release of magic. It was no more than a breath, a flicker of an arcane whisper. There one second, gone the next.

  “Did you feel that?” she asked quietly.

  “Feel what, the slip?” the ranger replied, still kneeling. He probed the depression with one hand while steadying the ecowarden’s body with the other, keeping the corpse from collapsing back over whatever he had found.

  Aehyl joined him, scooping several handfuls of soft earth from the shallow hole. Beneath the topsoil, something took shape.

  It was a cache.

  A small, weathered, leather-bound journal, much like the one Aehyl used for her own notes, rested at the top of the hidden trove.

  She picked it up carefully, inspecting the cover for damage. To her surprise, the journal was remarkably well preserved despite the damp soil. Brushing away the clinging dirt, she uncovered two engraved letters: V.W.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “This must have been Vectra’s,” Aehyl murmured. She held it reverently, as though afraid even her breath might disturb what remained of the dead woman’s final thoughts.

  “Aehyl,” Portean hissed suddenly. He lifted a broken arrow fragment from the bottom of the shallow hole. “She left us a clue.”

  With careful hands, the ranger repositioned the corpse, lining up the broken shaft with the piece still lodged in the woman’s abdomen.

  The pieces fit perfectly.

  Portean studied the brown-and-white feathering at the arrow’s fletching. His features darkened. The easy confidence drained from his face, replaced by a grim, controlled fury.

  “It’s as I feared,” he muttered. “This arrow’s of elvish make. There’s no mistaking the handiwork.”

  “But your arrows, and those of all Swiftfalcon archers, are fletched in the traditional red, white, and black of your order,” Aehyl said quickly.

  “As we recognize your darts by their color, couldn’t we do the same with this one? Trace it back to its maker?”

  She squinted down at the shaft with renewed interest, then sighed in frustration. “Still... I suppose it won’t help. Fletchers sell far too many arrows to track one like this.”

  “Half the hunters in the Crystal-Mist might use similar patterns,” she admitted reluctantly. “This isn't much of a clue, is it….”

  She stopped as Portean’s eyes widened and his hand darted to the dagger at his belt.

  “You’re right, of course,” he said, kneeling beside the corpse again and peering more closely at the wound. “But maybe we’re looking at this all wrong. What if Vectra didn’t mean to preserve the arrow’s fletching at all?”

  He looked up at Aehyl, his voice low and grave. “What if she left it in... to prevent her killer from retrieving it?”

  Aehyl blinked, perplexed. The look she gave Portean said it all. “I’m not following your logic, Wild One.”

  “Have you ever tried to pull an arrow from a wounded animal in the forest?” he asked, continuing his grim work on the corpse.

  Without waiting for a reply, Portean shifted to block her view. He knew she was trained in healing, well versed in anatomy, even, but there was no reason she needed to see this. Between the decay and the crude tool he now used to extract the broken shaft, it was better she didn’t.

  A wave of rot rose from the body as he worked. Portean grimaced but didn’t falter. He handled Vectra’s remains as respectfully as he could. Whatever she had endured, he was certain that this was her final choice.

  “You see,” he murmured, “even in animals, arrows are hard to pull free, especially if they hit bone or settle deep. It’s grisly work. Now imagine a warhead, barbed and forged to tear when removed.”

  He paused briefly, turning aside to fight a wave of nausea, but he soon finished the task.

  In his hands, he held both ends of the snapped projectile… and a small, blood-covered stone, embedded deep within the wound.

  Undoubtedly, hiding it had cost Vectra dearly.

  “You’d almost have to cut to get this out,” Portean muttered. “And I think she counted on that. Counted on the idea that whoever killed her wouldn’t have the stomach for it. Maybe they even knew her.”

  He went quiet for a moment, eyes dark. “She probably wasn’t dead when they came back. Murder’s easier at a distance. But close up…” He frowned and said nothing more.

  “What an end,” Aehyl murmured numbly. Horror and disbelief warred for dominance in her thoughts.

  In Portean’s hands lay the bloodied, broken shaft of the arrow. A broadhead tip glinted faintly in his palm, its finely honed edges designed to punch through even the toughest hide. The angular blades would resist removal, tearing flesh on the way out. And without the full shaft to drive it clean through, cutting it free would be the only option.

  “It’s a weapon designed for only two purposes,” the ranger said grimly. “Either it kills quickly through internal trauma… or it maims, keeping the victim from fleeing or fighting back.”

  He paused, jaw tight. “In war, it’s also meant to force others to stop fighting, to tend their wounded comrade. Even if he survives the first shot. Such are the... courtesies of combat.” He lowered his gaze slightly, as if ashamed to be so familiar with such tactics.

  He lifted Vectra’s hand gently. “Her fingers, see? The right hand is caked in dried blood. Even under the nails.” He looked up at Aehyl. “I don’t think her killer forced the stone into the wound.”

  He let the thought hang between them.

  “What do you make of it?”

  Inspecting the stone in the dark would do little good. Aehyl eyed it skeptically. It could be a message of any kind, but this wasn’t the place to study it. Not here. Not exposed like this.

  “We have what we came for,” she choked.

  Heat flared in the brand on her chest. An inferno of emotion surged through her veins: anger, pity, betrayal. She wanted to release it, to march straight into the colony swarm and burn them to ash. Visions of flame, so sweltering and wild the very sun would beg for mercy, flashed behind her eyes.

  Her ears burned red at the tips, but a cold shiver ran down her spine despite the night’s warmth.

  “Let us bury our sister and be on our way.”

  Reaching out to steady her by the shoulder, Portean met her blazing gaze.

  “There is nothing we could have done to prevent this, Aehyl. Don’t shoulder the burden of someone else’s sins. They will be found… and they will answer for what they’ve done.”

  “I know,” the druid muttered, turning sharply away from both Vectra’s body and Portean’s gaze. Her voice dropped low, sharp and trembling.

  “And I will be the one who makes them pay.”

  Rushing to the edge of the clearing for air, Aehyl steadied herself against the rising tide of emotion.

  She felt caged, despite the openness of the glade, the trees pressed in like bars.

  She needed a moment. A breath. A chance to grapple with the pain, the guilt… the betrayal.

  The emerald green of her eyes flared white-hot, pulsing furiously in the dark.

  Pain ignited in her chest as the sigil above her heart seared to life.

  She gasped, clutching her ribs, then froze as a terrible vision tore through her mind.

  She was alone, enshrouded in utter darkness.

  Somewhere nearby, she felt Portean: wounded, unconscious, and in need of her help.

  But she didn’t dare call to him.

  She scarcely dared breathe.

  The blackness pulsed like a living thing, suffocating her in shadow, severing her from the arcane.

  If only she could summon light. Just a spark.

  But each time she reached for the Flame, the darkness thickened—taunting her, mocking her helplessness.

  Something moved in the dark.

  Something laughed.

  Shivering, the druid fumbled forward, blind.

  And then, she found him.

  Portean lay crumpled against a cold stone wall.

  Her hands searched him desperately.

  Her heart sank as they met a vast pool of sticky, congealing blood.

  Stay calm. You must heal him.

  She tried. Gods, she tried.

  She wanted so badly to help, but…

  A low, fetid breath stirred the air behind her.

  Heavy. Wet. Close.

  She spun, only to shrink back as a massive pair of crimson eyes locked onto hers, eyes that stared straight through her soul.

  Then, two huge, vise-like hands seized her shoulders.

  And in that instant, she knew:

  She was going to die.

  Aehyl snapped back to the Crystal-Mist Wood with a sharp yelp.

  She found herself kneeling near a large, fallen branch at the edge of the glade.

  Portean was finishing Vectra’s grave. Standing waist-deep in a narrow trench, he gripped a small collapsible shovel, his breath coming in heavy pants.

  Vectra’s body lay nearby, wrapped in the ranger’s spare cloak.

  He must’ve hiked back to our camp to retrieve it, Aehyl realized numbly.

  Apparently, he hadn’t noticed her episode, or had chosen to give her space, quietly tending to the burial alone.

  Standing slowly, Aehyl looked around in a daze.

  She could still feel the sticky, congealed blood clinging to her hands. The image of it clung to her mind like a thorn buried in flesh. Where had it come from? Would the events she witnessed truly come to pass?

  She couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that there was truth in the vision. Prophecy was not a known elvish gift, so what was it she had seen? A shiver crawled down her spine as she remembered the crimson eyes staring hungrily from the dark.

  “Are you alright, Aehyl?” Portean called from the center of the glade.

  Worried, the ranger approached. The first time one confronted death so intimately, especially a murder touched by darkness, was never easy.

  Portean was no stranger to grim tasks. He had investigated such scenes before. Four hundred and twelve years was not old by elven standards, but neither was it young.

  Despite his sometimes boyish humor, Portean had served in the last of the Dark Wars. He had fought beside comrades who never returned.

  He understood hope, sorrow, loss, and betrayal, better than he wished he did.

  Now, in moments like this, he turned to duty. It was easier not to feel too much. He knew Aehyl had yet to learn that lesson.

  “I’m fine,” Aehyl called back.

  She walked toward the grave with a forced calmness.

  “I’m sorry, Portean. Are we ready? I don’t feel well… I need to rest.”

  Her face was pale and clammy, cold sweat tracing lines down her temples.

  “Of course,” Portean replied softly, nodding. “Just help me with Vectra, and we’ll go.”

  Together, they buried the fallen druid quickly, sparing what care they could manage in the dark.

  As Aehyl whispered Faune’s blessing over the grave, a small sense of closure settled in her chest. At least Vectra had been found, and honored. That was more than many received in such dark times.

  On the way back to camp, the two spoke briefly about posting an alternating watch. Aehyl agreed, but Portean doubted anyone would linger long in the Crystal-Mist grove. With the Great Oak diseased, Vectra dead, and Shali missing, there was little left to covet, only rot and ruin.

  But just as the ranger finished voicing that grim thought, a sudden burst of activity cracked through the night—distant but unmistakable—from the direction of the Mother Tree.

  They froze.

  Moments later, the sharp, unmistakable buzz of oversized wings echoed through the trees, drawing closer with alarming speed.

  Without another word, both turned and sprinted back toward their camp.