“Bloodygods” he rasped, coughing shallowly. “You?”
His rescuer’s brow furrowed as he squatted down beside the ancient Cymrian warrior, clicking to the enormous horse.
“Rather odd ta be laughin’ now, Oi’d say,” Grunthor said dryly, catching hold of Rockslide’s reins. “But each to ’is own. Can I hoist ya without dam-agin’ ya further?”
Anborn nodded with difficulty, clutching the cutlass. “Have to—get word—to—Haguefort,” he whispered, his voice faltering. “They’ve—taken—Rhapsody.”
The amber eyes of the Firbolg giant darkened with alarm.
“Where?”
The General shook his head, struggling to keep from succumbing to unconsciousness. “I don’t—know. Had—Tysterisk.” He gestured weakly.
“Where did they go?” the Sergeant demanded as he slid his arms under Anborn’s back and lifeless legs.
“West,” the General whispered. “Into the—fire.”
Grunthor saw Anborn’s face begin to go gray; he lifted him carefully and started to carry him to the horse.
Unable to speak, Anborn grasped hold of the body of the bowman on the ground, refusing to let go, then lapsed into unconsciousness.
Grunthor pried Anborn’s fingers loose of the corpse’s wrist, then continued his trek, laying the General over Rockslide’s back for a moment. Quickly he tore off his own tunic, threw it on the ground and kicked the body into it, then lashed it to the back of his saddle with a length of rope. He stared for a moment into the belly of the inferno, then mounted and, holding the dying Kinsman before him on the horse, rode off, hell-bent, for the Filidic Circle at the Tree.
When Anborn came to consciousness in the gray hours of the next morning he was looking into two of the most unpleasant faces he could imagine seeing, only slightly less surly than his own.
The first was that of his rescuer, the gray-green hide and amber eyes in the heavy features of Firbolg mixed with some other race—Bengard, he thought he recollected Rhapsody saying once. The Sergeant-Major, with whom he had once served in Rhapsody’s honor guard, was silently staring down at him, consternation deeply etched in the lines and crevices of his face.
Beside him was Gavin the Invoker, the quiet, taciturn forester who had been the most trusted advisor of Llauron, Anborn’s brother, succeeding him as head of the religious order when Llauron left to commune with the elements, abandoning his human form for a dragon one. The expression in the Invoker’s eyes denoted a less personal anguish that Grunthor’s, but a more widespread one. Anborn understood his torment; a forester’s soul was tied to the forest, and until this fire there had been no more beautiful, deeply magical forest on the continent than Gwynwood.
And it was burning.
Anborn’s head felt as if it would split open. His skin and eyes, though protected from the scorching flames by Daystar Clarion, were red from the heat and stung maddeningly. He struggled to sit up, but Gavin quickly laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down against the pillow of the bed in which he lay.
“Stay. You have had the attention of healers, but you are still weak. How do you feel?”
“Bugger how I feel. Did you find her? Has there been any word at all?”
“No,” Gavin said quietly. “The fire has been contained. But there is no trace of Rhapsody.”
“Oi’m about to send birds to ’Aguefort and Ylorc,” Grunthor said brusquely. “What did ya want with the body I dragged out wi’ you?”
“He’s a witness,” Anborn said, his voice returning slightly. “The bastard took down Shrike; if only for that and nothing else I would have left him to burn alive if I could have. But the Patriarch is said to be able to speak with the spirits of dead; this is the only clue to what happened to Rhapsody that isn’t ashes now. I shall take this piece of filth to Sepulvarta and have the Patriarch wring the information from him.”
Grunthor nodded. “Sounds like fun. When ’e’s done with ’im, I want a turn. Oi’ll torture ’im so brutally ’e will feel it in the Underworld.” He stepped back and started for the door.
“Sergeant,” Anborn said, his voice ragged from the forest smoke.
Grunthor stopped.
“Tell Haguefort to send out a falcon. A regular messenger won’t be able to locate Gwydion if he’s on the road.”
The giant Bolg nodded and started for the door again.
“Sergeant,” Anborn said again.
Once again Grunthor stopped.
“My life is yours,” Anborn said heavily, in the custom of the ancient brotherhood of Kinsmen. “Thank you.”
The Sergeant nodded, and a hint of a smile played on his bulbous lips. “Good. Oi’ll find a way to put you ta good use. Always did want an Ancient Cymrian ’ero to serve as pissboy to the Firbolg army.” He took hold of the cord of rope that served as a door handle and withdrew from the Filidic hospice, closing the door behind him.
Gavin gently squeezed the General’s shoulder. “I sought the spirit of the forest through the Great White Tree once the fire was contained,” he said, his words halting; the Invoker rarely spoke, so words were arduous for him. “Rhapsody, if she still lives, is not in Gwynwood, nor anywhere within the great western forest. That forest runs from the Hintervold to the Nonaligned States, Anborn. Either she has been taken away by sea, or—
“Don’t even whisper the word,” Anborn said acidly. “They took her alive.
If they had wanted her dead they would have filled her full of bolts before my eyes. Don’t even whisper the word.”
The Invoker stared down at him.
“I will leave it for others to pronounce. It is not a reality I want to be the one to invoke. But you must be prepared to accept what may have come to pass here.”
As Grunthor strode through the grounds that comprised the Circle around the Great White Tree, the Filidic priests and foresters scattered, hurrying to stay out of the way of the giant Firbolg who was their Invoker’s guest, but nonetheless looked as if he was ready to bite the head off the shoulders of anyone who got in his way. With a jaw that size, and tusks that were visible in the corners of his mouth, jutting above his lips, there was no question that it would not have taken more than a single bite.
He made his way out of the forest through neatly maintained gardens, bursting with fragrant flowers and medicinal herbs, that surrounded the healers’ area, to the edge of the wide, circular meadow where the Great White Tree stood, an ancient wonder older than any living thing in this part of the world.
Grunthor could see its branches even before he came into the clearing, great ivory limbs that spread like immense fingers to darkening sky. It had been a while since he had seen it, and the sight caused him to momentarily slow his steps, marveling at the white bark that gleamed in the sun, its breadth and height—it was easily fifty feet across at the base, and the first major limb was more than a hundred feet from the ground, leading up to more branches that formed a expansive canopy reaching over the forest that surrounded it.
Around its base, set back a hundred yards from where its great roots pierced the earth, was a ring of trees, one of each species known to the Filids, the religious priest of the western continent, who tended this holy place, said to be the last of the five birthplaces of Time, and the Tree that grew here. It was here the element of Earth had its beginning; Grunthor, tied as he was to the Earth, always felt a surge of power here, a strength he could draw on.
He stopped long enough to absorb it, knowing he would need that power to get through what was to come.
Then he made his way to the aviary, a central tower built where Llauron’s strangely angled house had once stood.
The guard at the door at the bottom of the tower, a forester like Gavin, met him, bowing slightly.
“Get two birds, fast ones, trained ta fly to ’Aguefort and Ylorc,” Grunthor ordered.
The guard spoke quietly with the woman who tended the birds, who eyed the giant Bolg for a moment, then hurried up the ladder to the aviary. She returned a moment later with two doves, one gray, one white, and said something to the guard in a language Grunthor didn’t recognize, handing something to him.