The White Wood Part II

Harmonious Finch

Shortly along his path, Conri heard a slight whimper. As he looked down, he expected to find the child mirroring his discontent, but the child appeared absorbed by some presence in the distance, his eyes fixed upon a bundle of white that lay curled on the snow. Conri approached the white mass cautiously. Some hint of texture and movement separated the…thing…from its icy surroundings.

Conri crept upon the small ball of fur that shivered in the cold of evening, the fringes of light beginning to fade from the breaks in the Wood. With a start, Conri recognized the form of a wolf cub, its fur the purest white, lying alone and unguarded amidst the harsh landscape. Though it seemed to be sleeping, the creature whimpered and whined fitfully, and Conri gently stroked at the cub’s fur. The child attempted to do the same, his hand protruding from the cloth folded around him. Conri’s touch set blue wild eyes opening wide. The creature whipped its head to bite at the hand. Conri barely avoided the ferocious nip. The cub’s fear abating, it struggled to stand, peering warily at the small child and the lad before him. It crept cautiously to the child’s open fingers, before nuzzling at the warmth of the skin. The child responded in kind, cooing as his hand brushed the fur. Conri sensed his time waning and began his trek to the Crypt. He noticed movement near his leg and found the cub following by his heel.

…

Evening had fallen away, and the darkness of night was accentuated by the unbreakable shadow of the Thracs tightening their grasp on the air about the Wood. Conri trudged on, refusing to stray from his chosen path. He saw a light in the distance, orange in its blaze, and he felt that his journey was leading to his expected conclusion, a meeting with the Wanderer. The child within his arms breathed quietly in his sleep, and the wolf cub kept directly by Conri’s side. Yet as they approached the odd light, the cub seemed hesitant, looking about and whimpering. Though the weariness of his travels dragged at Conri’s spirit, he maintained strength and felt his hope surging as he neared the fixed point of illumination. He started as he broke into a small clearing, the home of the light, and he paused in shock. There was no flame, nor lantern, rather an orb of reddish-orange light hovered about fourteen hands in the sky.

“Well, hello there, odd to see visitors, especially of your age,” a voice called from the trees. Conri twisted frantically, attempting to catch sight of the voice’s owner. A figure appeared, its form illuminated by the shadows. It remained amidst the trees, lingering for only a moment where the trees held apart. It was large in frame, to an inhuman degree, and its face was impossible to discern in the shroud of darkness.

“Alloa, sir, are you the Wanderer?” Conri kept an eye on the figure, as it drifted through the trees.

“Oh… yes, I suppose that’s what they have to come to call me now. Though I must say I’ve never fancied that name, I have made my home here, and shall wander no more.”

“I apologize, uh… sir, I meant no offense.” Conri worried that he had set upon the wrong path with the mage, he was dependent upon his aid.

The figure laughed. “Oh, lad, I am not offended by such things, I have passed beyond such a realm of mortal… shortcomings.” The Wanderer emerged from the trees, and Conri sighed in relief to find that his face was indeed human. Though the darkness hid the color of his eyes, it was evident that he was smiling. His voice was distinct from anything Conri had ever heard.

“Well sir, I’ve come to ask…”

“Oh I know very well why you’ve come. It’s the same story as every man who stumbles into the crypt. You want my aid. But more importantly, you want my power.” To punctuate the statement, the Wanderer waved his hand, and a mass of roots, though far too dark to resemble those of the Thrac trees, rose and grasped around the orb, creating the structure of an ornate lantern. The lantern’s form set the light dancing about the clearing, whilst throwing odd shadows upon the snow.

Conri stared in awe, “Could you help, sir? I have to make for the West, and I don’t know how I’ll make it. I’ve been in constant prayer, but the Maker has yet to provide, as always.”

The Wanderer chuckled, “I see now where your struggle lies. You place too great a faith in some fragment of good beyond any form of proper sense. Power and preservation come through sacrifice.” The figure glanced at the wolf cub, “Good, still young, less attachment, that makes things easier. Come here, lad.” He moved towards the center of the clearing, raising his right hand and drawing it into a fist, the roots descending with the unearthly light in tow.

“What are you saying? That I should sacrifice myself for the child?” Conri raised an eyebrow, his question lingering.

“No, the cub will do just fine.” The figure gestured emphatically, “now come here.” Conri glanced at the wolf cub, only now realizing that the cub had been whimpering as he cowered from the tendrils of light that fell upon the ground. Suddenly, the wolf broke from the company, dashing off towards the trees. Conri, conflicted, glanced at the Wanderer, before clarity struck hold, and he followed the cub. As he neared the darkness, he gasped in horror and stumbled back.

Before them lay a great wolf, her fur seared and her form scorched. Her right side was bare but for the marks of flame. The creature matched the cub in its original pure white fur. The younger counterpart had crept to her head and licked at her fur. Perhaps the cub thought it could wake the wolf from her silent slumber. Conri fell to his knees, tears welling in his eyes, certain that this was the cub’s mother before him.

He tensed instinctively, raised his Thraccing Spear in wariness, and turned towards the Wanderer. “What is this?”

The Wanderer had shifted away from the orb, and loomed over the smaller figure, his gaze fixed upon the scene. “She was my companion once. When I was as you are now. But you must understand, boy… power such as this,” he curled his hand and the roots sprang up once more, providing a mirage of shattered wings behind him, “such divine stature in the face of mortality… comes at a cost, that of sacrifice.” He reached for Conri’s hand. “Allow me to show you what the Maker never wanted you to know.”

Conri felt a strong tug at his spirit, and he ran, his passage set for the west. “Blue!” the name slipped from the lad, almost instinctively. The cub peered up at the call, turning his head to the side in confusion. “We have to go!” The wolf seemed to accept his new name, and hesitated for only a moment. He peered at its fallen heritage, before setting off, rushing behind Conri as they struck through the snow.

“You’ll learn boy,” The Wanderer said.

Conri dodged as a massive spring of roots erupted from the ground, seizing at him. They latched onto his legs, holding him in place as he struck at them with his staff.

He secured the child in his grasp, who, waking abruptly, erupted into a loud cry as his form was thrashed about. Feeling his footing fail, Conri braced himself for some terrible end, but he heard a cry emerge from the clearing, one of surprise, and the roots fell away. Though Conri wanted to figure out what had happened, his better sense urged him to flee.

…

Conri had yet to sleep, and still maintained course along his route. He had continued for the west without much rest till the evening of the next day. The break in the White Wood was but a short distance off, and the trees were beginning to thin. Were not the sounds of the Wood deafened by the cacophony of claw upon Thrac and wing upon air, he would have rejoiced. Blue ran beside his heels, never once falling behind. The child’s eyes were wide with fear as he gazed up at the sheer mass of Perchclaws that were making themselves apparent in the Canopy of the Wood, their shadows alone throwing a sense of darkness upon the frost-covered ground. While they had yet to attack, the lessened cover of the trees ensured that Conri’s presence was evident. At each passing moment, he anticipated one of the creatures to sweep down and strike him dead with their talons. Yet the Perchclaws refrained, for some reason or another; Conri could only wonder at their patience. Though he found himself ever aware of their presence, his focus was more on his path than the force above him.

At long last, the Thracs receded entirely, and Conri paused at the brink of the White Wood. Further West stood the feet of the Torith Mountains, their rocky might a looming presence that enveloped the plain between the Wood in shadow. The Perchclaws swirled together in a seething mass within the sky. They had bested him in speed, no doubt in direct consequence of his pursuit of the Wanderer. He cursed as he reprimanded himself.

What good would any further travel do for the preservation of the child? Their metal-clad pursuer would not abandon the chase, and no stop would prove safe with his constant watch. Yet Conri couldn’t dare venture south with the child or forfeit their lives.

“Maker, please, I beg you. I’ve done what I can; I can’t go any further. Please…keep the child safe, and let me go.”

Wrapping the boy as best he could in his fold, Conri set him in the snow, and shifted its glimmering mass to obscure his form. Blue lingered by the lad, the cub lying down beside his figure.

“Fare thee well, child.” Conri offered no further farewell, as he turned to the south, and began his desperate trek to refuge. He employed the notions of stealth imbued upon him in his youth and crept from shadow to shadow. Conri peered up and breathed a sigh of relief, the mass of Perchclaws had yet to follow him; they circled above the child, their mass a writhing mix of wings, teeth, and talons.

“I can’t go back, there’s nothing more I can do.” He repeated the words in his head, all the more eager to convince himself. Even as he strived forward, his gaze was fixed upon their horrifying form, his eyes drifting to his stopping point.

“What do you desire of me, Lord?” Conri broke into tears as he called into the frosty air, slumping onto the support of a Thrac tree. “I desire nothing more than to serve your grand purpose, but Maker, I see not what path you have set before me, and I never have.” His eyes closed as he sobbed, and he knelt to a crouch, futility seething through his being. “Please,” his voice was barely more than a whisper.

The darkness of his mind’s eye slowly burned away, as some glaring heat lay upon him. His eyes crept open, ablaze in a glory of light. The sun had sent its rays drifting through the branches of the Thrac trees, and one wayward strand crept upon his countenance. He rose, escaping the blinding light. Conri peered back to the North, witnessing the sun reveal itself upon his path in various dancing rays. He gasped, his gaze settling on the largest break in the shadow. He could still detect the white tail of the wolf cub in the odd light. Surely this was some trick his mind was playing upon him. Although Conri prayed to the Maker, he never honestly believed that a response would come. Maintaining his quiet practice, he trudged back to his start, but as he began, he felt his form being held in place. He felt the scathing forms of the roots once more, yet peering down, there was nothing. Without a second thought, he ran, allowing no time for his mind, and mortality, to struggle against his decision. He managed to reach the lad in short time and gazed down at his coddled form. There lay the boy and his companion, snug, yet not safe. The deep blue eyes of the younger child set upon the larger figure, filled with wonder and light. Conri met the lad’s gaze, and he understood. While the creatures were pursuant of the youngest child, he could provide some sense of hope for miracle by dividing their attention. He had come to peace with what must be done. For the child to live, the Perchclaws would have to pursue their larger prize, one that presented himself apart from the child.

“Maker, keep the boy, let your mercy and protection fall upon him. And as for me, give me courage to do what must be done.” This final striking of pain brought some clarity upon his mind, and blinded, or rather, led, by such timely clarity, he dashed back into the wood, allowing the wood of the Thraccing Spear to strike upon any tree he might pass, a mighty ruckus rising in

his wake. The roar of wings sounded above, affirming his suspicion. Whatever force may be driving the Perchclaws was set upon his form.

He heard rustling to his right and his left and braced himself for the attack, but this rustling was that of paw upon ground. Gazing about, he gasped as shadows and passing forms drifted about, their destination clear. By some strong grace, the creatures had refrained from howling, they existed and strode in quiet unison. Such had been their guardian force, their grand deterrent against the force above, and, Conri realized in utter disbelief, the demise of the Wanderer. During his time in the White Wood, Conri had never seen such a large pack, the presence imposed itself with a hint of reverence and fear. Yet even as they were…they were gone. He had ventured some distance from the Break, and any hint of his stop was from this vantage imperceptible.

Conri was alone, and he paused in the snow, glancing at the skies. His hope lay in his strength, and the time had come to stand tall, to stand strong. His wait was short-lived, as one of the larger beasts dropped vehemently to the ground, its claws grating against what stone and grass lay beneath the snow. Its wings were strong and wide, firm scales lacing their front. At full speed, a Perchclaw could strike down most trees that lay in its path. Its tail flicked here and there, its dark edge striking against the snow, leaving lash marks wherever it struck. A shadowy figure slipped from the dragon’s back. No sign of person or identity could be detected, so complete was the mass of armor and metal that covered every inch of his form. The figure appeared to wear some form of cloak, his hands protruding from the shroud in talon-like gauntlets. The helmet, or mask as Conri was inclined to call it, formed a stark visage of a face, though its lack of feature portrayed an unsettling void. Deep metallic breaths escaped through some orifice, and a cold mist rose from the metal countenance. The figure reached to his side and drew a Sicarath blade from his sheath. The blade’s jagged edge was foreign to the people of the Wood, though rumor and legend of terror had described such a weapon in horrible retelling. The White Wood stood terribly still, the trees and air seeming to hold their collective breath as they observed the two figures. Though fear seized upon Conri’s spirit, a quiet peace drifted conversely upon him, and he relaxed, at least in conscience. While Conri could not see it, a slight hint of dancing shadow lingered in the eyes of his adversary, leaping and seizing at his gaze. He saw the twitch in the hand, and in moments the metal-clad warrior was upon him, striking rapidly, allowing the strength of the blade to work upon the inexperienced defenses of the lad, who parried with the staff as best he could. The lad’s plight was evident, as Conri sensed the blade retract from the wood and slash at his arm. Pain ripped through his being, as the Thraccing spear dropped from his grasp. The figure peered at him through steel, his prey defenseless.

Conri saw the iron talon reach for him, the cold touch alighting upon his face. He peered directly into what holes had been set in the metal for the eyes. There he saw white, gray, and shadow, a horrible mix swimming together in the figure’s looming gaze. Frost dissipated as an emanating light filled his being. The desolate color of the abyss drifted away, an unearthly brightness pouring into his mind’s eye, accompanied by radiating heat. Companions rose, who had long been silent amidst the grave, their smiles marked by some joy beyond his understanding. Before him stood his parents, their arms outstretched, beckoning him to a new Wood, a Golden Wood. As he rushed to embrace his parents, all about him, a chorus of howls erupted, honoring the fallen.

…

Stranseinoir,

It is strange writing this after so many years, after so long believing a singular testimony, only to discover it wholly false, and even in that knowledge to stand at such great distance from the truth.

In such discovery, I can only say that I am sorry. I have learned what horrid curse I brought upon you, and your people. In my death, you might have escaped that horrid end, had only you left me to the Talon of the North. Yet you remained faithful, for what reason I cannot discern; you had little to gain from my preservation. But, I stand now, alive, well, and grateful. Had I the chance, I would have followed you unto whatever end the Maker might have written.

I shall never have the chance to properly honor you, to offer the dues you undoubtedly deserve. But please know: I shall never forget you, nor the virtue held within your spirit. Even now I sit amidst the White Wood, the wolf, Blue, at my side. I believe he remembers you. We remain in reverence in the quiet of this realm, the Maker’s glory shimmering all about us. I will guard this Wood till my due end; the Talons will nevermore strike their blackened death upon this land. I shall stand before the Wood, just as you stood before me, and hold the blade back in its incessant murder.

I have taken up your staff, I shall honor you till that good end.

Your brother, blessed to hold you as kin,

Corrin Laochdir

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