Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (28 page)

“What is that?” I screamed to Gharain above the echoed rumble.

“Don’t look!” he shouted back.

The thunder crashed again. The rain was falling; I could hear it pound on the leaves, but neither it, nor the lightning, nor the wind had yet reached us. And then, horribly, I knew why Twig was racing for shelter. Dark Wood was not holding back the storm, it was absorbing it, filling with it, until it could explode on us in its full power.

Gharain must have realized it as I did, for his pace quickened and I struggled to keep up.

“Twig!” Gharain shouted once more.

The thunder boomed, this time with the first flash from lightning. And I shuddered at what I saw in the garish light, tripping, then falling hard on the ground, my hand wrenching from Gharain’s grip.

Dark Wood was alive. The trees and vines and bushes and the very undergrowth
were
dancing in the thunder—a wild frenzy of passion. It wasn’t the wind; it was the flora itself writhing in distorted glee. The trees shaped hideous faces in their gnarled bark, and branches and vines waved unbound arms.

“Lark!” Gharain had to pull up short, nearly falling in his
own speed. He whirled around and grabbed me quickly, jerking me upright.

“The woods,” I gasped, teeth chattering. “The woods! You see it, don’t you?”

Twig shouted from somewhere far ahead.

“We’ll lose him in a moment! Can you run?”

I panted yes, and we took off again. As we did, the canopy opened up, the wind went racing through in a triumphant shriek, and the rain came down in a torrent. A waterfall of wet—we were drenched at once. And if the dark hid Twig, then the rain made him invisible.

“Where is he? Where is he?” I screamed above the thunder.

“Just keep forward,” came Gharain’s breathless yell.

We were pushing through the storm as if pushing through a wall—a living wall. The rain held us, the lightning made us fall, and the wind tore at us from every direction. And at each flash of light, I could see the Wood in its horrific dance, joined now by creatures I did not recognize—wretched things belonging only to Dark Wood—leaping from the ground, dangling from the vines, clinging to tree bark. The light shut quickly, but their eyes took it in and glowed long after the lightning strikes—gleaming slits of bronze and yellow, throbbing to the thunderous roars. A wail of terror wound out of the woods like a lash, striking our ears with awful noise and sending a knife of cold fear slicing up my spine. Gharain shouted, “Banes!”

“What are they?”

“Death knells! Do not catch their eyes—keep your focus on the path, or they will lure you in!”

I was warned, but I could not help myself. I thudded behind Gharain, my gaze no longer searching for Twig but peering, morbidly fascinated, at all the things that pulsed on the path’s border. Which were the hideous-voiced banes—those things of matted fur and loose limbs and bulbous-tipped fingers that held them firmly suspended, or the sharp-scaled lizard beasts that slithered up the vines? A tail, a claw, a fang, a wing: glimpses of other noxious creatures shaking the leaves. Beetles and bugs swarming on the bark, limbless things worming through the fallen matter—how many creatures throbbed in Dark Wood? The rain sluiced down dark within the tangle—it was blood gushing from a wound; it was black sap from the hukon tree. The glowing eyes danced behind slimed, dank leaves, and the smell of decay rose up from the floor of the woods in a reek of slow death. And then the wailing became song, high-pitched and sweet, the tune like a thread to snare and be pulled along. My hand stayed in Gharain’s grasp—I could feel it—but my arm was lengthening, extending, disconnecting from the rest of my body until there was left but a tiny charge somewhere far away in my fingertips.

Come
. Dark Wood pulsed in invitation. Gleaming wet now, densely rich, it was seductive, and intoxicating, and teeming with vibrant life. The song swirled in my head; the melody beckoned.
Come dance
. And the path was suddenly plain and bare while the rest of life whirled and spiraled but a step away. The wind, thunder, rain, and banes’ calls were in exquisite harmony. The charge in my fingers disappeared.

I saw them: the creatures, the trees, the vines reaching
out to embrace my step into the woods.
That way madness lies
rang once more in my head, and I laughed, fear dropping off me like a cloak. Of course it was madness to be in that dry space, following that rigid file of horse and man; of course it was madness to plow the field, trim the hedgerow, scythe the grass, find the Balance, choose but one. It was madness to think I mattered.… More was offered here—a release of everything at once—no choice, no decision, simply everything at once, whirling before me, offering to absorb me. The path was stark and still—but here! Only a step beyond! I yearned for it, my hand reaching into the web of dark.… Vines, leaves, fingers, and claws, all shiny wet, reached back to help me in.

And then the air was knocked from me, hard. I landed on my stomach on the bare path, Gharain above me, breathing as heavily as if he’d shoved a horse from its way.

“What—what is in you?” he yelled out against the lovely shimmers. “Lark! What are you doing?”

“The Wood is dancing! Let me go!” I cried at him. I struggled to move; I could feel the heat of his body warming through me. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want it.

Gharain swore at me. He shouted my name, and then he cursed aloud to the crawling woods around us. “Leave her! Don’t touch her!” He grabbed my shoulders and turned me over and rattled me so my teeth knocked and my breath was forced out of me. “Close your eyes, Lark! Close your eyes! It’s a terrible beauty! It’s not real! Don’t allow it in!”

I laughed at him, but then I had no breath. I began to choke, and I closed my eyes to pull for air. Gharain’s energy
was drawing through me, coursing in, shaking the dark out of me with every cough. The powerful frenzy was dissipating, and I pounded at him, screaming to release me back to the wilds of Dark Wood so that I could exult in its dance, but Gharain grabbed my head and pulled it into his chest so that my eyes could not see. And even as I fought him, the harmony soured and clashed and became roars of horror and fury, and fear crashed in. And then I was no longer fighting Gharain but pressing into him, breathing into him, wrapping arms around him so he would not let me go. And he hugged me back, tightly, as the storm raged on.

It seemed forever before he relaxed his grip. I raised my head to look up at him—barely; the rain poured into my eyes. I coughed up water.

Relief and anger warred in Gharain’s voice. “Do you understand its power now?” he gasped. “What were you choosing? You broke hands. You were trying to climb back into the chaos!”

“I—I thought … It was beautiful.” Part of me still ached for the fever.

“It is not beauty,” he said grimly. “It is manipulation. I know it well.” He lifted off of me, taking care to keep hold of my shoulder. The banes wailed as he helped me to my feet, and I cringed now at their piercing anguish.

“We’ve lost Twig.” I gulped, looking over the path. It sank away in eerie darkness. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Gharain helped me stand, rubbed my arms to stop the shiver. Then his hands gripped my arms and he
pulled me close to make me look at him. “Lark, it will be all right. He said to stay on the path; we’ll find him. Ready?”

I nodded and we pushed forward, more slowly and tightly together this time—arms entwined. The rain drenched us until our clothes and bodies could hold no more and then it ran down our lengths, leaving streams in our wake. We sloshed along the path of what was now a stew of mud, blinking the water from our eyes to see only an arm’s length ahead; churned through this mess of earth, careful not to slip or break our hold. Then another flash of lightning showed something more frightening: the weight of rain was sliding debris from the woods onto the path—the rare open space was filling slowly with the matted wreckage of Dark Wood.

“This is not good,” muttered Gharain, half to me, half to himself.

“Look!” I cried out. “Did you see that? It’s growing—where it pours in from the woods, it starts growing! Look for it when the lightning next strikes!”

And indeed, the following flash captured shoots of snaking vines sprouting up from the path, narrowing our route. Gharain kicked at some of the tendrils and smashed them down with his foot. I yanked my boot from a twining brown thing that was wrapping itself around my ankle.

“If you don’t go into Dark Wood, it will come to you,” Gharain growled, and jerked me forward as another vine grabbed at my leg. “Careful.”

“The path was meant to be safe!” I yelled, more to the
Wood than Gharain. They grew fast, these shoots; some of the vines had already reached the height of my waist. My heart was pounding above the noise of the rain. We would not be able to go much farther before we were trapped. I hugged both arms around Gharain as he drew his sword, ready to slice a way through.

“Do not cut the Dark Wood!”

“Twig!” we shouted together.

The gnome’s voice was sharp, just ahead of us in the dark. “If you think it traps you now, cut it and it will swallow you whole in vengeance! Quickly! This way.”

Twig was there up ahead, hopping out of the way of each new growth. He was fast, though; the vines could not ensnare him. “Quickly!”

And then we reached him, followed him—not his figure but his voice—ducking low and tumbling in what seemed a downward slide only a step from the edge of the path. And then we were stopped, once more on flat ground, able to stand upright. It was completely dark, but it was dry, and the noise of storm and woods suddenly felt like harmless murmurs. A calm, sturdy energy surrounded us. Sanctuary—

But I gasped, breaking the quiet. “The path! It closed on us! I thought we were to be safe on the path!”

“The path will reclaim its place afterward, but it has no strength against a storm,” said Twig. “You must wait here until it subsides. We are safe beneath this footing of oak.”

“Oak! In Dark Wood?” Gharain gripped me tightly still, unsure if anything here could be safe.

“Ah yes! Here and there are oak and willow and mulberry. Chaos cannot claim everything, you know—there are always objects and points of stability in the worst of it.” And then Twig caught himself, as if he remembered the lost amulets, and added, “For now.”

“Good that this is,” Gharain said. “We need light. Is it safe, then, to make a fire?”

Twig was horrified. “A fire! Does wood not burn?” He muttered to himself, his voice moving as if he paced, “Babes they send to do warriors’ work! Ignorant children!”

“My apology,” Gharain said stiffly. “But Lark is cold and soaked, and it is black in here.”

I stepped in, calmer now. “It’s just … Twig, we cannot see anything.”

“Maybe that is a good thing for
you
,” he retorted. But then I could sense his grin in the blackness; he was proud of himself for something.

“I am aware of the wet and the dark, Rider, but you tall ones remain too attuned to your eyes. So be it, then—here is a treat for you.” There was a pause, and Twig called out very politely, “May we have light?”

Overhead something flickered; Gharain and I both gasped. A starry sky was suddenly lit above us, though we were underground—a thousand pinpricks of golden starlight filled the burrow with a sweet glow.

“Glimmer moths,” announced Twig.

Glimmer moths. Tiny, translucent creatures scattered on the oak roots woven across the earthen ceiling. Their wings
sparkled—shimmering with each beat of gossamer. I looked up at Gharain, whose face caught the radiance of the light and reflected it back.

“Our thanks, gnome.” His voice was husky, and my heart skipped at the sound. He sensed my gaze, looked down at me, and smiled.

Twig was not subtle. “You no longer have to clasp one another thus—Lark is safe under the oak.”

So Gharain withdrew his arm, leaving empty space.

“Now for you both.” Twig’s voice broke our stare. He was holding out a bundle of something, dividing it between us, placing it in our hands: something soft and billowy, like a handful of bearded moss. “This works well to dry the skin. Now clothes and boots may go here.” He pointed to some root ends that poked out like hooks from the earthen walls.

I stripped off my leggings and tunic, leaving my undershift, which would likely dry quickly enough. Gharain took off his tunic, which bared his torso, but—I was relieved—refused Twig when he motioned for his pants. We scrubbed with the mossy fluff, which drank the wet like a sponge.

This peace was glorious beyond the storm. I looked around. We were in not a cave, but a rather large, circular burrow. Its width was more than several steps across, high enough to stand straight and look up to its canopy of roots. The industrious gnome had spread armfuls of the moss at one end for bedding, and now our clothing hung at another—spare, but a homelike comfort. I went over to Twig to thank him. He was at
the opening to our burrow, laying sprigs of something on the ground.

He looked up at me. “There, all better? Not quite like drowned whelps now.”

I smiled at him, and Gharain called out, “All better. We thank you.”

The gnome gave a little shimmy of pleasure. There was a brief moment where his body seemed to evaporate. I blinked.

“Twig, what are you doing?”

He held up a long-stemmed purplish blossom. “A little wood betony to keep out bad things.” He finished bordering the entrance and stood up. “You can find it in Dark Wood if you look closely. As I said, there are things that can help you in the midst of misfortune, if you pause to look. Though”—he surveyed his work—“I cannot promise it will keep out everything.”

“Banes?” The memory of their death calls sent a chill down my spine.

“Not the banes so much,” said Twig in answer. “They frighten with their noise. At worst, if you see them, then their shrieks become like a siren song and draw you in. No, I worry about the Troths.”

At that Gharain moved to my side—when had it become easy for him to reach for me? He looked at the little goose bumps on my arms.

“Twig, we must have something to warm us. ’Twill be a long wait underground, and Lark is chilled through.”