Lark Rising (Guardians of Tarnec) (31 page)

The earth shook often through the night—shimmers, above and below us—powdery dirt sprinkling down and the oak roots trembling in their hold of the ground. The storm had faded; all that was left was the groan of tremors—sounds that had terrified me earlier and did no longer. Gharain’s arms hugged me close anyway. “You are beautiful,” he whispered warm against my neck. Dark Wood could have fallen around us and I do not think I would have minded.

The moonstone was dimming, and though the glimmer moths continued to spread their glow, our burrow was now cast in a blue-tinged hue. The ground shook beneath us once gently, once harder; Gharain’s arms tightened, though he slept. I stirred at the motion and then let my head turn once more into the crook of his shoulder, smelling his bare skin against the mossy bed we lay upon.

And the ground shook. And shook again. I closed my eyes and smiled.

It was only at the soft scrabble of claws that I stirred. It was not loud, nor even frightening, just a sound that did not belong to the place. My lashes were heavy with sleep; I peered through them half-opened. And perhaps I would not have seen it in the dim light—but the smell then burned through my nostrils, rank and pungent, and I forced my eyes wide to look.

I’d fallen away from Gharain—he lay with one arm still beneath me, sprawled faceup in a luxurious and deep sleep. Our bed was warm and soft—who would not have been so innocently open beneath that starry glitter? The stench hit me
again, and I froze where I lay, barely allowing my head to turn fully to the side, to look past Gharain’s tanned chest gently rising and falling, past to the Troth that shuffled, then crouched at his side.

My breath sighed out of my body—the silent deflation before panic. How had the beast entered the burrow when Twig had so carefully defined a boundary? With the sparest motion, my eyes flicked to the opening, to the terrible realization that the Breeders had used the tremors to shake loose the wood betony from its impassable line—vibrations had forced the stems to roll down and away from the entrance. The passage was clear.

The Troth supposed us both asleep—a small ignorance that allowed me to watch him contemplate Gharain’s prone body, as if wondering what to do with him. The thing leaned down to take in the young man’s scent. My stomach churned beneath rigid limbs; I barely dared breathe. He scored Gharain up and down with his gaze, and a clawed digit sketched an imaginary line above his chest, as if choosing the exact spot where to strike. And then, for the briefest instant, I saw Erema in the creature’s place, her fingers splayed above bared skin, claiming him, and then the fingers were claws once more, and gray-mottled.

Gharain’s sword lay against the earthen wall to my left. I did not hesitate. The slimy arm of the Troth drew up, and I rolled toward the weapon, reaching for the hilt to pull it close and swing. At the noise, the Troth reared his head with a screech through his nostrils and his jagged teeth gnashed open.

Something was wrong. The metal of the sword was burning cold—too heavy in my grasp, twice the weight I’d imagined, resisting my efforts to clasp it. I needed two hands to drag it forward, to force it to me. And neither did that work, so I scrambled to my knees and wrenched it up, ignoring the burn to haul it toward the Troth as if the view of the sword alone would be enough to frighten away the beast.

Maybe it was. In that brief moment between shriek and sword, the Troth reared up, grunting and snorting through those gashes of nostril and then bursting forth with another screech that sent Gharain leaping to his feet before arcing back from the wild swipe of claws. The Troth bounded for the opening.

“Lark, no!” Gharain shouted as he saw me, but it was too late. I was stumbling to the burrow’s entrance, into the dimmest of dawns, dragging the sword behind, fear and fury propelling me outside to challenge the terrible thing. I trampled over the useless wood betony and out into Dark Wood, which crowded, soaked and heavy, around our tiny shelter. I’d forgotten how quickly its wild energies could seize my senses. At once, the whirling fury was there, whipping straight through me. I clenched my teeth against the pulses charging up my bones.

The Troth was gone in a blink of eye—slimy skin dissolving into the wet tumble of dark matter. I spiraled once on the path to look, noting vaguely that the vine shoots that took over the path last night were gone from it now, creeping back into their own territory. But the Troth! Where was it?

“Lark!” Gharain had followed me out, and I turned to look at him.

“A Troth!” I shouted, straining against Dark Wood’s insidious pressure. “Did you see it?”

“Lark, the sword! It is not for you! Let it go!”

But then the Troth was back, leaping onto the path, confronting me with gurgling snarls and snapping jaw. I cried out and tried to put the sword between us. Gharain was shouting, but so too was the Troth screeching, and I could understand neither. The Troth edged nearer; I could not lift the sword. It weighed beyond my strength—a mountain between my hands. With one sweep of its iron arm, the beast knocked the weapon from me. It held no weight for him; like a pebble it went winging away to the side of the path—no, off the path and into the undergrowth, which seemed to swallow the blade whole.

I was tossed suddenly to one side; Gharain had jerked me from the Troth even as I stared dumbfounded at the disappearing sword. His brief hold regrounded my body; I fell hard on the path, but at least I could breathe. And I found my voice, and screamed, for Gharain was diving, rolling deftly toward his weapon, snatching it away from the weeds and vines in a one-handed grip before the Troth leaped on him. I screamed again, clambering to my feet, but Gharain shouted, “Stay back!” With a will and strength I could neither imagine, the Rider contorted, forcing the Troth over him, and was up, plunging the sword into its gristly skin.

The Troth’s body reacted wildly to the blade—imploding in a bloody and foul hiss. I froze and then doubled over, ill. I’d
seen this before, in my vision of the Riders’ battle, this gruesome carnage. How could I have ever imagined I would wield a sword to such violence? And then I shuddered, for an even more horrifying thought pervaded: I’d just nearly killed Gharain with my foolish attempt at battle. Hadn’t I been warned not to use a weapon?

Chaos pounced then on my fears, tearing into my mind as I allowed in the horror of the Troth’s fate—nay, the fate of every strike of fury—and my rash and near-fatal error. I shrank down, hugging my knees, the Wood’s frenzy already seeping in. Gharain was not the only one whose passions could do harm—I’d been warned of that as well. I heard Gharain shout my name, but I could not raise my head. Dark Wood would take me now; my mind reeled.

“Lark,” Gharain was calling out to me. “The sword is not for you. It is what Laurent said: no weapons for you. They deflect your power.”

I blurted, “I’m sorry.” And then, “Gharain—”

He knew at once. There were running footsteps, and he had me in his arms. Strong hold, strong aid. The gasping for breath eased; the frenzied blurring in my mind eased—Dark Wood stepped back.

I rested my head in his shoulder and let my breath shudder, then quiet. Gharain said nothing, simply held me tight, one arm wrapped in my hair, the other around my back, close and secure.

“Are you all right?” he asked, and I nodded again, trying to look up at him and mumble once more, “I’m sorry.…” My
voice died away as Gharain’s gaze moved beyond me, behind me, seeing something that caused his eyes to widen in shock.

He whispered, “Behind you, Lark. Behind you.”

Gharain tensed, and his hand regripped his sword, but he stayed still. My skin crawled, anticipating a swipe of claw or slash of fang, and yet this felt wrong. Then my hair was pricking, but it was not for anticipated vision, or terrifying beasts—but something new.

Gharain murmured, “Look west at the sunrise.”

For a moment I did not understand him, but then I remembered Twig’s last words. I turned my head slowly, mouth open in surprise.

In the depths of Dark Wood, the wretched chaos to the west of us was dissolving in the faint glimmer of dawn—dissolving into a mist that shimmered and then slowly parted, revealing an expanse of bare brown earth. It opened, wide and empty; I let go of Gharain and stepped unconsciously toward it.

“No, wait!” Gharain’s urgency stopped me in my tracks. He wiped his blade on the dirt of the path and walked to me.

“Twig’s words,” I repeated to him. “At dawn we look to the west. This is the way to go.”

“Yes.” There was uneasiness in Gharain’s voice, or maybe uncertainty, but I had no such doubt. Still, Gharain reached a hand to my shoulder to stay me. “Lark, you have to be ready for this.”

I looked up at him and put my hand over his. “I am ready.”

There was a small chuckle from him. “Lark, our clothes—more importantly, your tokens.”

I was in my undershift, Gharain bare-chested, all of my gifts in my pack in the burrow. I grinned, relieved by his humor, faint as it was. “I’ll get our things.”

“Be quick,” Gharain murmured, and looked back at the puddle of dead Troth.

I turned and ran back to the burrow, skidding down the entry. No need any longer for such protection, I thought briefly, passing the crumpled stems of the wood betony. I tugged on my leggings, tunic, and boots, shouldered my pack, before stopping as I remembered to add the now-dark moonstone to the other tokens in my bag. I unhooked Gharain’s tunic from the oak root and then made a circle in the wide room.

“Thank you,” I whispered, hand on heart, to the oak, to the moths, to the spare, quiet space and drying moss. “Thank you.” The glimmer moths beat their wings once, in tandem, and their light flickered out.

And then I was climbing back up the short tunnel to the dim light of Dark Wood.

“I am ready—” I began, but my words fell away.

There were three, then four Troths out from Dark Wood, enclosing Gharain, their opaque stare fixed on him as he turned slowly in their midst, his sword pointing toward each as he moved, keeping them at bay. In the surrounding tangle were the filmy eyes of so many more. So many, many more.

“Gharain …”

“Hush, love,” he said softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the beasts. “They do not seek to kill me.”

Stunned, I watched them circle him, envelop him with foul
stink and glare.
What to do?
I thought wildly.
What should I do?
And yet I could not move.

But Gharain prompted, far too calmly, “Go, Lark. Go now. You’ve only got this short time of dawn.”

“I cannot leave you.” I moaned low with the fear of it, like an animal trapped. Already Dark Wood was there, rapping at my mind—looking for an opening, a way to spring in and tear me apart.

“Yes,” Gharain said very clearly, “you can.”

The Troths took a step in. I cried out and one of the Troths turned. There is nothing but viciousness in a Troth’s expression, but I felt too, at that moment, a glare of triumph. What was this challenge and parry? Why would Gharain not stab the thing?

“Lark, you cannot wait. Go.”

I looked at the clearing. Already the mist was beginning to reclaim the open space as morning strengthened. I looked back at Gharain. Sweat was breaking on his brow.

“I can stop one, I am sure of it,” I begged, nodding toward a Troth. “If you sweep the sword, if you catch two, and go for the third, I can—”

He said through clenched teeth, “ ’Twill not matter if I strike at one; there will be another and another to take its place. It’s what the Breeders want—this distraction. Do not let it claim you. Quickly now!”

“Dark Wood will invade me! I feel it already, Gharain. Please, I cannot leave you!”

“It will be safe through the mist.” And then, “Lark, go before
it is too late.
Go!
” The Troths took another step to tighten their circle around the Rider.

He was right. I hated that he was right. Tears pricked my eyes. “
Please
. We were to do this together.”

“Your journey, love; ’tis your journey. Trust yourself.” He looked up to give a brief smile. “Trust me.”

And of a sudden, he pointed his sword tip down and shouted out, “Now, Lark! Go! Turn and do not look back!”

The Troths closed on him, screeching, smothering, then dragging Gharain into Dark Wood. Their sound was horrible, and I swear I heard the banes echoing the triumph with their own terrible cries.

And then Dark Wood swallowed the group whole, even as it released me. And, for a single, bleak moment, there was no sound at all.

IT IS NOT his time
.

I swore this to myself as I turned, fiercely shaking away the frenzy that launched itself at me again full force.
It is not his time!
I knew it to be true; I knew it. There were visions to be fulfilled; Gharain had to strike first.

He needed to be alive so that he could kill me.

I turned, struggling too to believe what Gharain had said, that it was distraction the Breeders wanted, that I should not run after him—tear into the woods with a shriek of terror and nothing else—to somehow save him. I forced myself to place one foot in front of the next; I forced my head up, to look west at the mist. It was already closing, the space. Dark Wood was shimmering through the edges of that gray light—or maybe it was not real, for there were tears in my eyes and everything glittered oddly.