Chương 65: Chapter 40: The Last Hunt - Part II

Five Rask fan out around it with practiced precision, each keeping just enough distance to move freely without breaking the line. Their weapons remain lowered, yet every pair of pale-yellow eyes stays fixed on me. They are no longer hunting through instinct alone. Every step waits upon the leader's whistle. I draw a slow breath, forcing my heartbeat back under control. My arms already ache. The staff feels heavier than it had at the start of the battle, not because its weight has changed but because mine has.

Mana still answers when I reach for it, though each thread feels harder to grasp, like trying to draw water from a well whose bucket scrapes the bottom with every pull. The leader studies me for another heartbeat. Then it whistles and the formation explodes. Two rush straight toward me while another pair veers wide through the trees. The fifth hangs back beside the leader with a heavy spear balanced loosely in both hands. Not charging, waiting. They've learned. I refuse to meet them where they want.

The first axe comes down hard enough to split the moss-covered stump beside me. Bark bursts across my face as I pivot around the swing and drive my shoulder into the Rask's chest. It staggers, but before I can bring the staff around another spear darts toward my ribs. I twist. The shaft catches beneath my arm. I wrench it downward with both hands, dragging the spearman forward. Its balance breaks for the smallest instant. I ram the iron ferrule of my staff into its throat.

I feel cartilage collapse beneath the blow. It gurgles instead of screaming. The second Rask is already there. Its claws rake across my back before I can turn completely. Fire tears across my shoulder blades as leather gives way beneath black nails. Pain can wait. I slam the butt of the staff backward without looking. The impact jars my elbow. A grunt answers. Good. Still there. I spin, sword already leaving its sheath, and catch the creature across the forearm before it can recover.

Dark blood sprays across the ferns. It snarls, dropping the axe into the undergrowth, then throws itself at me with its remaining hand in desperation. I step aside. It misses me completely. Momentum carries it into one of the broad roots surrounding an ancient pine. I don't waste the opening. The sword punches forward beneath its jaw. Warm blood runs across my fingers as I pull the blade free. Another whistle sounds again, different this time and sharper. The remaining three attack together. One stays low.

One comes high. The third circles behind. I can't stop all three. I don't try. I leap onto the exposed root instead. The spearman lunges upward. I smile; it overcommitted. I let the point slide beneath my boot, using the shaft as a step before pushing off. For a heartbeat I'm above them. My staff comes down with all the weight I can muster, smashing across the spearman's shoulders. The wood shudders in my grip and the Rask folds beneath the strike. I land badly.

My right knee slams against stone hidden beneath the moss. Pain shoots through the joint and I nearly fall. The axe bearer doesn't give me another chance. Its weapon tears through the air toward my neck. I barely catch the haft on the middle of my staff. The impact rattles my teeth. Both weapons lock together while the Rask drives forward with surprising strength. It is not stronger than me rather better positioned. I give ground one step, then another leading it right where I want it to be.

The third Rask follows eagerly, trying to trap me between the roots. Exactly where I wanted it. My free hand slaps against the earth. Mana surges through my arm so violently that my vision blurs.

"Now." The answer comes instantly. Roots burst upward beneath the trailing Rask, not as thin vines but thick cords of living wood that twist around both legs before wrenching sideways. The creature disappears beneath a shower of soil, crashing into its companion hard enough to send both sprawling. The spell tears a gasp from my lungs. I feel the drain immediately. My hands tremble. Sweat stings my eyes. The forest answered, but it took its price. The Rasks gives me no time to recover.

The axe bearer tears free first. I meet it head-on. The staff knocks the axe wide. I step inside its reach and my forehead crashes into its nose. It reels as bone breaks. I sweep its legs out from beneath it and drive the sword deep into its chest before it can hit the ground. Two remain, no three. The spearman I thought finished rises again, coughing blood while dragging itself toward the fallen weapon. Persistent fool. I sprint before it reaches the spear. My knee protests every stride.

The Rask snatches the shaft just as I arrive. We hit each other together. Its shoulder slams into my ribs, something cracks. Air vanishes from my lungs. I stagger sideways, fighting the instinct to double over. The spear comes again. I catch it with the staff. Too late to turn it completely. The point tears across my left shoulder. Blood runs freely beneath my sleeve. I grit my teeth and shove forward with everything I have left. The staff drives into its chest.

The blow throws it backward into the trunk of an ancient oak. The tree itself seems to answer. One great branch, already strained beneath its own weight, groans as fresh wood races through it under the pulse of my mana. It thickens visibly before swinging downward with irresistible force. The branch catches the Rask across the shoulders and wood meets flesh with a thunderous crack. The creature disappears beneath leaves, bark and splintered limbs. Silence follows. Enough for me to hear myself breathing.

I lower the sword for the briefest heartbeat. Apparently, that's too long. The fifth Rask crashes into my side before I ever see it. We tumble together down the slope and the staff flies from my hand. The world becomes earth, roots and clawed hands. Its fingers close around my throat while mine close around its wrist. We roll as I drive my knee into its stomach. This Rask is stronger than others. It barely notices. Its teeth snap inches from my face.

I force its arm away with everything my left shoulder can still give. Agony explodes through the wound and my vision swims. I try to find my sword when I see it through the blur, half buried beneath a carpet of pine needles. Too far to reach right now. The Rask raises a jagged bone knife and I reach for the earth. Mana answers like an exhausted friend struggling to stand one final time.

A thick vine erupts from beneath the fallen leaves beside us, coils around the Rask's knife arm and yanks with all the strength the forest can spare. The blade misses my throat by inches. I twist underneath it and roll towards the sword. My fingers close around the sword hilt and I drive the blade upwards with both hands-on mere instincts. The resistance lasts only a heartbeat. Then it gives. The Rask goes still. For several long moments I remain where I am, breathing hard beneath its weight.

Everything hurts, my shoulder burns, my ribs protest every breath. Mana feels distant now, as though Northwood has stepped back to recover alongside me. I push the body aside and retrieve my staff. When I look up, only one figure remains standing. The scarred leader. It has not moved but its yellow eyes never left me through the entire battle. Now it lowers the heavy axe resting across its shoulder. Then it begins walking toward me alone, slowly and deliberately. Every step is measured. Every breath controlled.

It doesn't roar. It doesn't beat its chest. It doesn't waste movement proving what every corpse scattered across the hillside already knows. It is the strongest thing left alive in this part of Northwood. I tighten my grip around the staff and force myself upright. My left shoulder protests immediately. Blood has soaked through my sleeve, making the wood slick beneath my palm.

My ribs grind unpleasantly whenever I breathe too deeply, and the deep ache behind my eyes tells me I have drawn far more mana than my body is capable of handling in a single day. The leader notices. Of course it does. It whistles once. A low, questioning note. As though asking whether I still intend to fight.

"I've come this far." I roll the stiffness from my neck.

"I'm not stopping now." It answers by charging purposefully. The distance between us disappears with frightening speed. The axe comes from low to high instead of overhead, forcing me to abandon the instinctive block I had already begun. I twist away. The stone edge grazes my cuirass instead of biting into my ribs, but the force behind the blow still sends me stumbling sideways. Before I can recover, the leader closes again. No pause or hesitation in its movements. It has fought things stronger than me.

I catch the next swing on the middle of the staff. The impact explodes through both arms. Pain shoots into my shoulders. The staff bends alarmingly before springing back. I shove hard, breaking the bind just long enough to slip beneath the returning swing. My sword lashes toward its side. Steel scrapes hide but the wound is too shallow. The leader pivots with the cut instead of against it, robbing the strike of most of its force. Its elbow crashes into my jaw before I can retreat and the world lurches sideways.

I taste blood. It doesn't give me time to regain my footing. It bombards me with a barrage of swings. Every attack flows into the next with relentless precision. I stop trying to win. I concentrate entirely on surviving. The staff becomes an extension of instinct. Block; slide; turn; catch; yield; counter. The rhythm lasts only seconds before it changes again. The leader suddenly abandons the axe. One massive hand, shoots forward and catches the staff near its center. It pulls hard but I refuse to let it go.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I realize my mistake a little too late when the unexpected strength tears me off balance. My boots leave the ground for an instant before I slam shoulder-first into the trunk of an ancient oak. The breath leaves my lungs but the axe is already descending. I throw myself sideways. Wood explodes where my head had rested a heartbeat earlier. Splinters shower across my face as the blade bites deep into the trunk.

I don't wait. I drive my boot into the haft and the axe jams even deeper. The leader releases it immediately. Its fist, catches my wounded shoulder. Agony tears through my arm as I stumble backward, my grip finally breaking. The staff tumbles from numb fingers and rolls somewhere behind me. I immediately dive after it through the pain. Claws rake across my back before I can reach the weapon. I feel the nails scrape the cloth of my back and leave gashing marks as the skin tears.

I roll beneath another swipe, fingers finally closing around the familiar ash wood. Relief lasts less than a heartbeat when the leader kicks. Its heel crashes into my ribs and something gives. I hit the ground hard enough to bounce. I feel my vision spinning overhead. For several seconds I can do nothing except breath. Each breath hurts more than the last. The leader retrieves its axe. It doesn't rush. It doesn't need to. I force myself onto one knee, using the staff more as a crutch now than a weapon.

My legs tremble, my vision refuses to settle. I reach for the forest. Nothing answers at first and then something responds very little. The familiar current of mana that had answered me so readily throughout the morning now feels impossibly distant. I grasp at it again, drawing only the faintest thread before it slips away like water through open fingers. I've taken too much. Northwood has already given me everything it could spare. The leader sees my hesitation and lets out another whistle.

Not in triumph but confidence. It knows I have nothing left. It advances once more and I force myself to meet it. The first exchange almost ends the fight. My block comes a fraction too slowly. The axe crashes against the staff, driving the iron ferrule into my own shoulder. White-hot pain blinds me. The weapon nearly flies from my hands. I barely recover. My sword catches the leader across one forearm, drawing another shallow line of blood but it doesn't even flinch.

Its answering backhand throws me completely off my feet. I skid across damp earth until my back collides with something solid. Roots, huge ancient roots. I blink hard, trying to clear the blood from my eyes. The ancient oak towers above me, its massive trunk broader than three men standing shoulder to shoulder. Its roots disappear into the earth in every direction, rising and falling across the forest floor like the backs of sleeping giants. The leader walks toward me, slowly. Certain the fight has already ended.

Perhaps it has. My left leg buckles immediately, as I try to stand. The staff slips from my grasp once more before coming to rest against one of the great roots. I could still draw Nemain. The thought comes unbidden. It is easy, tempting. One pull would lead to one small massacre and only one tiny step towards the curse I have spent years refusing.

"No." The word escapes as little more than a whisper. Nemain doesn't belong here. I am not going to draw it here, not for this. I let the thought die. My hand falls instead upon the ancient root beside me. Its bark feels rough beneath blood-streaked fingers. Cool, steady and alive. For a long moment I say nothing. I simply breathe. The battle fades but the pain remains. So does the forest.

"I've asked much of you today." My voice is hoarse.

"More than I ever should have." The leader closes the remaining distance, axe resting easily upon one shoulder. Another three steps, two steps and it will be upon me. I close my eyes.

"If you have nothing left..." I lower my head.

"... then I'll finish this as I am." The forest grows strangely quiet. No birds, no wind, no insects, only silence. Then, something deep beneath my palm answers. Not because of the compulsive action of mana but because of recognition. Like a comrade helping other in need. The sensation begins beneath my palm, deep within the ancient root resting beneath my fingers. It is faint at first, little more than a slow pulse travelling through weathered wood, yet it carries a weight unlike anything I have ever felt.

It does not rush toward me. It acknowledges me. The great oak has stood here for centuries. Storms have broken upon its crown. Winters have buried its roots beneath snow while generations of hunters, wolves and wandering beasts passed beneath its branches before returning to the earth from which they came. It remembers everything. The root beneath my hand pulses once more. Then another answers farther away.

The feeling spreads outward through the forest faster than sight can follow, passing from root to root beneath the earth until the woodland itself seems to draw a single, quiet breath. The leader stops as its ears twitch. For the first time since the battle began it hesitates. The silence deepens; leaves that had danced upon the afternoon breeze become perfectly still. Northwood waits.

"So..." I whisper, scarcely aware that I am speaking.

"You've been listening." The answer comes all at once. The ground lurches beneath the leader's feet. Ancient roots, thicker than wagon wheels, buried beneath the forest floor for longer than kingdoms have stood, begin forcing their way toward the surface. Earth splits apart as living timber rises through stone and soil alike, lifting entire sections of the battlefield into great rolling waves. The leader leaps clear. It lands lightly already adapting. A whistle tears from its throat.

The remaining female and even juvenile Rasks answer immediately, rushing toward me from every direction. But its too late. The nearest pine groans. Fresh wood races beneath its bark with a sound like distant thunder. One branch thickens before my eyes, splitting into two before extending another several yards in moments. Needles burst into existence as though decades pass within a heartbeat. The branch sweeps sideways. It catches the first Rask across the chest.

The creature disappears into another tree with enough force to splinter the trunk before crumpling motionless among shattered bark. Another whistles in alarm. Vines answer first. They erupt from the base of an ancient cedar in thick living coils, each as broad as my forearm. They wrap around a second Rask before it can raise its axe, lifting it bodily from the ground. The creature hacks desperately at the vines, severing one but two more immediately replace it. The forest has all the time in the world.

The vines tighten around the Rask as its ribs crack. Finally, the axe falls from limp fingers. I push myself upright. Every muscle scream in protests and my vision swims. Yet the strength flowing through the earth no longer feels like borrowed mana. It feels shared. I grip the staff once more. The leader charges. It has seen the truth before I have. None of this happens, as long as I fall. Its axe whistles toward my head. I meet it with the staff. This time the impact does not throw me backward.

The roots beneath my boots rise just enough to steady my footing. I turn the axe aside and drive the iron ferrule toward its ribs. It twists, instinct and experience from countless battles guiding it. The blow glances across scarred hide. Its elbow catches my wounded shoulder again and pain explodes through my arm. I nearly lose the staff. The leader presses forward relentlessly, forcing me backward beneath the ancient canopy while the forest wages its own battle around us.

Roots surge upward, wrapping around charging Rasks before dragging them screaming into walls of thorn that had not existed moments before. Branches continue growing through the air, striking with the slow, irresistible force of centuries compressed into heartbeats. One great oak, leans, as its roots push higher from the earth before crashing across the battlefield, crushing two Rask beneath its immense weight and sealing the western approach completely. The leader ignores all of it.

Its world has narrowed to me alone. Mine has done the same. It swings its axe again; I duck beneath it. It immediately changes trajectory and the return swing catches my thigh. The strike enough to make my leg buckle. The leader surges forward, sensing the weakness instantly. I retreat one limping step but I have nowhere left to go. A massive root blocks my path. The leader raises the axe with both hands to deliver the killing blow. I do not move.

Instead, I plant the butt of my staff between the roots and let both hands slide upward. Vael's voice returns with startling clarity.

"Strength is not meeting force. Strength is knowing where force wishes to go." The leader swings the axe downwards as I catch the haft near its end instead of its center. The entire staff bends. Every muscle in my body screams as I step sideways. The leader's own momentum carries it past me. I twist tearing the haft free from its grip and the axe spins away into the undergrowth. For the first time, the leader is unarmed. It roars in fury then it lunges bare-handed.

Its shoulder slams into my chest and we both crash to the ground. The staff rolls away as its claws close around my throat. My wounded shoulder refuses to answer; my sword lies somewhere beyond reach and the leader presses harder trying to choke me. Darkness creeps into the edges of my vision. I hear the forest. The great root beneath us shifts, just once. The movement is almost gentle but enough to make the leader lose its balance for the smallest fraction of a heartbeat.

I drive my knee upward with everything I have left. Its grip loosens and I tear free. My fingers find the sword hilt buried beneath leaves. The leader reaches me first but this time I am prepared. I rise into the thrust and slide my blade beneath its ribs deep, until the cross-guard strikes scarred hide. The leader freezes, its yellow eyes meet mine. Neither of us moves for one endless heartbeat. The entire forest waits. Then the light leaves its eyes.

Its weight settles against me before slowly slipping from the blade. True silence returns to Northwood. No whistles, no growls, no battle. Only wind moving gently through leaves that moments before had stood perfectly still. The great roots sink gradually back beneath the earth. The branches cease their impossible growth. The vines loosen their grip, lowering the fallen gently onto the forest floor before withdrawing into bark and moss as though they had never moved at all. The forest is a forest once more.

I remain standing only because the staff finds my hand again. Everything hurts; every breath, every step, even thinking hurts right now. I look across the battlefield. The colony is gone. Northwood has endured and signs of battle linger around in form of torn and battered corpses of Rasks, adults; juvenile; males; females. I turn toward the nest. There is still one thing left to do.