Chapter 9
Legends of Old
Olivia and Theron laughed as Sobriina ended her elvish fable of a
foolish Sulphuro slave; even Duke Aldret smiled. Olivia shook her head as she
glanced between the smiling faces around her. She took in a breath to tell a
story of her own, but stopped. A lump formed in her throat and choked her. With
a gag, she grabbed her throat and tried to breathe, coughing until air filled
her once more. Her chest heaved as she sucked in more air, her eyes darting to
and fro.
Olivia looked down and noticed goose bumps dotted her arms. Her
hair stood on end. A dark shadow enveloped the wagon. She blinked and realized
everyone else had stopped laughing. She glanced at them, her head tilted to one
side. The men sat, their shoulders rigid and hands on their weapons. Mistress
Sobriina took a breath and closed her eyes. She let it out in one slow whoosh
to calm her nerves. They all felt an eerie chill that not only caused them to
shiver, but penetrated their souls and deep within.
“What’s going—?” Olivia’s whisper faded into nothing as she looked
out the window, her eyes wide. Her glass heart trembled. The final remains of
the rolling green hills passed out of view and a thick woodland consumed her.
The whisper of the wind and buzz of insects were cut short until cold silence
remained.
They had entered Wraith’s Hollow.
Thick shadows of gnarled trees fell across the travelers. They
tangled among one another until they were a new, living being. The trees’ limbs
arched over the only road through the wood, Savior’s Way, and their branches
wound together until the sky paled. The soft stomp of horses’ hooves and the
creak of wagons’ wheels mingled with the chilled air. All was still, as though
the forest was holding its breath.
Olivia tried to swallow, but could not. She thought to clear her
throat, but would not dare. She feared someone would hear, and turn their
yellow glowing eyes upon her from the gloom. She clenched her hands together as
she turned out the window. She had never seen such a thick forest! There was
scarcely enough room for the trees to breathe, let alone feel the sun’s warmth.
That was why everything felt dead, she considered. No warm light was allowed
in, as though it were banned from the forest.
Wizard, keep us safe, please! Olivia’s eyes leapt from shadow to shadow;
something was watching her, she knew it. Let nothing come to harm us!
“Who is Lord Demus supposed to be, exactly?” Sobriina whispered.
Olivia flinched at her words; they were a scream in the unnatural stillness.
Olivia’s brow furrowed as she opened her mouth to object to the question, but
shut it and looked away. “I am poorly versed with Tulish mythology.”
“Lord Demus. . .” Aldret’s whisper drained into silence as his
pale eyes darted from tree to tree. “How is it you are uninformed of his
character, being an experienced traveler through this tree line?”
“I sought truth, my lord,” Sobriina retorted. “My father was near
death; I had no time for children’s stories.”
“He’s a Spellbinder in the old stories,” Theron said, his voice
raw and quiet. “He practices dark arts known by dragons and Wraiths. I hear the
power of Wraiths are so strong, it kills mortals who wield it from the inside
out. Turns their eyes gray like death, too. It think its called Wraith Eyes.”
“Dragons are also fables,” Sobriina pointed out. Theron shrugged
indifferently. “And Wraiths’ power is what exactly? I heard whispered it was
called The Pravus-”
Those
in the wagon demanded silence with desperate hisses and waving hands. Olivia
stared wide-eyed at the Lunaris, not knowing if the unspoken title of Wraiths’
might would summon the immortal phantoms from the gloom. Sobriina lay a hand
over her mouth as she looked for one mortified face to another.
“Mistress Sobriina les
Desoreel,” Duke Aldret said with grave sincerity. “Never speak the name of
Wraiths’ power. Spoken words carry authority, and such dark arts are best left
abandoned in darkness for The Wizard to administer justice upon.” Sobriina
nodded slowly and sealed her lips, giving apologetic glances between Theron and
Olivia.
“I will tell you now all that is recorded concerning Lord Demus’s
nature,” Duke Aldret continued, “though much is based on ignorant
superstitions. As the folklores state, he claimed Wraith’s Hollow as his own—”
“—After the War of the Royals and the rebellion in Suvaria,”
Theron interrupted.
“And,” Duke Aldret continued, “subsequently, the forest has
developed a troubled charisma.” Olivia shivered as she moved closer to Theron.
She wondered if the blind elvish ghosts still wandered Deep Wilds in search of
their gouged out eyes. She had never seen a ghost before.
“Charisma?” Theron frowned as he stared at Duke Aldret. “Not the
word I would use—”
“My personal verdict; I should clarify,” the half-giant said and
lifted his chin. “A beast’s mind is compelled to ominous environments. Such is
our home, and, as you recollect, my prince, I am half beast.”
Olivia eyed Duke Aldret, her knuckles white as they gripped her
hands. He turned to look in her direction, and she glanced away before their
eyes met.
Duke Aldret continued, unconcerned with the wide-eyed looks of his
companions, “After Lord Demus came, so did hags, Shadow Minstrels, Flesh
Thieves, Charnelics, and a swarm of other abhorrent beings. The forest was
proclaimed lethal and haunted a hundred and forty-seven years ago. Every
resident immediately evacuated.”
The three listeners sat with their eyes wide, their breath
whispering in and out faster than before.
“Therefore,” Duke Aldret continued, unhindered by his companions’
uneasiness, “Lord Demus rules Wraith’s Hollow and, as the accounts state, all
the shady beasts conform to his authority. He raids whoever enters his forest and,
it is said, none are left alive, except a select few. They are taken to his
domain and are never seen again. Such is the old wives’ tale and vagabond
nonsense.”
Olivia quivered and looked outside, her eyes narrowed suspiciously
when she found nothing but tree upon tree deep in silence.
“To be true,” Duke Aldret said and glanced out his window, his
voice hushed, “many have attempted to seek out and subdue the Spellbinder, but
all their efforts end in vain. Either they are driven mad by starvation or the
forest’s delusional effect, or they never discover a sign that the Spellbinder
lives. It is very outlandish indeed—”
“Why are we discussing this?” Olivia hissed. Duke Aldret glanced
at the lady as she gritted her teeth and tried to stay calm.
Theron took in a breath and laughed, his grin splitting through
his wide-eyed stare. “Nice legend.” He rested against his seat and cleared his
throat. Olivia shot him a hot look, but held her tongue. “I always have enjoyed
stories like these. He must be really old then, Lord Demus? And to think, we’re
trembling over a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old, bent-over man.” The prince
smiled and shook his head, yet he did not let go of his sword.
Aldret stroked his chin. “In all probability, Lord Demus is not
one man, but several who inherited the title from the one before them. No human
could live such a long time.”
“And I’ve heard he’s eight feet tall and his eyes blaze like
fire.” Theron grinned. “He also drinks poison for every meal and sleeps on a
bed of nails.” He shook his head again. “What about the tower? To the
northwest, close to Trail Kin’s territories?”
“That is believed to be truth, my prince,” Sobriina said.
Theron humphed. “And is it your belief?”
The she-elf’s brows rose. “I . . . it does not matter if it is true
or false. ’Tis only a tower.”
“Crazy children’s tales.”
Olivia squirmed in her seat and took in a shaky breath. “Can we
stop talking about him? Please.” She looked between the half-blood and prince,
then turned away. “It troubles me.”
Theron’s eyes shadowed irritably. “All right, but they’re only
stories—”
“I second the motion,” Sobriina said with a lift of her chin.
“Such tales do not warm the soul when traveling through their origin’s shadow.
The only danger is off Savior’s Way; let us not invite them onto the road with
our words. I regret asking about the Spellbinder.”
“Very well, my ladies.” Duke Aldret nodded and silently turned to
face the window.
Something touched Olivia’s arm, and she jumped with a shrilled
squeak. Theron’s eyes widened as he withdrew his hand from her arm and stared
at her. Red seeped into Olivia’s cheeks and she turned away.
“Hey,” Theron said and grabbed her hand. “They are simply
stories—”
“There is always a grain of truth in every story.” Olivia’s eyes
widened as she noticed the rough edge of her tone. She glanced at the prince
and shrunk back. “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“You’re frightened,” Theron whispered as she swallowed hard. He
smiled, though his brow furrowed. “You are safe here. My men are the best.”
Olivia looked away. She squeezed his hand and would not let go.
___________________________________
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“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”
~ 2 Corinthians 4:7
Hearts like fragile clay jars.
Fragile like glass.
Hearts of glass.
If you have any comments, critiques, or concerns, please comment below!!!
If you have any comments, critiques, or concerns, please comment below!!!
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