XLII. Drag me into the Woods

Given how many times he had died, or nearly died, Aichlan was not surprised to find himself in a darkened tent. To meet his end so easily seemed anti-climactic when compared to the other ways he had met death and walked away the victor. If one could call the existence he led a victory. He had even met the keeper of keys herself, that old bogeyman relegated to fairy tales, legend and long extinct pagan religions, on not one but three occasions. Because after all, that was who that woman was, she was death. The fourth sister from whom all others flee.

His body was stiff and sore, but Aichlan managed to turn his head to get a better look at his accommodations. It was a command tent, and he was on a real bed, not a cot. Beside him was an end table with a burnt-out candle, and overhead a heating glyph sent a warm breeze to wash over him. The weight he felt on his chest was not stiff muscles, at least not entirely, but rather the head of a young noble mage who lay curled up beside him. Aichlan stiffly raised a bandaged hand and patted her on the head. His fingers tingled like one who had spent too long in the cold.

The clumsy caress caused Alice to stir, and she looked up at him with sleep eyes. Aichlan smiled wanly and opened his mouth to speak, but found his throat too parched to utter even a croak. Alice sighed and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. With a sleepy incantation, she set a flame to the candle, and summoned a pitcher of water from the table across the room with a wave of the hand. Silently, she poured him a glass of lukewarm water as Aichlan scooted up into a sitting position. He noticed her green eyes were full of tears as she set down the pitcher, but said nothing while she helped him to drink. He had no idea why Alice was there or where she came from, or even where he was, but he was glad to see her nonetheless.

“How do you feel?” She was deadpan, but Aichlan could hear the emotions dammed behind trembling lip and bitten tongue.

“A bit stiff. Where are we?”

Alice quietly set the glass back on the now crowded end table. “Alfheim. You had an extreme case of frostbite, or rather, you were nearly frozen solid. Clarissa healed most of it.” Alice placed her hand to his forehead to check his temperature. “Are you in pain?”

“No, I’m fine. When did—”

Before Aichlan could finish his sentence, Alice struck him hard across the face, tears flowing freely from her enchanting green eyes as her lower lip trembled. She looked all the part of a hurt and frightened child. As he was about to utter an apology, she struck him across the other cheek with equal if not greater force. As she prepared for a third, Aichlan grabbed her and clutched her to his breast, allowing her to break down into a snotty mess of sobs and tears. He held her that way for what seemed like an hour, as she clutched at his arm, crying harder than she had likely done in years.

“Fiora’s dead.” She said after several near silent moments.

Aichlan stroked her hair as he held her tighter. “I’m sorry…”

“You don’t get to die too Aichlan.” She sniffled. “You have to be by my side when I take the throne; you, Aelfric, and Ashe. You don’t get to die out here, it is forbidden.”

The tent flaps sprung apart and Rémann ducked in, pausing awkwardly upon finding the two of them sharing such a tender moment. “Apologies, I’ll stop by later.”

Aichlan motioned for Rémann to enter. “No, now is fine. What do you have for us Master Rémann?”

“General’s Eth and Swyddog wish to discuss our marching orders and plan of attack.”

Aichlan tried to get up, but Alice held him in a vice-like embrace. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the situation, or even where we are exactly.”

“Colonel Donough and Captain Rowena have already apprised us of the encounter in Mossroot, and I am prepared to bring you up to speed en route.”

“Very well.” Aichlan gently pried Alice’s arms from about his waist. “I need to get ready…”

Alice gripped him all the tighter and buried her face into his chest. “I will brief the general Master Rémann. You can return in an hour.”

Rémann looked to Aichlan, who simply shrugged. “I shall inform the other officers,” Rémann bowed, “and send someone with your breakfast shortly.”

* * *

The terror inducing gaze of Morana caused Osric to shiver and quicken his pace. The witch had been staring at him for the better part of the day, though she had said nothing, he knew why she was upset. He was upset with himself, he had been careless, arrogant even. Behind them, the undead hauling the cart became stuck on another rut, and Osric raised the cart and the egg with a wave of the hand, setting it down on the poorly maintained and overgrown road. From the corner of his eye, he saw Morana standing with her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him with the intensity of an ice storm.

“Is there something you wish to say?” Osric asked grudgingly.

The undead shuffled over to the cart and resumed their course towards the clearing. Through the gaps in the tree line, the entirety of the horizon was filled with the massive trunk of Yggdrasil, the culmination of all of his sacrifices. He would have thought Morana would be happy.

“You almost died.” She said with an accusatory edge.

Osric reflexively touched his chest where the arrow had struck. “I had it under control.”

“You panicked,” Morana spoke in rapid, accented clips with blue eyes afire, “despite my tutelage, you still fell back on elementals instead of consigning that elf bitch to oblivion.”

Osric could not tell if she was concerned or merely disgusted with him. While it had been a close battle, he was far from being nearly killed. The elf man had been unexpected, and Osric was readily able to admit he had botched that engagement, but Morana had powers over life and death he could barely comprehend. Even without the regenerative properties of the phoenix egg, she could have taken them all on with relative ease, so wide was the gulf of power between them. She still needed him, or at least, he hoped she did.

Osric did not go into the mystic arts with designs on being a warrior or fighter, his motivations were more mundane and rooted in a desire to satiate his intellectual curiosity. He would have been perfectly content to be a teacher till the end of his days.

“I will be more careful in the future.” Osric relented. “Besides, I have you to watch over me.”

Morana bristled and held her balled fists at her side, in her anger, she briefly appeared at least two decades older. “Do you think this is a joke?” She jabbed an angry finger towards the world tree. “Just over that rise is where the flesh was burned from my back and I was dragged to hell, a fate I refuse to suffer again.”

“I did not mean to...”

Morana closed the distance in three angry steps, leaping effortlessly through small rifts in space. “We are at a stage beyond such cavalier attitudes. It is at this point that all who walked this path before you fell, it is at this point where the gods have forsaken all men and stand ready to purge the entirety of Silex to save their precious, gilded hides.”

Osric felt his face burning red in response to her chastisement. “I am aware, and I am ready.”

“Are you?” Morana demanded.

Osric straightened his robes and brushed a strand of hair from his face. He attempted to draw himself up, to take on some semblance of confidence and resolve, but found neither in his heart. He had come far, and now that he stood upon the proverbial precipice, he found the final step nearly impossible to take. All of his hopes, dreams, desires, all that he had struggled and fought for till now seemed so distant and abstract to him.

“It is…” Osric bit his lower lip to stop it from trembling, his gaze fixed on his teacher’s bare abdomen to avoid her gaze. “It’s not as if I have any other choice.”

“Good.” Morana hissed. “You don’t have any other choice, your path is set, don’t fuck it up.”

She spun around with a flurry of smoke and ice, storming down the undulating and rutted path. Osric clutched his chest and felt his knees about to give was beneath him. The culmination of his grand design was upon him, and he was terrified. For months, he had debated every conceivable path and outcome, no twist was outside of his ability to overcome; but when it came to his own fate, he had conveniently glossed over it, putting aside for a later date. Now that later date had arrived.

He took several deep breaths and forced himself to onward. The best that could happen to him was total oblivion, an outcome he hoped and even prayed for. Yet he had not come so close to the reality of his own mortality before, not on this scale. His trepidation had worked against him, there was no way that knight and his elven companions should have been able to lay a finger on him, let alone bring him to the brink of defeat as they did. He was distracted, and those distractions would be his undoing. Even knowing this, he could not shake the existential fear, he found it difficult to press on knowing the ultimate outcome of his endeavors would be his own end.

* * *

“Our best bet is to march straight on,” Aichlan rolled his hand, searching for a word at the tip of his tongue, “what was it called?”

Rémann made his way around the war room and topped off the cups of those present, acting more as Alice’s personal butler than squire to the king. Alice sat in the corner with her leg crossed, staring blankly at the figurines arranged on the map before her.

Rowena cleared her throat with only a hint of annoyance. “Yggdrasil.”

Aichlan snapped his fingers in her direction. “We meet or cut off Osric there.”

Swyddog stroked his beard as he circled the table. “And what is the exact significance of this Yggdrasil, my lord?”

Aichlan aimed his pointing rod at the heart of the forest on the map laid out before them. “He’s got some magic egg that can ostensibly revive the dead.”

“Pardon me,” Swyddog pinched the bridge of his nose and waved his hand for a halt to the proceedings, “An egg my lord?”

“It’s a bit more involved than that…” Donough mumbled as he stroked his braided goatee. “It's the lifeforce of a phoenix, represented as an egg.”

“I can understand you may have some difficulty accepting some of the more…outlandish aspects of our situation General,” Aichlan paused and took a sip of tea, “But you yourself have crossed the continent, seen the evils that now walk the land. Going forward, we must embrace the absurd if we are to stand a chance against this fiend.”

Swyddog sighed and held out his hands in resignation. “Of course, my Lord, Master Stone-Wood, my apologies.”

“None necessary General.” Aichlan repositioned one of the figurines on the table. “Yggdrasil also happens to be the holding place for the Demon Lord Abigor’s soul, Captain Rowena believes he wishes to revive the beast.”

Alice laughed aloud, causing all eyes to focus on her. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny.”

“It really isn’t.” Rowena huffed.

“But you must admit,” Alice wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, “It’s all rather hilarious when you think about it, it’s all just so, preposterous!”

“Yes well,” Aichlan adjusted his collar and took another sip of tea, “Preposterous or no, it’s our reality, and we must do all we can to prevent this mad ploy from coming to fruition.”

Alice waved off his concerns. “Of course, of course. It’s just nerves is all, I suppose.”

The tent flaps abruptly opened and Clarissa joined them, escorted by Eth and two attendant nuns. Eth clasped Aichlan heartily on the shoulder as he passed, and took a seat beside Donough. Clarissa ordered her attendants to procure more refreshments in not quite a whisper, and scurried over to join the rest of the war council at the table.

“Forgive me for my tardiness, I was presiding over services.”

“It's fine.” Aichlan said curtly, the familiar faces arranged around the table suddenly made him wish Ashe were with them to offer him support and cheer. “As I was saying, we need to cut him off at this tree.”

“And what of the sorceress you spoke of?” Swyddog asked as he twirled his mustache. “I’ve got a company of mage killers, but we’ve not encountered anything like you’ve described in your last report. How are we to counter them?”

“Leave that to me.” Alice said evenly. “You focus your men on Osric and his hordes of Dusk spawn.”

Swyddog looked nervously towards Aichlan. “With all due respect my Lady, I do not believe that course of action to be wise.”

“Agreed.” Aichlan said quickly. “The witch will be a challenge, but she is not immortal. I don’t think. In any case, we can’t risk you on frontline actions. It is simply out of the question.”

“With all due respect, Generals, that is not your call to make.” Alice pointed towards the door and the camp, “The only ones who stand any semblance of a chance against those two are other mages.”

“Aye, that may be true lass,” Eth leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on the wooden table, “but it disnae mean ye need tae lead the charge. Yer position is far too important.”

“You entrusted Lords Aichlan and Eth with zee care and direction of dzis army, non?” Clarissa snapped her fingers to get Rémann’s attention and some tea. “Now you must let dzem lead it. Merci Rémann.”

“Of course, your Excellency.”

Alice folded her arms across her chest and appeared to pout. “Your concerns are duly noted, but this is not a matter up for debate.”

“No,” Aichlan interrupted, “It isn’t. I’ll not send the heir apparent to the front lines if other alternatives exist. You can censure me or strip me of my rank when we return you safely to Briartach. My lady.”

Alice bristled and turned her ire to both Rémann and Swyddog, who nodded in agreement. “Fine.”

Aichlan recognized from her tone that it was anything but fine, but did not feel it was the proper time or place to make an issue of it. “Now, there is no real way of knowing what will await us, but it is safe to assume he’ll have his forces amassed there. Gentlemen, Ladies, we face an uphill battle; and that’s putting it mildly.”

“What choice do we have?” Rowena lurched forward, clutching her hands to hide their trembling. “This madman stands poised to destroy the world!”

Aichlan absently glossed over the map in the ensuing silence. He was no longer certain that was Osric’s intent, especially given that fever dream he had of Elysium. Even if it were true, that the gods had made him their pawn to save their own skins, he couldn’t very well just let Osric get away with all he had done. Not after all he and the others had sacrificed, no matter what the man’s motivations, he had done great evil on Silex and needed to be brought to justice. Whatever that word even meant anymore.

“Get some rest,” Aichlan set down his pointer and took up the teacup, “Marching orders will be delivered by this evening, we set out by noon tomorrow.”