5. Lysanthir #3
There was a wild whinny. The horse! Her head shot towards the beautiful animal. It was rising up on its back hooves, front hooves pawing the air as if to protect itself from the darkness in the woods. Its eyes were rolling back. White froth fell from its lips and its nostrils were flared in terror.
And then she saw what was coming.
What was here.
Leshen!
She’d only ever heard of them. Sentient trees that were nothing like the nice sentient trees in Tolkien. No, these were spirits that hated human, elf and dwarf alike. Anyone who burned wood, who chopped down trees, or who even plucked a ripe apple from a branch was its enemy.
The Leshen was over twenty-five feet tall.
The bark of its trunk was mottled black and brown with mushrooms erupting from fissures in the wood like pustules.
It pulled itself over the ground by a series of tensile roots.
It dragged itself into the glade far too quickly for something that large to move.
No!
She cursed herself for ever going with Rachel and Laura into the woods. She would never leave Tyrael again without an escort. She wouldn’t even care if everyone tomorrow called her a slut or said terrible things about her if she could just get herself and Darcassan out of this!
But that seemed impossible.
Maybe if she ran and left Darcassan, she might survive. It might be content to rip him limb from limb like she’d heard. Blood would stain the glade. Soak the ground. But maybe she would get away.
But she couldn’t do that.
She couldn’t abandon him to that fate.
Even if it meant she’d share that fate.
She wasn’t going to lay down and die though either! Gemma threw herself towards the Sunshard or Luminerian as Darcassan had called it. He hadn’t been able to lift it so it was a vain idea that she could. But it was the only weapon at hand.
She wrapped her hands around the hilt. It was strangely chilled to her touch. When she tried to lift it, the sword wouldn’t budge. It was as if it was welded to the ground. Maybe it was like Mjolnir–Thor’s hammer–that only the worthy could wield. She and Darcassan, evidently, were not worthy.
Humans can’t wield magic. They can’t use magical weapons, she remembered the refrain from class.
The Leshen was only ten feet from Darcassan’s prone form. His horse was running around the outside of the glade, trying to find a way through the trees, but their trunks were pressed tightly together now, forming a wall of wood. There would be no escape.
Wiggling roots erupted by Darcassan’s feet and began to wind around his ankles. Soon, the Leshen would pull Darcassan to it and rip him apart. Gemma let out a shrill cry. Darcassan’s eyes opened, but he looked completely out of it. He was suddenly lifted into the air by the roots.
“Whoa?! What–what’s happening?!” he yelled.
She saw spurts of magic appear in his hands. Fire. Ice. Plasma. But they sputtered out before he could send them at the Leshen. The sword had truly drained him to the dregs. There was no saving coming from that direction.
Gemma gripped the sword once more and strained with all her might to lift it. But it would not move. It didn’t even shift the tiniest bit.
“Please,” she begged. “Please, please, please.”
But the sword remained where it was.
She felt something curl around her waist and let out a shriek. She gripped the sword’s hilt as the root began to lift her into the air just like Darcassan.
“Please! Please!” she kept crying. “LYSANTHIR, HELP US! PLEASE HELP US, LYSANTHIR!”
Her hands slipped until just her fingers were against the hilt as the Leshen tugged her upwards.
Lysanthir, please!
And then…
Light bloomed from the sword. Blinding light.
It was like looking into the heart of the Sun.
She squinted as a blast of light radiated out from the sword.
It consumed everything. She closed her eyes at the last moment.
There was a moment when everything remained still, but then she was falling.
With a shout, she landed painfully on the ground.
She lay there for some moments. Finally, when she felt like she wouldn’t shatter into pieces, she opened her eyes.
The roots that had been gripping her and Darcassan were gone.
In fact, the whole Leshen was gone. There was just some black ash drifting in the air.
The horse was now pawing uncertainly at the ground.
The wall of wood was gone. The darkness was gone.
Birds started chirping. Insects started trilling.
The danger was gone.
“How did you do that?” Darcassan’s voice had her snapping towards him.
He, too, was on the ground having been dropped by the roots. He was staring at her in wide-eyed wonder. Or maybe fear. Maybe a little bit of that.
“I didn’t…”
“You spoke to the sword,” he whispered.
“I spoke to…” She looked down at the Sunshard. It was still firmly where it had fallen from Darcassan’s hands. From where she’d been gripping it. “Lysanthir. Lysanthir saved us.”
That was right.
A faint gleam flowed along the blade’s shaft.
Darcassan let out a wild, hysterical laugh. “Who is Lysanthir?!”
Gemma stroked the hilt. Her expression was thoughtful. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”