Chapter 4 #2
Squeezing his eyes shut, Torver leans into the dark of the hollow, his wounds rubbed raw.
Adrenaline still sings in his veins. He can feel his blood dripping down his arms, over the puncture-holes of tiny teeth, gashes where he has been ripped open, throbbing gouges where his flesh had been chewed and swallowed.
He can feel Bassen holding her breath.
The hooves and the voices grow louder. The noise, as ever, of the armour-clad Enforcers is deafening. It reaches a crescendo as they pass somewhere behind the tree.
There are a few moments of quiet.
The Rath shifts slightly and the slate pendant clinks against the buckle of Torver’s boot. He looks down.
This person looks unlike any that he’s ever seen—he can’t even tell what their gender is. Through the fog of his panic and blood-loss, he asks himself why, oh why is there a point-eared Rath in the Dodwood? They’re days from the border, and—
“Okay.” Bassen’s hushed voice is close. “We saved your precious Rath from the Enforcers. Let’s go.”
He wants to agree. Knows he should.
“That precious Rath saved my life,” he frowns, shaking off the warm drops that trickle down his fingers. “I mean—and you did too. But they shielded me while you were killing the rats! Am I supposed to just…leave them to be found? Executed?”
Doubt gnaws at his battered insides and he can’t escape the thought that he might owe this person his life. Climbing out of the gap in the tree, the pair of them quickly descend into hushed bickering.
“Don’t be like this, Bass,” he grimaces. “I know there’s laws about the border, but this Rath might not be fully evil…right? Why else would they protect me? You seem happy enough to harbour me—I’m against the law too, unless you’ve forgotten.”
He feels wicked using that logic against her, but it’s true. He’s precious to her because he’s not afraid of her. They met when he didn’t yet know the world of the Wen, didn’t know better. They were already firmly friends by the time they learned each other’s repellant secrets.
Bassen rolls her eyes.
“I know your lore is a little lacking because you couldn’t go to the schoolhouse as a kid, but you don’t know what you’re saying, Torv.
” Her expression softens. “You don’t even know about Rath pronouns, do you?
They use it in our language because that’s closer to the word in their language—they’re nothing like us.
They hate us, Torv. Why do you think there’s a border wall? It keeps us safe so—”
A smooth voice interrupts them.
“I didn’t know you knew about the it thing down here.”
Torver claps his hand over his mouth to contain his scream.
The stranger is awake.
Its eyes, pale green like opals, are wide and alert as it wriggles free of the tree. It moves with a litheness, as if it feels no pain. As if the myriad wounds, open gashes, and flaps of skin are not there at all.
Torver and Bassen share a look.
“I woke up in a tree,” it notes, a little dazed and brushing its long hair over its shoulder. Its accent is thick with something slightly tart, slightly rolling.
“Yes, I—uh, you were unconscious.” Torver shifts uncomfortably. “Then we had to hide. So I brought you.”
The stranger nods, blinking.
“Thank you.” Its voice is deep like a wine-dark tarn. It runs a pensive hand over its bite-pocked face. “For that—and for saving me from those creatures.”
Bassen doesn’t react to its thanks. Just looks to Torver, tapping her foot.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” She looks at it down her nose. “You protected my friend, so I won’t hurt you or turn you in. But you need to go back across that border and forget that you were ever sent here to spy on us. You hear me?”
Bassen turns to go, pulling Torver by his arm after her, but the stranger’s cool demeanour evaporates.
“Wait! Please! I’m not a spy!” It scrambles after them.
Its fear is neutered by the trill of its accent, as it worries its hands in front of itself.
“Please! You’ve got to help me!”
Torver coughs and he can taste metal. The effort makes him stumble and both Bassen and the stranger reach to steady him, Bassen casting it a vicious look.
“Don’t touch him!” she snaps.
The stranger retreats several steps, raising its dripping hands in surrender. It blinks rapidly and its movements seem unaffected by the battlefield of its body, even if its features are moulded by worry.
“How are you doing that?” Torver asks with great effort, before it gets a chance to speak.
“Doing what?” It shakes its head, apparently unaware that one of its pointed ears is dangling at a strange angle.
“Moving,” Torver’s legs wobble. “You got most of the rats and you’re not in pain at all?”
The Rath rolls up its sleeve and quickly examines the gouged flesh of its arm. “I just turned the pain off, I suggest you do the same until we get out of the woods. So, about—”
“You turned it off?” Torver squeaks.
At the same time as Bassen hisses, “We?”
Its brows draw together.
“My kind can choose to temporarily not feel pain in exchange for feeling it more intensely later. It’s one of our blessed magics—I assumed it was one of your people’s magics too? Anyway—”
“No,” Torver’s eyes widen. “We only have one magic each—usually.”
“One magic each?” The Rath looks horrified before continuing in a flurry, “But there’s no time! Please, just—”
“Um, hello?” Bassen clicks her fingers repeatedly. “Don’t make conversation! You’ve got to leave. This is the last chance I’m giving you to go back over that border.”
Torver can’t even savour his moment of astonishment at the concept of having more than one magic, like the fugitive before him has multiple souls filling its body. Because the Rath’s eyes grow wide with fear at the prospect of being sent away. Colour drains from its ethereal face.
Its hand rises to meet the slate pendant that hangs around its clavicle. It grips the stone and its breath grows shallow, a little more rapid.
“Please,” it whispers. “My name is Lavellin, and I’m not here to spy—I ran.” It wipes away blood dripping into its eye. “You’re right not to trust them. I’m one of King Eveling’s—one of the advisors to the King of the Rath. I had to run, I…”
Torver fights the urge to look away when Lavellin’s eyes meet his own. Its rising panic looks genuine, but is this not the performance a cunning spy would give?
Lavellin swallows. As if it can read his mind, it tightens its grip on the slate pendant around its neck. Its trembling hands twitch and, as if incognizant of its own strength, it snaps the thin leather strap.
Bassen steps away, rolling her eyes, obviously sharing Torver’s doubt. But Lavellin doesn’t let up, fear rolling off it in waves.
“They’re coming,” it says, eyes widening. “That’s why I’m here—to warn. In three full moons’ time, my people will invade. King Eveling wants your kingdom on its knees and I— I had to—”
Bassen folds her arms in front of her, lip curled in a snarl.
“If they invade, then we’ll fight them off!” she declares. “We have the Enforcers. We have magic!”
Lavellin sucks in a breath.
“The fae have far more magic than you do—” Its voice wavers. “And they’ll have the Beast. That’s why I ran. I can’t…agree with what they’re doing. I…”
Bassen blanches and Torver’s head grows lighter, fearing he’s beginning to hallucinate, beginning to make up the words he’s hearing. Fae.
“How do you know about the Beast?” Bassen’s voice is like ice.
“Our kingdoms were not always separated,” Lavellin says, stepping closer to them, hands splayed in front of it as if approaching a nervous animal. “Your history is our history. Did you not think that King Eveling is well aware of Dunmail’s dragon?”
“But King Dunmail subdued the Beast! Centuries ago! That’s what founded the People’s Kingdom,” Bassen protests, knuckles white around her arms.
Lavellin smiles, almost apologetically. Its frantic voice grows steady.
“And during the invasion of my people, King Eveling plans to wake the Beast. To use its fury as a weapon. To take the People’s Kingdom. You would be prisoners, slaves—worse.”
Torver, heart in his mouth, cannot take his eyes from Lavellin. Its pointed ears, its glow, its magic resilience to the same injuries that threaten to make him sink into the forest floor like an autumn leaf. What is this Rath even saying? Wake the Beast? He really must be hallucinating.
“Please,” Lavellin says the word again with a desperation, its eyes glistening in the dim forest light.
“You’ve got to listen to me—you’ve got to let me help.
You are the first people who’ve spoken to me since I crossed your wall—there was a farmer, but he ran—please—” It swallows hard, sucks in a breath.
“I gave up everything to come here. In three moons they’ll invade and wake the Beast and we have to stop them. ”