by D. K. Latta
in Issue 143, December 2023
The cobblestones beneath Kainar’s boots were damp with dew, the sun just cresting the taller buildings. The crooked avenues through which he stalked were sparsely populated, merchants and workers only just beginning to stir and go about their affairs.
He was a broad-shouldered figure of middle-age, with a red beard and a ponytail. A barbarian outlander from distant Kuy, he had spent his younger days as a wandering soldier-of-fortune before becoming Guardsmaster of Hannah town. Most knew him by sight, often garbed in exotic mail fashioned from blue snail shells and with a conical helm upon his head that, rumour had it, he had wrested from a slain tyrant in his roaming years. But his most peculiar accoutrement was the wooden battle axe dangling from his belt. Those who knew something of its story held Kainar had carved it himself in his youth, as part of some arcane Kuyian manhood rite—carved it from a hawk’s wood tree, a plant entirely unknown outside of Kuy. Those who mistook it for simply an ornament had been rudely disabused of that error, the weird wood as strong and resilient as iron. Some whispered the outlander even talked to the axe—as though a living thing.
“This way,” said Vargy War, one of the city guards, directing his chief down a tight side street.
The alley disgorged onto an open square. There were less than a dozen people present, not including his guardsmen, but at this early hour that constituted a milling crowd. At first glance there was nothing ominous about the public square. It was hemmed with stout, well-shaped buildings and at the centre of it grew a thick tree that might offer shady respite from the glare of the noon sun.
Nothing unusual save Kainar was reasonably certain the tree had not been there a few days before.
“We are still canvassing,” offered Vargy War. “But it seems to have arisen overnight. The locals went to bed and it was here when they awoke.”
One of his guardsmen was tapping its trunk experimentally with the flat of his sword. Kainar scowled and made to order him away, then relented. The man’s curious investigation seemed to elicit no repercussion. Kainar brushed his axe. “Not a hawk’s wood tree.”
The axe seemed almost to tremble. Nay, came a voice only he could hear. Not one of my siblings.
“Keep those damn fools away,” he suddenly said to Vargy War as the on-lookers pressed closer. “In fact, get everyone back—our men included.”
Vargy War looked at him. “It’s just a tree.”
Kainar snorted. The city folk of Hannah could be as superstitious as any but they could also be slow to perceive true sorcery. Kainar had seen too much of it in his wandering years and he knew when something seemed impossible there was usually an unpleasant reason for it. “A tree sprouting overnight might well be a tree, but it’s never ‘just‘ a tree. Move everyone back and fence off this square.”
As a chastened Vargy War went to implement his instructions, Kainar regarded the tree.
It did not stand in the square so much as it loomed there crookedly, its thin, hanging leaves dangling listlessly like dirty hairs from an old crone’s brow. It did not smell of life the way a tree should. Quite the opposite. There was a reek of death about it.
Kainar regarded the ever-swelling morning crowd collecting about the square, his eyes moving from face to face as his guards set to work establishing a perimeter about the odd growth. As Vargy War returned to his side, Kainar gestured at one face in particular. “Who’s the old man?”
Vargy War followed his gaze. “Old Gelthed, the woodcarver. He makes handicrafts that sell to the wealthy.”
“Does he live around here?”
“His shop is many blocks away. Why?”
“The others stare at the tree with curiosity or trepidation. His eyes seem more to glow with awe.”
Brother! Something stirs!
He looked about trying to identify what Hawk’s Wood sensed—and the blood momentarily drained from his weathered cheeks. “Run!” he roared as a great root wrenched itself from out of the earth, shattered paving stones flying. He leapt aside as the root, as wide around as a man, slammed down where he had been, fracturing the stones that had been beneath his feet.
Kainar heard the screams of on-lookers and his guards alike. Crouching, he watched the grotesque tree pull more roots from the ground, coiling tentacles hefting the monstrosity to loom even more formidably above them all. He rolled aside as a leaner root lunged out at him—though whether he was an intentional target or an irrelevant obstacle, he could not say.
Heaving Hawk’s Wood above his head, he brought it down upon the root. The tentacle snapped clean, a viscous sap spurting from the wound like arterial blood. It was a momentary victory—he had definitely drawn the ire of the tree now. He whirled, axe raised, just as another root slammed into his chest, only his blue mail keeping his ribs from caving in. Hurtling through the air, he crashed upon the stones, instantly swinging Hawk’s Wood wildly back and forth to ward away the root as it stabbed at him again. Straining for breath, Kainar struggled to his feet—then snorted as a smaller root coiled about one leg and yanked. He landed heavily on his back, stones scraping and sparking across his mail as he was dragged toward the tree.
Panicking, he slammed Hawk’s Wood upon the root, cleaving it in twain. He rolled aside as another root and another lashed out for him. Then he threw himself into the mouth of the nearest alley, landed painfully on his knees, rose, and raced away between the buildings.
Kainar stood upon a flat roof overlooking the square. His face was grim but otherwise unreadable as he stared at the tree lurching back and forth like a restless animal hemmed in by the buildings forming the perimeter of the square. It surged about, not so much walking as undulating upon its powerful roots. Like a petulant child it occasionally threw itself against a building causing stone and mortar to rain upon the square.
He held one arm aloft for a moment; then dropped it.
Archers positioned on neighbouring roofs let fly with a score of arrows, their arrowheads dipped in flaming oil. The twang of bow strings echoing in his ears, Kainar watched as the arrows thudded into the tree. Their flames licked momentarily at the bark, then flickered and died. And the shafts joined the other score of blackened arrows already imbedded in the tree.
Curious, remarked Hawk’s Wood.
“Aye,” he grumbled.
“Mollan preserve us!”
Kainar glanced back to see a plump, middle-aged woman dressed in a scarlet silk robe with white fur trim. She had emerged from the stairwell that wove up through the building’s interior. “Earltha Bey,” Kainar acknowledged.
Earltha Bey dragged her gaze away from the tree surging back and forth, eyes wide, incredulous. She shivered, just a little, but her voice was steady. “The Council has asked me to come and see how you are proceeding?”
Kainar shrugged. “I am…assessing the matter.”
“Indeed,” she said drily. Eyes once more drawn to the bizarre phenomenon like they might be to a candle flame, she said, “It’s not natural, I suppose.”
“I’ve never heard of a tree that moves on its own.”
“So…sorcery?”
“Aye. But whose and to what purpose has yet to be determined.”
The councilwoman folded her hands before her. “At least it is contained.”
“Only for now. The tree continues to grow. Rapidly.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? The larger it becomes, the more impassable it will find our avenues.”
“Unless it becomes so large it can simply trample over the buildings.” As if hearing his words, the tree once more threw itself against one of the structures. There was a rumble of stone, a shower of loose rocks. With a thunderous roar, the facade of the building crumbled, rubble sliding down its face like water cascading down a fall. The body of the structure held. For now.
She went white. “Do something then.”
“Aye,” agreed Kainar flatly.
“You oscillate between seeking a natural and a supernatural explanation,” came a deep voice, “and ignore the obvious.”
Kainar frowned at a man in a purple robe with a plumed, gold embossed collar, the hood pulled back. He had well-fed features and his long hair was braided, golden threads woven through the natural strands. “There is danger here, Grand Emissary Orthoth,” Kainar advised the High Priest of Hannah town’s dominant religion. “You should not-“
“What is obvious, your eminence?” interrupted Earltha Bey.
“Why…the divine. Have you forgotten the scriptures?”
She stared at him a moment, then her eyes flared. “Yergath!”
Kainar scowled. “What?”
Orthoth glanced at him coldly. “I forget you are a heathen outlander, not a follower of the True Way,” he said though it was obvious he had forgotten no such thing. “Odd the council entrusting the city to one who shares not the faith of its citizens.”
“Hannah has grown considerably over the years, Grand Emissary,” Kainar said levelly, “with many peoples—and beliefs—calling her home. Now if you know something…”
“Yergath,” whispered Earltha Bey, “is the Destroyer Tree sent by Mollan to destroy the wicked. Or so the scriptures say.”
“Aye,” said Orthoth smiling at her approvingly.
“Divine judgement?” said Kainar, unimpressed. “That brings us no closer to a solution. I’ve sent men to contact local apothecaries and those known to truck with the occult—perhaps one of those will offer more constructive advice.”
“You mock the wrath of God?” demanded Orthoth.
“I neither mock nor acquiesce to it. But your theory offers me no constructive direction. My mandate is to safeguard the people; yonder demon tree represents a threat to that safety. Whether man-sent or god-sent, I must cut it down, one way or the other. I’ve braved the wrath of so-called gods before. Most ‘gods’ can bleed as well as men. In my experience.”
Orthoth grew white with fury and even Earltha Bay looked momentarily shocked at Kainar’s frankness.
Sensing he had overstepped himself, Kainar added, “But I suspect Mollan has no part in this. Hannah is no wickeder than most cities.”
“She has allowed herself to be swayed from the True Way, allowed foreign values to corrupt her virtue, and true followers have grown lax in their devotion.” The Grand Emissary glanced penetratingly at Earltha Bay, who looked sheepishly away. Kainar suspected it had been some time since she had last been to temple. Then he eyed Kainar. “And heathens adopt mantles of authority.”
“Look to her people’s souls, Grand Emissary. I’ll look to preserving her people’s bodies-“
Kainar!
Kainar whirled. He had allowed the theological debate to cloud his senses to the true dilemma. The tree—the Yergath tree for want of a better designation—had grown even while they debated and a great branch now crashed down upon the roof where they stood. Stone heaved and cracked beneath them, Kainar barely having time to shove councilwoman and priest onto firmer stone ere the surface collapsed, plunging him backward in a hail of masonry. Growling, he tumbled down the shifting, sliding torrent of jagged rock. He landed heavily, light fluttering before his eyes as he struggled to maintain consciousness.
Brother — be wary!
Kainar stirred drunkenly, then rolled aside as a great root slammed where he had been. The entire courtyard was torn up, the ground a ragged sea of shifting, jagged shale. Kainar hefted Hawk’s Wood as he whirled to face the tree.
Flee, brother?
“Nay,” he growled, allowing his ire to rise unchecked. “We cut it before—we can cut it again. The beast must at least be tamed until it can be destroyed, else it will be through these buildings in a matter of hours.”
As you wish, responded the axe dubiously.
A rooty tentacle sprang at him; with a primal yell Kainar severed it with one mighty blow. A branch reached for him like a clawed hand; with a splintering of wood, he left it lying at his feet. Another, thicker root shot at him and he leapt aside, hacking Hawk’s Wood into it as it passed. A deep cut, though not a severing one, viscous sap bubbling from the wound. Again and again Kainar and his axe warded away clawing branches and coiling tentacles.
“We have its attention, at least,” gasped Kainar breathlessly.
At least, rejoined Hawk’s Wood unenthusiastically.
Kainar’s eyes narrowed. “What is that…yonder?”
I know not, brother, save that it appears a box of some sort.
Kainar took a step toward the small object then danced back as a branch slammed the ground before him. With a swing of his axe, the branch was a severed stick upon the ground. Was the tree trying to prevent him from reaching the object, he wondered? He dove forward, rolled across the ragged ground, and came up crouching over the box. He tucked it in his belt then swung instinctively about, slicing empty air. The tree, for the moment, was maintaining its distance.
“Our point is made, brother,” panted Kainar, sounding more confident than he was, being exhausted and nearly spent. “The Yergath has been suitably chastised.” Rising unsteadily, he sought the most succinct exit before the tree rallied again. He raced recklessly toward an alley, the stones shifting beneath him threatening to twist his ankles.
Gaining a measure of sanctuary he leaned against a wall, panting, feeling his age. Steadying his breathing, ignoring the aches from his fall from the roof, he examined the object. It was a box that fit in his hand, delicate designs lovingly embossed upon its surface. He lifted the lid; empty save for a residue of grey powder.
“Beautiful craftsmanship,” said Kainar. “Of the kind that might be sold to the rich…” he observed pointedly.
By a revered woodcarver, perhaps?
At the end of the alley he was met by Vargy War and three guards, obviously having raced to their chief’s rescue. “Evacuate another block around this thing,” he said breathlessly. “And where can I find that old man—Gelthed you said was his name?”
Kainar turned onto the street where the woodcarver maintained his shop. At his side were two guards, though neither understood why they were visiting a humble artisan whilst Yergath threatened to bring down the city. Yes, Kainar thought grimly. They had called it Yergath. Rumours of divine origins were spreading.
As they traversed the streets he encountered people running back and forth — fearful, frightened people. Some shouted something about a day of divine judgment. The priests of Mollan, too, seemed to be out in force, more than he would expect to see on any but a holy day.
Kainar was not sure if anything was to be gained from seeing the woodcarver. But the man had caught his eye earlier, radiating a suspicious aura, and now Kainar had discovered, virtually among the Yergath’s very roots, a box presumably of the old man’s handiwork. It invited a discussion, if nothing more.
Approaching the shop, he was greeted by an entirely unanticipated sight.
Purple-robed priests were gathered outside. Kainar’s pace slowed, his gaze darkening.
One priest stepped forward to meet him.
“We seek the dwelling of Gelthed,” Kainar said.
“You have found it. But he is grieving and does not wish to be disturbed.”
“I’ll get to the point quickly, then.”
The priest raised a hand to halt Kainar’s progress. “I forbid you to enter.”
Kainar stopped, his expression warring between anger and amusement. “You…forbid?”
“By my authority as priest of the True Way.”
“Such authority ends at the door of your temple,” growled Kainar, amusement losing ground to the anger. “This is not a theocracy. I answer to the laws of Hannah town and the orders of her council.”
“Beware, heathen,” hissed the priest, his eyes slits. “This division of church and state from which you derive your impudence has seeded Yergath among us. It cannot hold, and the people will soon return to the true path.”
“Be that as it may—here, today, I am Guardsmaster and you, for all your vaunted robes, have no right to bar me from anywhere. Stand down—or be knocked down.” Kainar sensed his two guards fairly squirming in their boots. Belatedly he realized they might be followers of Mollan themselves and not at all happy at having their chief speak thus to a holy man. For just a moment, he wondered if he could count on their support if things turned ugly.
But the priest stepped aside, though his eyes blazed with fury. Kainar nodded curtly. “I thank you for your co-operation, holy one,” he said, endeavouring to be conciliatory. “Wait here,” he ordered his men.
The interior of the shop was dark, black cloth laid over the windows. He remembered the priest’s comment about Gelthed grieving. The air was motionless, but heavy with the spicy scent of fresh cut wood. Kainar stared at the long work bench, the carefully maintained tools hanging from nails in the walls. An aperture hung with a beaded curtain led deeper into the building. He brushed the axe at his hip.
I sense no malice.
Kainar cleared his throat. “Gelthed the woodcarver?”
Silence answered.
“I am Kainar, Guardsmaster of Hannah town. I would speak with you.” He wondered if he might have to press deeper into the building and literally drag the old man out from wherever he was lurking. As he had noted outside, he was a servant of the law, and he was not sure if he had justification for such an intrusion. In the end, he was spared from such a decision.
There was a creak of a floor board then the beaded curtain rattled as it was parted by a gaunt, blue-veined hand. The face that followed Kainar recognized from earlier.
“You were at the square, where the tree appeared.”
“Yergath,” said the old man.
“Let’s just call it a demon tree and leave it at that. You are in mourning?”
“My son died a week ago.”
“My condolences.” Kainar hesitated, finding the darkness of the curtained room unsettling. He could not see the man clearly. He displayed the box, forcing the man to approach to examine it. “Your handiwork?”
Shuffling forward, the old man reached out and took the proffered object. He turned it over, running his fingers over its surface like a blind man feeling a child’s face. “One of my best.”
“I found it ‘neath the tree.”
“Indeed?” he said neutrally.
“Where you left it.”
Again his response was non-committal. “Indeed?”
Kainar put his fists upon his hips. “For a man who’s lost a son, whose place is decked in the mantle of mourning, you seem unexpectedly content. There is something foul at work in Hannah, I know that. Just as I know you played your part in it. But I’m also willing to wager you are not the instigator of it. Tell me what you’ve done, old man, before it grows more than I can halt and it lays waste to this town.”
“He’d never do that,” said the old man cheerfully, laying the box upon a bench. “We are just presenting a sign, a sign for the people.”
Kainar stared, gleaning some sense of it all, belatedly identifying the film of fine grey powder left inside the box. “He?” he asked quietly.
Suddenly there was a scream from outside and Kainar whirled about. He shot a glance at Gelthed. “Damn you, old man!”
The woodcarver looked taken aback by the cry. “No one is to be hurt.”
“The door, brother,” growled Kainar, throwing his axe. Hawk’s Wood clove the air with a shriek and crunched into the shop door, splintering it, sending the planks flying and letting sunlight flood into the dark interior, dust motes spiralling in the blaze of day like twinkling stars. Kainar launched himself after his weapon.
The shattering of the door, followed by the thunder of his appearance, startled those outside. One of his men was upon his knees, clutching his head as blood poured from his brow. The other was warding off a pack of blade-brandishing priests with his sword. The priests, though, turned to stare at Kainar, mouths agape, as he held out one mighty hand and Hawk’s Wood arced back through the air of its own volition to land firmly in his grip. “Mollan take your eyes!” Kainar snarled, invoking their own deity to curse them.
“Slay the heathen!” shouted one priest, swinging a stout sword and leaping at Kainar. The Guardsmaster deflected the strike with Hawk’s Wood, then slammed the flat of his axe into the man’s stomach. He wanted answers more than corpses—though he was not opposed to creating the latter if the need arose. “What have you done?” He kicked out, sending another knife-wielding priest sprawling across the shop’s steps. “What?!?” Kainar was like a bear among wolves, while his remaining guard had rallied and was beating off two of his attackers.
“Stop!” wailed Gelthed from the entrance to his shop. “This is not the will of Mollan!”
If the priests heard, they gave no indication, and two more came at Kainar. His red beard split to show white teeth gritted in a Berserker grin, and Kainar roared as they fell on him. One priest toppled, his head half severed from his neck by Hawk’s Wood, blood cascading over his shoulders. The other was more fortunate, felled instead only by Kainar’s mighty fist.
The last of the priests broke and ran, leaving Kainar standing before the shop, legs braced, chest heaving. At his feet the dead and unconscious sprawled. The one guard hurried to see to his comrade, though from the way he now lay upon the ground, Kainar suspected it was already too late for him.
Feeling suddenly weary, the momentary rush of battle rage subsiding, Kainar turned toward Gelthed. The old man clung to his door frame as though for support, staring wide eyed at the chaos spread before his house. “These damn fool priests have put you up to helping them do some damn fool thing,” Kainar said. “I can guess some of it. Tell me the rest.”
As Kainar had feared, a crowd was gathering when he returned to the neighbourhood besieged by the so-called Yergath tree. The mob numbered in the hundreds, nor were they there simply to gawk at the tree which could be glimpsed over the rooftops, surging back and forth, the silence of its voice substituted for by the crash and rumble of walls as it flung itself wildly against the buildings.
No, they were here to gawk at something equally forceful.
Orthoth, Grand Emissary of Mollan, loomed over the crowd, having found, or otherwise procured, a dais of some sort. Lady Earltha Bey stood to the side — like a true politician, close enough to be perceived as at his side by his supporters, but distant enough to claim otherwise should the mood of the crowd shift. Guardsmen armed with bows peered down from their rooftop perches, their attention torn between the nightmare tree thundering away, and the equally cacophonous roar of the restless crowd.
“Mollan is displeased!” shouted Orthoth. “He sends the Yergath tree to punish our wickedness! We have fallen from his path! We embrace the foreigner, the unbeliever, as our neighbour, even allowing our sons and daughters to marry them! The True Way has become trampled with the mud of strange values, till even the devout cannot distinguish the true path from the false!”
Kainar shouldered brusquely through the entranced crowd, his surviving guard at his back. He caught the eye of Vargy War standing with a couple of other guards on the fringes of the mob and gestured them over. They began pushing through the milling throng to reach his side.
“The Yergath tree will only be stopped-“
“That tree is no more divinely sent than am I!” roared Kainar, his booming voice momentarily overwhelming both the oration of Orthoth and the frenzied sounds of the demon tree a building’s width away. “And you are no more the Emissary of Mollan than a…a…whore is a goddess of chastity!”
Pithy, mused Hawk’s Wood ironically.
Kainar frowned, recognizing the clunkiness of his analogy. He was tired and not the ideal public orator at the best of times.
“He!” shouted Orthoth, stabbing a finger at the red-bearded warrior shouldering toward him. “He is the symbol of the sins we have lain with so wantonly! An outlander! A heathen and unbeliever who mocks our beliefs! He who trucks with black sorcery! We’ve all heard tales of his ensorcelled axe, have we not? It is to Kainar—and to the secular council—that we have surrendered our kingdom. And now our true ‘king’ rebels!”
Beware, brother. A crowd is like an icy wind, turning in an instant when venting its fury.
“You accuse me of sorcery?” roared Kainar, fully cognizant the mob was growing uglier and only his size and the rumours about his axe, more than his legal authority, had kept them from turning on him so far. “You who have conjured this foul demon, who would unleash it upon this town and these people? And why? So they will turn to you when their homes are in ruins? When their loved ones are entombed beneath rubble?”
“He lies!” shouted Orthoth, growing pale, his voice tight. And suddenly Kainar realized the Grand Emissary was unsettled by his appearance here. The holy man had expected his followers to delay Kainar, perhaps even to kill him, at the woodcarver’s shop. If Kainar had any lingering doubts about the Grand Emissary’s involvement, they were fully dispelled. “He besmirches Mollan’s name! He blasphemes!”
“I’ve no knowledge of Mollan, one way or the other. What I do know is that you are a false prophet. And a varlet to boot!”
“Murderer!” came a scream from back of the crowd.
Kainar scowled, confused by this new interruption. Then his scowl grew darker still as he spied a couple of the priests who had beset him.
“He killed one of our brothers! A holy priest!”
Kainar considered lying, if only to assuage the crowd. But dissembling was never his strongest point. “Aye,” he barked. “After they fell on me and killed one of my men! They sought to keep me from learning the truth about the demon tree. They failed! I can stop it—Yergath or whatever you want to call it! I can stop it…and he knows I can,” he pointed at Orthoth. “That’s why he wishes to denounce me now.”
“Nonsense,” said Orthoth, looking uncomfortable and furtive. “You’re mad!”
“Then you won’t mind if I put it to the test.”
Orthoth’s mouth flapped open, then closed, words failing to issue forth. He stared at the sea of befuddled faces that, short minutes ago, had been like warm clay to be shaped to whatever form he chose.
Seeing his words had their desired effect—on the crowd more than on Orthoth—Kainar brushed past the Grand Emissary on his hastily erected platform. He started towards the mouth of the nearest alley, in the direction of the Yergath tree.
Can we truly stop it, brother?
“We can try,” Kainar mumbled.
BROTHER!
The warning came almost too late as the buildings about him exploded in a rain of stone and mortar. A chunk of rock rebounded off his conical helmet, stunning him momentarily, though it would have killed him without the protective covering. Instinctively, Kainar fell backward, landed heavily upon the stone ground, and rolled dizzily to his feet. People were screaming. The sound of grinding stone rumbled like thunder. His eyes blurred in and out of focus as he looked up.
The Yergath tree had grown considerably since last he’d faced it!
As he had feared, the buildings themselves were no longer enough to contain it. Enormous branches smashing aside the last of the buildings’ walls, huge roots reaching out, then dragging the body forward, the tree loomed over all, the very sun flickering behind its waving branches. Kainar glanced back at the screaming crowd, people racing pell-mell. It was merely a question as to whether they would trample each other or be trampled beneath the tree.
As Yergath surged forward, Kainar’s gaze raced wildly over its thick trunk, its mighty branches, leafy tendrils whipping about, obscuring the view even further.
At last he spied it.
Nestled in the main crotch of the tree was that of which Gelthed had told him. A small leather pouch, filled with the contents that had once resided in the little, ornately carved box. A pouch filled with the grey ash; a portion of his son’s cremated remains.
Kainar leapt aside as a root crashed where he had been. Rolling to his feet, he raced at the demon tree.
He had seen something of this kind of sorcery before in his travels as a young man. In order to animate an inanimate thing, to give it a semblance of sentience, it needed a motivating soul. With Gelthed’s son but recently dead, the old woodcarver made an easy figure for the priests to manipulate his grief, and his devotion to his god. After all, what parent would not wish his child revived, even if re-incarnated in the form of a tree?
Hawk’s Wood screamed through the air, hacking branches off that swung too close, and Kainar leapt over writhing roots. He was tired, and not as nimble as he should be, but he avoided the roots, and that was enough.
Calling upon a deceased spirit to animate the tree was not as effective as employing a living spirit. But then, they did not need nor want a fully sentient beast. Just a mindless abomination that could thrash about, and kill and destroy enough so as to frighten the people of the town into turning to Orthoth as their saviour.
And it was truly to him that Orthoth wanted them to turn, whatever he might preach about Mollan—indeed, whatever he might convince himself he believed. In Kainar’s experience, it was very easy for the followers of gods to lose sight of their own convictions in their zeal, as their professed piety became simply a passion for their own power and aggrandizement.
Panting, Kainar secured Hawk’s Wood at his belt and flung himself at the bole of the tree, hitting it hard, but grabbing for dear life as the massive trunk heaved forward upon its great roots. If he lost his grip, he would fall beneath that massive girth and be crushed. But he did not lose his grip. He had been raised among the mountains of wild and distant Kuy, where the cliffs could rise as sheer as castle walls. Climbing a tree was but child’s play.
Of course, he was no longer a child.
He grunted, tendons standing out upon his arms, and hauled himself across the rough bark. Teeth locked, booted feet seeking knots upon which to push, Kainar crawled, hand over hand, toward the little pouch. His fingers were raw and bloody by the time he made it to the central crotch, hoisting himself up into the relative sanctuary of the branches. Gasping, sweat staining his beard to the colour of blood, he turned to the pouch.
Beware, brother! The wrath of the priest!
Kainar looked about, spying Orthoth some distance away, standing in the great tree’s very path. At his back were a half dozen of his priests, and a score of people, the remnants of the crowd who had remained to see how this all played out. “Heathen!” screamed Orthoth.
Kainar stared at him briefly, then looked away. The priest was a minor concern at the moment. He reached out for the pouch with an unsteady hand.
An eruption of flame struck the tree, the heat withering the hairs on his arm. Startled, he lurched back, almost toppling from his perch. As quickly as it came, the fire vanished in a writhing wisp of unnatural smoke. Kainar looked wildly about and spied Orthoth just as the Grand Emissary pulled back one arm and sent another fireball shrieking at him. Kainar leapt across the crotch from one branch to another, just as the air at his back blistered and clapped in an implosion of momentary flame. Kainar slipped, catching himself only barely.
“So much for his disgust for sorcery,” Kainar gasped ruefully.
He is desperate, observed Hawk’s Wood. He must assume he can explain away his magics to his followers—once we have been disposed of.
Kainar snorted, hefting Hawk’s Wood. “Fly true, brother,” he muttered. He hauled back on the axe and made to fling it forward. At that moment, Orthoth let lose another ball of flame. Kainar instinctively twisted, even as he hurled his axe. The throw was uncertain, his aim off. Even as the fireball exploded near him, he saw Hawk’s Wood clip the Grand Emissary only a glancing blow. Orthoth fell, more dazed than wounded, and Hawk’s Wood tumbled away to land amid the rubble. Kainar cursed, then turned once more to the pouch. He grabbed it and yanked, but grunted as he realized weird, moist tendrils stretched from the pouch to the bark like entrails. Tendrils that snapped taut, seeking to pull the pouch back. This he had not anticipated. He yanked again, but the tendrils, or vines, or whatever, resisted even his mighty thews.
The tree trembled as it ground forward, and one of Kainar’s feet slipped from under him, almost sending him tumbling to be crushed to death beneath the tree’s great mass.
“Hawk’s Wood!” he roared. “I have need of you, brother!”
Amid the rubble, the wooden axe momentarily shivered; a pebble shifted and rolled away.
A scream distracted Kainar and he looked about to see Orthoth practically beneath him, arms outflung as if to ward away the demon of his own creation. Then the Grand Emissary disappeared beneath the heaving mass of the great tree, apparently having over-estimated his authority over the thing. Kainar scowled. Such would be the fate of many more if he failed.
“Hawk’s Wood!”
The axe leapt up and arced through the air, landing unerringly in Kainar’s palm. As if all of one motion, barely had he grabbed the axe when he flung it down, hacking into the eerie vines clutching to the pouch. They snapped free, spurting, and with pouch in hand, Kainar leapt from the tree. He hit the shattered stones heavily, almost twisting an ankle, then rose and ran. Once sufficiently clear, he turned.
The enormous tree leaned crookedly in the centre of the street, its great branches looming over him, its long, twisting leaves limpid in the breeze. It no longer moved. The spirit driving it had been removed. Slowly, almost not quite believing it himself, he looked at the pouch of human ash in his hand. “We’ll see that your father buries you proper, this time,” he vowed. Wiping sweat from his brow, he glanced up at the sound of crunching footsteps. Earltha Bey approached cautiously.
“Well, my lady, I hope the council will be satisfied.”
She frowned disapprovingly. “This entire neighbourhood will need to be rebuilt.”
He shrugged. “Aye. But yonder giant tree should fetch some coins when chopped up and sold for wood,” he remarked pragmatically.
She looked away, vaguely. “A shame about Orthoth being behind this. He was much revered. But then, I suppose he was a man, not a god, and so prone to weakness.”
“Aye, he was no god,” said Kainar, “but I suspect he had begun to think of himself as one. In the end.”
© December 2023, D. K. Latta
D. K. Latta is a Canadian writer of SFF&H with a few dozen stories published over the years in magazines, webzines, and anthologies. They also write short novels for the Lev Gleason Library.