Shadow's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

The mining road ran straight and open through the trees. Shadow stopped at its edge. His father wanted him to walk it. That meant men would be waiting where the road bent, ready to strike before Shadow could. He would not give them the shot. He turned off the road and pushed into the dark trees beside it. The forest here was wrong. Twisted trunks bent low. Mist hung in the branches like torn cloth. Green light glowed inside the deepest wood, sick and cold. Shadow moved through it slow, boots sinking in wet roots. If his father's men watched the road, he would come at them from the side. Then the light moved. A small figure stepped from behind a trunk. It stood no taller than a child. A ragged black hood hid its face. Two white eyes burned inside the dark. It did not walk. It drifted, feet barely touching the roots. Shadow raised his hand. Red magic sparked at his fingers. "Turn back," the figure said. Its voice came thin and flat, like wind through a crack. "The road is watched. The trees are mine." "I'm not going back." Shadow's magic held ready. "My father is north. Move." The white eyes flared. "Many hunters come through my wood. They pay in blood. What will you pay?" Shadow's mind raced. He could not fight through an ambush and this thing both. He reached into his hoodie, past the cold flowers, and pulled out the pastry Silvermoon had given him. It was warm still. It smelled of bread and honey. He held it out. "This," Shadow said. "Made by someone who loves me. There's nothing like it in your wood." The figure went still. The white eyes narrowed to slits. A thin hand slid from the ragged cloak and took the pastry. The figure held it close, almost gentle. "A living gift," it murmured. "Rare here." It turned and pointed a claw at the sick green light deep in the trees. "Take the staff. It answers to grief. It will not answer to your father." Shadow followed the pointing claw. A wooden staff stood driven into the roots. A green orb glowed at its top. Runes climbed the shaft. He pulled it free. Warmth ran up his arm. His red magic met the orb's light and swelled, stronger than it had ever burned in the empty forest. When he looked back, the figure was gone. Only mist remained. Shadow gripped the staff and moved through the trees, unseen, past the road. Ahead, torchlight glowed where the road bent. Four men waited there, backs to him, watching the open path for a red-eyed elf who would never come from the front. Shadow raised the staff. The orb burned green. His father had set the trap. Now Shadow stood behind it, armed, and no one had seen him arrive. He stepped toward the torchlight.