Timber Ashwood's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Timber Ashwood had come to take back his family's grove, but he did not know how far the rot had eaten it. He stood at the edge of the dead wood at dawn. The trees ahead were gray and split. No birds sang. His grandfather had planted this land, and a sorcerer had killed it. Timber gripped his axe and searched the tree line for a way in. He could not fight a sickness he could not measure. He needed someone who had walked these dying roots and lived. He found that man near a moss-covered cottage down the trail. The old hunter crouched over a fresh carcass, some twisted deer-thing with too many joints, and skinned it with a short blade. A necklace of yellow fangs hung against his chest. His gray beard was stained dark at the tips. "You're standing in my light," the old elf said, not looking up. This was Theron Ashenblade. Timber had heard the name from frightened villagers. Theron hunted the beasts that crawled out of the dead wood, and no one else dared. If anyone knew where the corruption began, it was this man. "I need to know the dead wood," Timber said. "How far it spreads. Where it started." Theron wiped his blade on his knee and stood. He was half Timber's height and twice as hard to read. He looked Timber over, from the axe to the blue eyes, and grunted. "Ashwood," he said. "You've got the look of that family. Same jaw. They're all dead or gone." "I'm not," Timber said. Theron studied him a long moment. Then he kicked dirt over the carcass and walked to the tree line. Timber followed. The hunter pointed his knife at the gray trunks. "The rot moves," Theron said. "Every week the border creeps out another few steps. I mark it. I have to, or I'd walk into it in the dark." He pushed aside a dead branch. Beneath it, cut into an old stump, was a fresh notch. Beside it, older notches marched back toward the healthy trees. A whole line of them. Timber knelt and traced the marks with his thumb. The oldest notch was deep and weathered. The newest was raw. "It started there," Theron said. He pointed past the notches, deep into the gray, to a low rise. "Center of the old grove. That's where the sickness is strongest. Where he keeps it burning. Everything since has spread from that one point." Timber stood. Now he knew. The corruption began at the heart of his family's grove and pushed outward, growing every week. He could not wait and study it. Every day he delayed, the dead wood swallowed more. "Then that's where I go," Timber said. Theron laughed, low and rough. "Boy, three hunters walked toward that rise this season. None came back. Whatever the sorcerer set to guard it, I've heard it in the dark." He turned away. "You'll need more than an axe."