The Darkness Beyond

  “The mystery of the Great Oak will not be solved by sitting idle within Faune’s Tower. The time of prophecy draws near. We must know all that we can.”

  “I know, Kreadus—but the world is changing. A dark mist winds through our lands, slow but suffocating. I fear it brings with it a peril greater than even the Chimera Pox.”

  “All the more reason to send the girl, Grimus.”

  “How can I? She is like a daughter to me. How can I send her there, with what we suspect lurking in that forest?”

  “Her blood is strong, brother. I have a feeling she will surprise us all.”

  — conversation between Grimus Ana’diere and Kreadus O’anmiere, 606 I.C.

  Minutes later, the black swarm covering the walls and floor around their captives began to move.

  In eerie unison, the writhing mass shifted, parting down the center of the corridor, clearing a path from the crack in the cavern wall straight to the elven prisoners.

  The loud clacking of heavy legs on stone echoed toward them, and Portean watched helplessly as one of the massive beetles from the earthen mound emerged through the widening gap.

  At this distance, he could see its exoskeleton was not black after all, but a deep, shimmering blue. Its legs, thick as young tree trunks, were lined with jagged spikes capable of tearing prey to ribbons. Sword-like mandibles jutted three feet from its horn-rimmed skull, twitching as it came to a halt.

  It paused, regarding the elves with glittering, faceted eyes.

  Though utterly inhuman, there was a glint of intelligence behind them.

  Suddenly, the swarm pressed forward from behind, nudging Portean toward the beast. Inch by inch, they herded him, forcing him to drag Aehyl along until he stood within reach of the creature’s saw-edged mandibles.

  “Follow,” the beast commanded, its voice hoarse and grating. Portean couldn’t help but think it must make the same sound when grinding the bones of its victims.

  He had heard such unnatural speech only once before, when he and his squad of Swiftfalcons had cornered and destroyed a pack of ghouls deep within the Crystal-Mist Marshes.

  Vaguely, he wondered if this abomination might be some strange undead aberration.

  Portean hesitated for only a moment. He didn’t want to follow it, but given the choice between dying here and now or seizing even the slimmest chance to escape later… was it truly a choice?

  The creature waited silently as he gently placed Aehyl on the ledge, now thick with ash and shattered chitin.

  Hauling himself onto the lip of the stony crack, he gathered her in his arms once more and stepped out of the passage.

  The beast turned its considerable bulk and marched into the darkness ahead. It showed no concern for their escape. Thousands of tiny sentinels still packed the corridor behind them, ensuring there would be no way back.

  The creature led him across the rocky, moss-patched floor. It stopped near the edge of the rushing water, just where Portean had thrown the enchanted stones into the heart of the cavern.

  “Hurry,” it wheezed, as an enormous root from the Great Oak suddenly surfaced, arching across the thirty-foot span of the torrent with a woody, four-foot-wide tendril.

  Portean froze. The beetles couldn’t possibly command such a thing.

  Abandoning his desperate plan to dive into the river, he weighed the futility of that escape. The underground current would almost certainly drown them, if they weren’t first dashed to pieces against the channel’s jagged walls. And even if they survived, he had no idea where the waters might lead. For all he knew, they’d be spat into the depths of the sea.

  No. This was no random mercy. Something else was at work.

  Despite everything, his instincts told him they were not in immediate danger. Somehow, they had slipped the claws of death, for now.

  Carefully, Portean crossed the slick, fibrous root, following the lumbering insect until they reached the conical hole in the hill, the same one they had seen from a distance. The creature took its place beside the tunnel’s mouth. A moment later, its twin emerged from the darkness and positioned itself opposite, standing sentry. It paid them no attention.

  Behind them, the black swarm dispersed, returning to their grisly work, resuming their feast.

  “Go,” the large aberration hissed, its voice a grating discord. “She waits.”

  Not understanding, Portean summoned his flickering candle and stepped into the damp cave, Aehyl still cradled in his arms.

  A single, small chamber lay at the heart of the earthen mound.

  As he entered, his candlelight suddenly blinked out. In its place, a warm yellow glow bloomed, soft and steady. It appeared everywhere at once, and yet originated from no discernible source.

  At the center of the otherwise barren chamber stood a feminine figure.

  She regarded him with solemn brown eyes. Her hair and skin were the color of earth, fibrous and dark. Her frame was thin and wiry, her ears rounded like a human’s, but it was clear she was not one. She was something else entirely. Something ancient.

  And Portean knew, instantly, that she was dying.

  Though she made no threatening move, something regal and terrible radiated from her presence. It was like standing before a god, and for the first time, truly contemplating the weight of your own mortality.

  Beckoning him forward, the figure gestured for Portean to lay Aehyl down before her.

  Sensing no threat, the ranger obeyed without a word.

  She stepped closer, knelt beside the unconscious elf, and gently caressed Aehyl’s forehead.

  “Stand, Aehyl E’dwoare of Vistadora,” she commanded.

  At the moment their skin touched, a bright flash erupted through the chamber.

  The woman gasped. Her careworn face seemed to age visibly, lines deepening, her color fading. And yet she smiled, soft and sorrowful.

  “Of course,” she whispered. “A chosen arrives, that I may finally rest from my vigil.”

  Aehyl stirred with a groan, blinking rapidly as she returned to consciousness.

  She sat up slowly, caught sight of the woman, and immediately bowed low at her feet. She felt no fear, only reverence and wonder. Her limbs no longer ached. Her spirit felt sharp, clear, brimming with energy.

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  She did not understand what had happened, but she knew, with quiet certainty, that it had been something extraordinary.

  Beckoning for Aehyl to rise, the lady addressed them.

  “This is the second time we have intervened in what would surely have been your deaths.”

  Her ageless voice radiated unfathomable power, and her deep brown eyes moved slowly between the two elves.

  Her beauty made them ache.

  “We warned you once before, in the valley above this cave, not to try to save us.

  You did not heed our wishes.”

  She looked at them without anger, but they felt the weight of her reproach all the same.

  Who were they to defy a being such as this?

  Her tone remained melodic, but her next words carried a quiet, aching honesty.

  “But we will admit... a part of us, buried deep within our heart, hoped that you would come.”

  She paused, the words hanging heavily in the silence.

  “Perhaps that is why you disobeyed. Perhaps not.”

  She sighed—slowly, heavily.

  It was not a theatrical gesture, but one of bone-deep weariness.

  And in that small, tired breath, they glimpsed an unmistakable vulnerability.

  “You are she…” Portean began, but the words withered in his throat.

  He stared at her in astonishment, captivated by her beauty and presence.

  “You are the Great Oak?” he managed to croak.

  Suddenly, he felt unworthy, filthy even, for standing in such a sacred place, despite the horrors still unfolding just beyond its entrance.

  “Yes and no, Portean Ana’diere, seed of Grimus Ana’diere.”

  Noting the surprise that flashed across his face, the lady continued with a sad, knowing smile.

  “Ah, yes. We know your father. We are quite familiar with him, though he is unaware of us. He serves the forest faithfully... as do you, each in your own way.”

  She turned to face the ranger fully, lifting a hand to gently caress his cheek. Her touch was warm, her skin supple and smooth.

  “I, who stands before you, am a wood nymph, ancient, yes, and of rare lineage. Long ago, I was joined with the Great Oak at her inception. And now…”

  She paused, as if weighing her words.

  “…now we are dying.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?” Aehyl pleaded, her voice hoarse.

  Tears welled, blurring her vision before spilling hot onto her cheeks.

  “Can we not destroy the colony?”

  “We explained this already, pretty one.”

  The nymph gave a small, comforting smile. “The wicked colony will soon rest. But there is a price.”

  She gestured gently, meaningfully.

  “All things die. Nature endures.”

  “We can save our offspring, the oaks that stretch from one end of this peninsula to the other, from the mountains to the sea. They are our children. Our grandchildren. Our great-grandchildren, and more.”

  “Would your elders not pay such a price?” she asked softly, her delicate, bark-like brow furrowing.

  Her face, perfect and made of living wood, radiated quiet strength.

  And in that moment, Portean saw clearly how crude the magical hound in his pack truly was.

  It was Belathor’s finest work, yet it was false life.

  A construct. A clever imitation built by those who did not truly understand the sacred material they worked with.

  “Now we have a new problem,” she intoned, calm as stone.

  “We did not deliver you from death in the glade only for you to perish here, alongside us.”

  She stepped closer, the glow deepening behind her like fire smoldering beneath bark.

  “And so, we send you back among the living... with a dire warning.”

  “A great peril approaches.”

  “Unless they are vigilant, the people of Alissia will perish.”

  “An unspeakable evil stirs in the deep. She is but one part of the danger, but if she is not stopped, her terrible appetite will consume us all.”

  Her gaze seized them.

  They felt it then, her desperation, ancient and raw, like roots torn from earth.

  “We are the first and most powerful of five guardian sentries. Our task was to watch this terror. To keep her sealed in darkness.”

  “We are failing.”

  Her voice lowered, barely more than a breath.

  “Beneath this forest, in the yawning black, there lies a prison... cruel and ancient. It was built to hold a single being.”

  She paused, as if wrestling with the very name.

  “The Emaciated One.”

  She whispered it—as though merely speaking it might call the creature forth.

  “How do we find this place?” Aehyl asked, her voice steady with resolve.

  She didn’t know whether she could destroy this Emaciated One, but she wasn’t about to wait around while it destroyed her home.

  “Seek the lair of Akatar,” the lady said softly.

  “The entrance to her prison, and the means to destroy her, lies beneath the ancient lair of the Serpent Lord.”

  She faltered suddenly, bending forward to brace her hands on her knees, breath rasping.

  Aehyl and Portean exchanged tense glances as the lady trembled, her face clenched in concentration, as if fending off some invisible assailant.

  At last, she stood upright again, weariness etched deep into her expression.

  “We apologize,” she said with effort. “In our current state, the swarm is... difficult to control.”

  “It is a battle we are losing.”

  She reached out, placing a hand on each of them. Her touch felt weaker now, the tremble in her fingers unmistakable.

  “Find the other three chosen,” she urged.

  “Use your power to destroy her, before she is unleashed.”

  “The what?” Portean asked, hesitant. He knew time was short, but the confusion her words stirred couldn’t be ignored.

  The nymph’s grip weakened. Her skin had grown cold and slick with a thin sheen of sap-like sweat.

  “We were not capable of using the weapon,” she said faintly.

  “All we could do was hide it… and pray for your coming.”

  Her voice trembled as she continued. “Thousands of years ago, the prophetess foresaw four saviors leading the battle against the Bleak Son. They were the keys to victory—against the end of all things.”

  She groaned softly, eyes rolling back, body trembling. Then she steadied herself and spoke again, her voice low but solemn.

  “Find the other three… and you may have a chance.”

  A faint cry escaped her lips, and her brow furrowed with effort.

  “Our forest may be the first to fall, but the kingdoms of men will follow. Go to them. Convince them of your need… and of their own best interests.”

  “If you do not unite, you will not survive.”

  Her eyes drifted, unfocused now. “Everywhere, the allies of the Deceiver and his Bleak Son sow chaos. Do not be distracted. That is their design.”

  She stiffened, as though seized by a terrible memory. Her voice turned distant, dazed.

  “They would burn all of the Maker’s creation.”

  Aehyl stepped forward, gently taking the wood nymph’s hand.

  “How long do you have?” Aehyl whispered.

  “It will not be long now,” the lady replied, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips.

  “You must protect our children, the other guardians. While they endure, the Emaciated One can still be defeated… perhaps even slain.”

  She paused for a long moment, as if weighing some final decision.

  Then, without warning, her hand plunged into her own chest, piercing the bark-like flesh as if it were made of paper.

  Thick, dark sap oozed from the wound as she tore free a large, pulsing teardrop, holding it out to Aehyl.

  As her hand withdrew, the wound sealed itself, but the act seemed to drain her completely. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes turned glassy.

  “Aehyl E’dwoare,” she said, her voice now barely above a whisper, “we give you the Seed of Ithshil’ara, a single crystallized drop of blood, shed by the Creator Himself, in the moment He cast the Bleak Son from the heavens.”

  She swayed slightly, but pressed on.

  “For all these long years, it has aided us in our vigil. We believe it is the reason we were destined to meet.”

  “When your own vigil ends… may it find a worthy hand.”

  She reached out, brushing Aehyl’s shoulder weakly.

  “Now… go.”

  The warm glow of the hollow began to fade. Whether from the dimming light or some trick of the mind, both Aehyl and Portean were certain: the gift had cost the guardian her final strength.

  “The river will carry you to safety,” she murmured. “It is the last thing I can give.”

  Taking one last, desperate look at the ancient nymph, Aehyl and Portean fled.

  Bursts of brilliant light and booming explosions echoed from the tunnel behind them. The vast cavern was in chaos.

  Swarms of dark beetles and buzzing drones filled the air in a frenzied storm.

  As they burst into the open, the twin sentinels guarding the nymph’s chamber lifted their massive heads.

  From their borer-like horns erupted geysers of corrosive, sticky sap.

  Wherever the sap struck the smaller beetles, they exploded, bursting into fist-sized balls of flame and tumbling light.

  Each detonation spread the burning coagulate, igniting more of the swarm in a chain reaction of destruction.

  “Time is short. Flee,” grated the sentinel that had guided them earlier.

  With the swarm scattered, the elves sprinted into the chaos of the cavern.

  Portean grabbed Aehyl’s hand, pulling her forward at a dead run toward the roaring river.

  The sound of clacking mandibles and fluttering wings rose behind them, deafening and unrelenting.

  There was no time to choose the safest path.

  Without hesitation, Portean shoved the startled Aehyl into the icy torrent and dove after her, twisting midair to follow her down.

  The shock of the cold stole their breath, but after sputtering and flailing, they managed to inhale deeply, just before the current seized them and pulled them into the dark.

  The river swallowed them whole.