A Forest of Thorns

King Hubert stands at the large window in his bed chamber, watching as the sun sinks slowly towards the horizon. It is one of his lucid days, one of few the Divine sees fit to grant him, and worry twists his gut. Years ago, when the enchanted sickness had first begun to take his faculties, Hubert abdicated his throne to his son Florian; now during his lucid moments, he often stares at the horizon, thoughts full of the past.

He tells his grandson Philip, that it is a curse of the old when they feel the reaper coming close, to gaze back on their lives. To ponder their actions and inactions, and to question the fates of friends long. But when he stares at the horizon, he thinks not of friends with unknown fates, but of one that he knows well. One whose curse he partially shares.

Out there, beyond the sunset, lies of the Lost Land. Most consider it a fantasy and tell stories about its monsters to scare their children during the long winter nights. Yet none have dared travel its ways, nor seek its riches, in sixty-five years.

Hubert knows the truth; on his lucid days he remembers the fateful day when a curse befell his friend Stefan, all his lands and people.

-0-

The birth of the Princess Aurora had been a glorious day. King Stefan and his queen had named her to herald the new era her birth would usher in.

Betrothed while in her cradle to Hubert's young son Florian, Aurora had been a charming child. Hubert still smiles, sad smile when he remembers the girl looking up at him from her basket on the presentation day.

King Stefan declared a holiday throughout his lands to celebrate the birth of his daughter. The princess would unite his and Hubert's kingdoms and restore the grandeur of a nearly forgotten empire. Bringing a new era of peace and prosperity to the land.

As the nobility and gentry seated themselves at their long tables to hear King Stefan welcome them to the celebrations, a shadow came into the hall. With a crack of thunder and a flash of green fire, a tall and painfully thin woman appeared before the royal dais.

On her head was a horned crown and in her too thin, too pale hand she held a long, golden staff. She told Stefan that, as was only proper, she too had a gift for the child. She blessed the child but put a thing in it. “For on the eve of her eighteenth birthday she shall prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die!”

With a high, mad cackle the woman vanished, leaving behind only broken stones where she had stood.

Stefan wanted to order every spinning wheel in the kingdom burned. Luckily, Hubert and Stefan's queen had turned him away from this disastrous notion. Then, as though they had been expected, three women who had been at the feast arrived to consult with the king.

Hubert had not agreed with the plan, but Stefan was his friend, so when he agreed to send the child away to live with those women, he said nothing. Only placing his hand on Stefan's shoulder as he watched them spirit Aurora away.

On the eve of her eighteenth birthday when they had thought that Aurora was safe, another festival was held. The return of the princess much anticipated. But the sleeping sickness had come across all of Stefan's lands, sparing Hubert only because business had delayed him, and he crossed the border only as the spell faded.

The Lost Kingdom, the small folk called it. No word except from Florian, who had been on his way to a clandestine meeting with a girl in the forest. The poor boy had looked haggard, only saying that he had escaped from the Witch Queen's dungeons. Thus sparing him from the curse.

-0-

King Hubert turns from the window and looks at where his grandson stands waiting.

The boy is tall, nearly twenty with broad shoulders and sharp, intelligent eyes. “I’ve come to ask for your blessing, your majesty,” he says, bowing formally.

So much like his father, always so formal with Hubert. And yet… the boy has his mother’s eyes and her smiling, gentle mouth. Hubert misses his daughter-in-law greatly; his son had smiled more while his wife still lived.

“Don’t give me that,” says Hubert, embracing his grandson tightly. “Please, don’t treat me like a king in private, boy. You have your grandfather's blessing.

The boy smiles and embraces him. Florian had told Philip that Hubert was once a fat man, but whatever magic had stricken Stefan’s kingdom had left its impact on Hubert degrading his body as well as his faculties. That is why Florian rules.

“I love you, Philip,” Hubert says, squeezing his grandson’s shoulders as hard as his thin arms allow. “Whatever happens, make sure you come home. Do an old man that favour?”

“I promise, grandfather.”

-0-

Prince Philip fed Samson, his horse, a large carrot. “He was himself today,” he said, gently stroking the horse’s long nose as he crunched happily. “I think that’s a good omen, don’t you?”

He mounts up, saluting his father who stands on the steps of the palace to see him off, and trots through the gate. As he passes under the portcullis, a troupe of lancers takes their place around him.

Down the long road from the palace to the city gate men-at-arms stand honour guard, the small folk gathered behind them. He knows rumours of his quest have run rampant. Occasionally he raises his hand in greeting and they cheer.

Before the gates of the city, at the grand fountain, Philip dismounts and kneels before a high cleric. He speaks prayers in the Old Tongue, calling the blessings of the Divine upon Philip and the five soldiers kneeling beside him, then anoints their heads with water drawn from the fountain.

Remounting their horses, Philip raises his fist in salute towards the palace and sets off down the west road. Towards the setting sun.

Rain falls on their third day out from the city.

Philip gazes out from under his dripping hood with blank, bored eyes. One thing that no one ever mentions in the grand tales of great and noble quests was how long it takes to get anywhere. They also forget to mention the rain.

Behind him, Gustav sneezes and Philip mutters a distracted ‘bless you’ without realizing it. The rain is heavy enough to be heard as it hits their hoods and cloaks but soft enough not to be distracting.

A dull, grey, constant drizzle that soaks through even their waxed cloaks.

The prince itches to open his bags and check that his weapons and armour are dry, but doing that would only guarantee the rain getting in. Then they would have to delay and maintain the armour, leather fastenings, and weapons.

Far better to leave them sealed and trust the Divine, and their preparations, to keep them dry. After all, it is a holy quest, anointed by the words of the Orator himself. Trust that the Divine will keep the weapons fit for service in Their Sacred Name.

“My lord,” Edgar says, wheeling to a stop just before Philip. If horses could role their eyes, Samson does so. “Prince Philip, I’ve found something.”

“Speak then,” Philip’s eyes are now sharp and focused. None of his lancers is the type of man to exaggerate. “What news?”

“I found evidence of Dredge, sir. About half a league that way,” he waves over his right shoulder. “There’s a fork, sir. If we follow the right-hand branch we’ll come to the spot within two hours.”

Philip considers this news carefully, going over his responsibilities. On any normal day, if he were out for a hunt, then it would be his obligation as Prince to investigate the Dredge sighting. But since he is on a quest, decreed by the King and the High Orator, that does technically take precedence. In his heart, he knows what he must do.

“Lead on,” he says to Edgar. “Loren, blow the horn to recall Simon. We’re changing course.”

Exactly where Edgar promised, they find the remains of the Dredge. Four decaying, horned corpses lie around a bed of charcoal that had once been a fire. An overflowing, rusted cauldron sits nearby.

“These beasts were slain by arrows,” says Loren, turning one of the monster’s heads with the butt of his lance. “Looks like local yeomen tracked them here and put them down. Strange they wouldn’t have informed the palace.”

“They might have done,” Philip rubs at the stubble on his jaw. “Father doesn’t always share news like this. Dredge out of the Curse Wood aren’t too uncommon but we need to know if any more are about. Simon and Edgar, look for anyone still living nearby, we’ll make camp-”

“I found most of a farmhouse, sir,” Edgar interrupts, pointing off through the woods. “I marked the trail to find my way back again. It looks as though these ones raided the house but made their camp here.”

The party is silent for a long moment, eyes darting towards the corpses and the rusted pot. Dredge are not known for being discerning in what they eat. Nor are they usually quick with their victims.

“Divine willing, you’ll find someone. No matter, it will be good to make camp under a roof of any kind tonight. Be off but return before nightfall.”

“Yes, sire.”

The rain had stopped at some point in the night, and riding now with dry boots and socks, Philip feels more confident about his quest. It’s not as though he is expected to perform any miracles, he must simply report on the nature of the curse and scout out evidence of Dredge forces massing.

The borders of his own Kingdom have grown more unsettled after the loss of King Stefan. Their children marrying was meant to unify the crowns, build a stronger bulwark against threats beyond either border. Including Dredge from the mountains.

If he can, Philip plans to learn more about the curse. No one still living knows anything about it, except that his grandfather is tainted by its touch. As though his mind were asleep, leaving him as a walking husk of a man on his bad days.

“Sire,” Loren says, spurring his horse to ride alongside Philip. “If I’m right, we’ll hit the border stones in another day's ride. May I ask the plan after?”

“My father provided a map showing some locations within Stefan’s lands including a cottage in the woods where he claims the princess was hidden. I say we investigate the cottage first, then on to the palace.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll pass that along.”

Days later, from the open window of the cottage, Philip watches a vortex of clouds far in the distance. His stomach twists at the implications, despite Edgar and Simon's confidence that no Dredge, slaves of the Witch Queen, had marked their passage.

He turns from the large kitchen's window to face his men. They are seated around a scarred table, eyeing an elaborate cake sitting between them, as radiant as the day it was baked. Frozen in its glory.

The rest of the house is in shambles. Perfectly preserved, with a sweetness in the air like wild-flowers in spring, but a wreck of life desecrated by Dredge if the preserved footprints are any hint.

“I don’t like this place,” says Simon, leaning away from the cake. “It's… unnatural.”

Loren and Edgar agree in unison.

“Maybe the magic isn’t evil,” says Eric, drawing a nod from Gustav, who never says very much. “I mean, can’t you smell it? And when’s the last time you heard of dark magic preserving like this?”

“I still don’t like it,” Edgar says. “Good or bad, magic is… well it’s not for the likes of us and we’re best off away from it.”

He looks to Philip for support, and the prince sighs. “You’re right. I don’t like it here either, this place is… the shadows are too... it’s almost like… I can’t describe it.”

“Like they’re creeping up on you,” Gustav’s voice is barely audible but every head around the table nods.

“It's decided,” Philip says. “We push on to the palace. I don’t think we’ll find anything of use here.”

As soon as their horses’ tails vanish from the glad, a dying blue light flickers to life within the cottage, and a withered face looks out the window after them.

-0-

Eyes the green of decaying plants lock on a crystal ball. Through the swirling smoke, they can see a man in a red cloak and five lancers move cautiously between trees. The intruders are careful, ensuring that no Dredge who saw them survived to tell the tale, but they had not counted the ravens.

Clever, loyal birds, they lend their eyes to the pair watching through the ball, letting them see these challengers. The travelers are going towards the Petrified City.

-0-

The wind whispers in Philip’s ears the closer he rides to the walls. A small, distant voice repeating the same thing. Over and over. He breaths deeply, closing his eyes for a moment and letting Samson walk along on his own. Slowly, he pushes the paranoia, from his mind. But when he opens his eyes again, he is close enough to see the thorns.

Rising before his eyes like the wall of a great city are vines as thick around as his chest from which black, glistening thorns sprout. The vines twist back on themselves, undulating like a nest of black, barbed snakes.

Closer to the vines, close enough to see the gaps in their writhing mass through which the weak sun filters, the words whispered by the wind are louder. A buzzing in the base of his skull, a constant repeating chant, unbroken even as the vines grow, crack, and twist before his eyes.

A forest of thorns shall be his tomb.

Loren reaches out and lays his hand against one of the vines as the party approaches the deadly wall. With a shout, he recoils, gripping his wrist just above the hand, blood draining from his face.

Born by the wind on a fog of doom.

“Loren,” Philip shouts, leaping from his horse and sprinting to his fallen man. “What’s wrong?”

White foam gathers at the corners of Loren’s mouth. His wide, bloodshot eyes stare past Philip, locked on the thorns as his body begins to convulse.

Now go with a curse and serve me well.

“Hold him down!” Philip grabs Loren’s arms as Edgar and Gustav each take a leg. “Simon, see if you can get something into his mouth so he doesn’t swallow his tongue. Simon!?”

Simon is nowhere in sight. Then, a throat-tearing scream yanks his attention towards the thorns just in time to see a pair of brown boots vanishing into the tangled mass. A single scratched and bloody hand, inky blackness rushing up its veins bursts through the thorns, clawing at air before sinking back, like a drowning man under the water.

‘Round Stefan’s castle, cast my spell.

Philip glances down at Loren, and recoils. Inky blackness is creeping up Loren’s arm, spreading from the bloody tear in his hand. Backing up hurriedly, Philip shouts for Eric to bring him the axe, but his lancer does not respond.

Sudden fear clutching his throat, Philip whirls on his heel looking for Eric, only to find him stock still astride his horse, lance leveled at a trio of old women. The women had once been beautiful, though it had slowly faded under the grinding millstone of time; despite that, there was a regal elegance in the way they held themselves.

“Eric, who are these people,” Philip’s hand drifts towards the hilt of his sword, unconsciously shaken by how still the horses and men were. Not a shake of the head, nor a swish of the tail among them.

“My name is Flora.”

“I am Fauna.”

“Merriweather,” the last is said with a curtsey.

“Eric?”

“Your man is fine,” says Flora, smoothing a wrinkle out of her pink gown.

“The one on the horse is,” counters Merriweather.

“Sadly, the one your call Loren is already beyond saving,” Fauna’s voice was softer, kinder then the other two.

“Who are you?”

“For ourselves, we are simply messengers.”

“And you are the grandson of King Hubert,” Flora took over from Fauna. “If you’ll instruct your man Eric to lower his arms, we can talk.”

On the ground behind him Loren gives one more shuddering, choking gasp and falls still. Gustave lays his finger against the other man’s throat and shakes his head. Loren is dead. A blank horror threatens to consume Philip’s mind, rolling over him like storm clouds across a summer sky. Loren dead. Simon... gone. Eric frozen.

He makes his decision and nods to the fairies, speaking the order just in case. Nothing changes, not visibly. There is no alteration in colour, texture, and the world remains eerily silent. Until Eric shies his horse away from the fairies, and Samson snorts.

“Prince Philip,” says Flora, curtseying as low as her old knees allow her. “We have a blessing for you. Present your shield.”

“Un-sheath your sword, if you will,” says Fauna, mimicking the curtsey.

“And heed us,” Merriweather curtseyed deepest of all, being somewhat younger than her sisters.

Throwing a bewildered glance at his men, Philip draws his sword and extends it towards the fairies, point down. One by one they break their curtsey and step forward, laying a hand against the steel with all the reverence of due a holy relic. Words tumble out of each mouth as their hand touches the steel, a flowing, rhythmic sound that passes seamlessly one to the other.

When finished, they all look older, more withered. Flora grips Merriweather’s shoulder for support and Fauna sways slightly beside them.

“Take this blessed blade,” they intone. “Blade that never shall be broken. Shield that shall never splinter. Armour that shall never rend.” Then they were gone. All three of them, vanished the instant their incantation left their lips as though they had never been. Leaving only a slight shimmer, as of dust catching the fading light.

“Sire,” Philip turns to look at Gustav, who points towards a sort of tunnel opening in the wall of thorns. Wide enough for pairs and stretching far over his head, the tunnel resembles a castle gate. “I think they want us to go to the Palace.”

“Yes,” he replies, looking at his reflection in the seemingly unchanged sword. “It does.”

“We should do what they say, lord,” says Eric, still on his horse. “If there’s evil to fight there… and they want it gone… I say we do it. Meaning no offence, lord, but I don’t ever want to be frozen like that again.”

Gustav nods.

“Go IN there?” Edgar throws up his arms. “After what the thorns did to Loren and Simon? You’re mad.”

“We go in,” says Philip.

“Yes, sir.”

-0-

Lances held loosely under their arms, ready to couch and charge at a moment’s notice, the four push slowly through the tunnel. It seems to stretch ahead of them forever, and a secret fear blossoms in Philip’s breast. Maybe, just maybe the fairies had betrayed him, set him and his companions into an infinitely looping maze until the forest closed in on them.

The world under the thorns is quiet. Even the steady clop of the horses’ hooves against the grey flagstones is muffled, as though heard through a thick door. The air is stale, heavy, and humid, it reeks of rot and decay. What little sunlight filters through the canopy is weak, sickly, with a greenish hue that turns Philip’s stomach.

Shaking his head, he eyes the thorns with naked hatred. Two of his friends were dead because of these things, and now he is among them. Primal fury replaces the fear, and he only just restrains himself from seizing his tinder box and burning the whole damned mess to the ground.

Cleansing fire would purge the evil taint from this land.

That is when they find the first statue. Stock still, it stands in the dead centre of their path, a politely confused expression on its face. The statue is of a handsome woman in her middle years, in one hand she clutches the broken off wrist of a smaller statue. A child, perhaps.

“The craftsmanship is amazing,” says Edgar. “You’d think she was alive.”

“I think she was,” Gustav’s deep base rumble cuts off the other man.

A magic forest, fairies who vanish as you look at them, and the whole legend of the lost kingdom itself. Buried in an enchanted forest, put to sleep to await a saviour. Philip’s sword suddenly feels heavier at his side – what reason is there to think the statues were not once real?

“Lord,” calls Eric, who is riding further ahead as lookout. “There’s a fountain up here, we’ve reached the end of the tunnel.”

All four of them hurry forward, eager to be free from the oppressive stillness and out from under hanging death. Pure sunlight is bliss against their skin as they emerge from the thorns; clean, flowing air, something they never thought they would miss, floods their lungs.

Before they can exchange relieved glances, however, a cloud blots out the sun, plunging them into a silver world of half-light. A high, cackling laugh carries to their ears on a wind turned suddenly frigid.

Before them stands a painfully thin woman in a flowing black cloak. Atop her head rests a horned crown and, in her hand, she holds a golden scepter.

“Florian's boy,” she croons. “Brave and handsome, a noble prince on his noble steed.” Sneering, she continues, “they sent you, did they? Interfering little pests.”

Banging her staff on the ground with a clap of thunder she proclaims, “you have done well to come thus far. But now you deal with me, o' Prince. Me and all the powers of Hell!”

Fire lances from her staff and slams against Philip's shield, throwing him from his horse to the hard stones. He scrambles to his feet, yelling his for lancers to flee, and draws his sword.

Darkness pools around the witch's feet, her cackling echoing around the courtyard. Enormous shadows like wings sprout from the darkness, reaching towards the sky as a bestial roar overcomes the mad laughter.

Edgar screams a battle cry and charges the beast, lance couched aimed for her heart. A maw opens from the shadows, huge and horned it breaths a torrent of fire on Edgar, engulfing him, the roar drowning out his screams.

Behind him, Philip knows the vines are burning, the heat sears his flesh, but he lunges at the witch. Cleaving through the shadows, enchanted sword flashing, Philip hacks and slashes, rage fueling his strikes.

Still laughing, the Witch Queen rises with the shadow, as though standing atop it. Slowly, a beast of myth, a dragon coalesces from the roiling shadows. Another blast of fire strikes his shield, parting around him as water around a stone.

Edgar and Gustav charge the witch, but their horses shy away from the heat of the shadow monster.

In his head, Philip hears whispers. “The sword will fly swift and sure,” they say, “that evil die and good endure.”

Looking his own death in the eye, Philip heaves the sword skyward, towards the heart of the Witch Queen. Around it as it flies, higher and faster than he could have thrown it, he thinks he sees three glimmers of light. As suns of floating dust.

With a roar of pain, the dragon rears back, throwing the witch from its back. She falls, screaming through the billowing smoke as the dragon fades blown apart by the wind. The roar fades. The smoke clears.

On the cracked cobbles, an empty cloak lies wet and heavy. Standing tall, point buried in the black, blood-soaked cloth, Philip's sword gleams as the cloud that had blocked the sun drifts away.

“Check Edgar,” the command is hoarse as Philip claws off his helmet and turns to his men. They bow their heads and do not respond. Not moving to obey his command, they simply sit astride their horses and avoid his gaze.

“There is nothing to be done, sire,” says Gustav in his slow, deep voice.

Philp glares, then turns to look where Edgar had fallen. Gustave was right, not a force in all the world could do anything for the poor man. Secretly, Philip wonders if even the healing of the saints could do anything.

Edgar’s blackened skull pokes out through the cooling slag of his melted helmet. Charred flesh and blackened bones protrude at odd angles. Philip turns away, fighting down vomit.

Looking at the forest of thorns, he notices that the flames are slowly dying as the poisonous vines retreat, the cracks they had left in the hardpacked earth close as though they had never been. The quiet, droning voice that had drilled into his skull, that he had almost managed to ignore, is also gone. The Witch truly is dead, he reasons.

“Follow me,” his words are hard, not harsh, but hard. Soldiers die, and the time to mourn them will come at the end, but for the present, he must carry on. He whistles for his horse.

“Sorry, sir,” mutters Eric. “But wouldn’t it be wise to return with more men?”

“The witch is dead. We go to the palace; I doubt even her Dredge would come for us.”

Samson trots to his master’s side, eyes rolling madly. The beast is still terrified, but he is loyal, and returned at his master’s whistle exactly as he had been trained to.

Quickly fishing out a carrot from his saddle bags, Philip calms his horse before mounting. “To the palace.”

“Yes, sir.

Once, decades before, the palace of King Stefan had been a wonderous place. Now it sits, a grey lump of rock, dead as the sheer face of a mountain looming over a city populated only by ghosts. Though the main gates stand open, they do not creak in the wind. Everything is deathly still, as though it too had been turned to stone.

Within, scattered across the vast chambers and ballrooms, hundreds of statues stand in mockery of life. They hold goblets or papers, frozen in mid scurry, the frenzy before Aurora’s welcoming feast frozen in time. It had been a holiday, declared across the whole kingdom to properly welcome the returning princess.

Philip finds the statue of King Stefan and his queen, seated upon their thrones, at the fore of scores of people. Nobility and knights and visiting gentry, all frozen in the instant when the great tower bell should have rung, signaling the failure of the witch’s curse.

Kneeling before the statue of the king, hands on his sword’s cross guard, Philip hears something. His head snaps up and, ignoring the questions of his men, he hurries around the thrones and pushes aside a hanging tapestry. No dust falls from the fine cloth.

Up a hidden, winding staircase he runs, convinced he can hear someone moving ahead of him. There is a person here, alive. Whomever they are, and squatters are unlikely in such a place with such a guardian, he must speak with them. He calls out, but receives no answer, only the insistence, the urge to keep climbing.

At the top landing, an ornate door stands ajar.

Drawing his sword and signaling his men to stand ready, Philip pushes through the door and finds himself in an opulent bedchamber. It has the look of something rushed, furniture not quite matching and the drapery having the look of being hung in a hurry.

Three women stand in the room, the old, worn women who had approached him at the wall of thorns. They bow, vanishing in a glimmer of coloured sparks exactly as they had done before.

Sitting upon the bed, Princess Aurora blinks slowly at him. She is beautiful, with clever eyes, and a mischievous smile. The prince bows, sheathing his sword; behind him, following their lord’s example, Gustav and Eric kneel.

“You must be Prince Philip,” Aurora says to him, white teeth showing in a brilliant smile. “My aunts told me about you as I slept.”

She extends her hand to him, and he kisses it gently.

High in the bell tower, for the first time in long decades, the bell tolls. Far below, there is screaming as statues awaken, and in quarters of the city, music rises along with the sounds of merry making.

The Princess has come home.

-0-

Far away, King Hubert looks at the western horizon. His grandson is many weeks gone, though he cannot remember most of them.

He had come to himself, sitting beside his bed. It had not been a lucid day, his servants told him. But he now was himself. His grandson must have succeeded, he prayed the boy was safe.

On shaking legs, he had stood and walked to the window. His mind was... clear. For the first time in decades, he was himself.

A gasp draws his attention, and he turns, seeing before him three elderly women in fine gowns. They curtsey and he waves for them to speak.

The one in blue, the youngest, says, “we come at the request of King Stefan, your majesty. He invites you to the welcome feast for his daughter Aurora.”

Hubert nearly collapses. “Stefan?”

Trembling, he takes the proffered hand and in a blink is standing before Philip and a tall, thin man with black hair and a pinched, worried face.

“Hubert?” asks Stefan embracing his old friend.

The older man weeps, holding tight to Stefan's robes.