Ere Flame

The woman ran through the woods, trying to find her way.

Her skin burned all over, as if the sun had scorched it, and her fingernails ached with a gnawing pain. Her hair, hung about her in tangled locks, stung at the roots. For the hundredth time she asked herself, what has happened to me?

She looked about the forest, a sea of color. She had never seen such vibrant hues before. The trees rose above her, some like giant green spears, and others like reaching flame. They overwhelmed her eyes and made them throb. She blinked hard and pressed forward.

A thick ash blocked her way, and its roots grabbed at her. Had they always been so obtrusive? She stumbled over them and around the tree. Its bark bit her hands as she held onto it. Why are my palms so weak?

She couldn’t find an answer, and the sight before her made her other thoughts flee. It was a clearing, large, and naked of trees. Thick grass covered it, except for a spot in the middle, a streak of bare earth. A sound issued from there, and it tore at her ears. A mad wailing, sung by some small creature. She closed her ears and looked up and away, but the light. The light …

***

The light. I do not see it as I once did. And my form, it is not becoming of me …

Merreon handled the letter gingerly, as if it might crumble in a firmer grip. The letters danced across the page, written in a strange manner, but still legible. They twisted and turned and curved. Who could write like this?

Things issue from me. Things strange and small, just as I am. I cannot understand it.

The sun warmed Merreon’s back, but a strengthening wind chilled his arms and gave rise to bumps on them. A sea of dark clouds crept in from the horizon. Rain was on the way.

The storm would take its time in getting, Merreon had to focus on his work. He knelt in the black soil, surveying the scene. The parchment between his fingers hung limp, wanting nothing more than to flutter to the ground and be forgotten. But the earth would eat it up then, and Merreon couldn’t have that. He was hunting.

A pile of half-burned sticks cuddled by a large, flat rock. A piece of charred twig sat that rock, as had the letter. Trampled grass marked where feet had long been planted. Merreon imagined the person sitting there, scribbling away in their strange script as the fire muttered beneath them. What had caused them to douse the flames, keeping the wood from wholly burning? What had caused them to abandon their letter without finishing it?

I am three days like this. The sun burns my neck. I’ve never felt it like this before. And at night, I find myself … shivering.

Merreon shivered himself just thinking about it. He hated the colder nights that had set in, but he had not the luxury to stop and make comfortable camps. He stuck a hand in the remains of the fire. Not even the deepest ashes had warmth in them. Despite his hurried pace, Merreon still had much ground to make.

My senses are strange, as are my appetites. The herded beasts I once swallowed up are not so appealing to me. Not whole and raw, anyway. My stomach craves something else. Those red, hanging fruits I’ve seen. I th—

The text cut off there with a long smudge of charcoal, as if the writer had been shocked out of their scribbling. What had caused them to flee mid thought? What had they seen? There had to be a hint here.

His horse whinnied behind him, growing impatient. Merreon turned at the sound. “I know, Pren, a moment please.”

Pren bobbed her head and whinnied again as he stood and folded the letter into his satchel. The thief who wrote it was mad, but Merreon should have expected that. Who else would’ve done what they’d done?

Merreon moved in widening sweeps around the campfire, looking for more than the single pair of footsteps that there was. Three paces distant he found discarded food, bits of hardtack by the look, and even further he found what he sought. A low branch on a solitary tree had its bark worn, where something was tied off. In the grass just below it, Merreon saw the marks of a shod horse. Just the one, the thief’s mount. The tracks came in from the northwest, and pointed away east. As Merreon expected, they made for the Orade.

He had to move quickly. Pren came closer at his whistle and allowed him to mount. She was a tall bay courser, nimble on any terrain, even the rocky slopes of the Mysten to the west. She responded at once to his press and quickened to a gallop.

Merreon rode through the flats, harvested fields and lands gone to weed. Occasional fences marked where one farmer’s plot ended and another’s began. Others were separated by trickling streams or rock walls. He worked his way through them all, hardly noticing them. He couldn’t afford to stop and reaffirm that he still followed the trail every ten minutes. It would be a waste of precious time. Instead, he followed his gut, and his eyes were set in the distance.

Few farmers still stayed this far out. Fall was in its depths, and most people had already receded to the cities and towns for the cold months. They stayed with friends and family, or in houses built and maintained by wealthy nobles and generous lords. Some slept in the stables if they had to. It was good that they got away. Merreon knew as well as them …

When the cold came, so did things far worse.

But there were a few men that stayed at the edge of the wilds, reluctant to leave their homes, and he ran into one of them as the day dragged on. Merreon wondered if this denizen had seen the thief. Maybe he could offer some description.

He was an older fellow, chopping wood outside his cottage. Straw eaves protected a growing pile of the smaller pieces. To Merreon, there didn’t look enough to last the winter. The man had donned a red hat with ear flaps and a thick woolen coat. He did not hear Merreon’s arrival, but eventually turned to the movement at the edge of his vision.

“Good day,” Merreon called to him, riding close enough to speak without yelling, but not close enough as to frighten him.

The man didn’t look like he could be frightened. His thick eyebrows peered up at the sky with the rest of his face, a strong nose and cheeks red from the cold. “Could be better,” he said in a rough voice.

“I suppose.”

There was silence between them a moment as the man finished splitting the log on his chopping block. He had to take two swings at the last of it, as a knot in the wood proved uneager to separate. The second swing nearly made it through, and the man twisted his axe. The wood groaned and split.

He leaned on his axe and looked back up. He curved those thick brows of his down until they touched. “Can I do something for ya, son?”

Son? Merreon hated being called that. Every elder felt it his duty to call a younger man his son. He didn’t let his annoyance surface, though. “I’ve come from Castle Ilanden on urgent business.”

“Mmm, I see.” The old man spat and buried his axe in the chopping block, then sat beside it and crossed his arms. “What’s your business got to do with me?”

“I need to know if you’ve seen anyone come through this last day. A rider headed east.”

“What’d they do?”

“They stole royal property. I’m tasked with retrieving it.”

“What kind of property?”

It was Merreon’s turn to spit. “None of your concern.”

The codger grunted and scratched his chin. “Man or woman, this rider?”

He should be telling Merreon that. “I can’t say for sure, but probably man.”

“Mmm. None that I’ve seen.”

Merreon frowned. “And woman?”

“Nope.”

“Pah.” Merreon trotted his horse in a circle. The mare wanted to be off, and so did he, but an anger turned him back. “Why are you still out here? You know what comes in the winter?”

The man laughed. “Do you know how many years I have? Enough to be your father twice over, boy. I know what comes when the snows do.” He eyed Merreon a moment. “What wood is that?”

Merreon looked to his horse’s side, where his bow was secured. A quiver of arrows hung just beside it. “Native yew, of course, not that cheap foreign stuff they try to sell at Ilanden’s markets.”

“You know your craft, then. I suppose I’d push you to anger if I said that foreign crap was better, you just got to know how to treat the wood.”

Merreon frowned. “That would push me to anger.”

He nodded. “It should, because I’d be as wrong there as you are for questioning how I should live.” The old man sighed and stood. “When the snows fall, you’ll find me where I want to be, right here … Best of luck with your quest, son.”

He was back to splitting before Merreon could form a reply. It seemed they were done talking.

It didn’t matter. Merreon would find the thief himself. He left the man’s cottage and continued east, riding for a long stretch without rest. The sun hurried in the opposite direction behind him, and the storm clouds had almost caught them both. Merreon pressed Pren harder. He would lose his quarry with the light.

Pren was breathing hard when he rode her up to the edge of a large apple orchard. Those red, hanging fruits … The letter spoke of apples, and here he was, amidst their woody forebears. Except, there were no more apples. The harvest had taken them all. The leaves of the trees remained, though, a splash of oranges and reds, many of which had already fallen to layer the grounds with color.

Merreon dismounted there and walked beside his horse through the ordered rows of the orchard. The sky was now gray with clouds, but the only rain that fell then was silence. Most animals had retreated to their homes before the coming storm, all except a lone crow. The thick-chested black bird clutched to an apple tree branch, watching Merreon as he went.

Merreon suffocated the urge to put an arrow in the crow. It would only be a distraction, and if he missed, the crow would laugh. He instead scanned the orchard in all directions but behind, looking for signs of anything. Disturbances in the foliage, broken branches, or abandoned campsites. He saw nothing.

How could the thief be so elusive? Could his horse carry him so far, so fast? With the time it took him to make camp and write that rambling note … And why would he leave it behind?

He taunted Merreon, that was it. He mocked him with strange writing and talk of apples. Maybe it was to throw Merreon off the trail entirely. Maybe he’d gone north or south, and Merreon was following naught but an insult.

Anger surged inside him at the thought, and his voice broke the quiet air. “I’ll find you, thief! I am the hunter, Merreon of Doren, and I will be your bane.”

There was no response, save for that of the crow. It squawked once and took flight, leaving Merreon and his mare alone.

“I’ll find you,” he muttered to himself. Was he talking to the bird or the thief? He figured both.

Maybe he should go back, pick up the trail where he’d last seen it. Or return further to Ilanden, see if the others had come up with anything. Half the castle was out looking, and messengers had been sent to every town and city within a hundred miles. Someone else must’ve seen something.

But they hadn’t, Merreon knew. None had dared to follow him out this way. A small part of them probably dreaded crossing him, but the rest was the Orade forest. Few dared go near it, let alone in it. Merreon had no fear of such things. Even still, he hated the idea of walking under those trees.

But the thief was in there. He knew it so surely then. The note was no diversion, but a boastful clue. The first trees of the forest weren’t much further east. The thief knew he’d find respite from pursuit there, and wasn’t afraid to tell of it.

Merreon couldn’t let him get away. Trying to find the tracks would only waste more time. He stepped into Pren’s saddle and urged her into a canter. They left the apple trees behind and rode through the flat grassy plains before the Orade. The tall weeds soaked Pren’s underbelly and left Merreon’s boots wet. The leather kept his feet dry, thankfully, but seeds and burs found their way down inside them. One more annoyance to contend with. A small one, soon dominated by something worse. Far worse.

It was the Orade.

The trees rose in one thick, haunting mass. Many were pines, ever green, but even those that weren’t still retained summer’s life-filled kiss. It was as if they were hesitant to let the autumn come, and green leaves still mingled with those of crimson and gold. But there was no peace in that wood. Not even the beauty of the leaves could settle his heart from the darkness under them.

Pren shied away and whinnied softly. Merreon steadied her, but had trouble steadying himself. Why did he want to turn back so badly? He wasn’t afraid, just … reluctant. Would the thief really have gone in there, anyway? Best to report back, maybe another group had caught him already.

“No,” Merreon shook his head violently. The thief was in there, laughing at him. He couldn’t let that go unanswered.

With some struggle, Merreon made Pren carry him forward. As he felt the first drops of rain on his neck, sending chills down his back, Merreon entered the Orade forest.

He had to duck to avoid the low branches, peering around Pren’s flaxen mane to guide her through. The foliage was dense around them, and the trees pressed in. There were no paths here, only natural gaps, some wide and some narrow. Merreon tried for the easiest ways, but even they proved difficult. Many times his arms were raked by course pine branches. Pren took the worst of them, but she pushed through at his command.

Why was he doing this? What proof did he have that the thief had taken this torturous route? Was he so blinded by a greedy desire for fame that he would fabricate a means to it?

So caught in his mind was Merreon that he hardly noticed when Pren broke through a wall of birch branches and into a clearing. Only the rain, falling heavy in the open, shocked him out.

His eyes saw many things then, but just one stood out to him. A trail through the clearing, and not his own. His heart leaped over a beat. He was right! And why not? Was he not the best hunter around?

Merreon dismounted and knelt in the foliage, forgetting the rain on his back and the wet earth soaking his knees. He cleared leaves around the trail and smiled as imprints in the dirt made themselves known. There were just two, alternating across the clearing. All too human. The thief had abandoned his horse, but he was here.

“I’ve got you now.” Merreon rose and grabbed Pren’s reins. They crossed the clearing and entered back into the thick of the wood. The trail led them on.

For what felt an hour he followed it. At some points on firmer ground it thinned or disappeared, only to reappear ten paces ahead. The thief walked heavily on his heels, and stranger yet, he was barefoot. Merreon felt a tickle of uncertainty, but he pushed it down. What did it matter? The thief was close, maybe a few hours ahead.

Pren whinnied.

“What is it?” Merreon glanced back. Her ears were twitched forward, and she pulled on the reins. He couldn’t worry about it, else he’d risk losing the trail. This forest was treacherous.

They continued forward, Merreon’s eyes hardly leaving the ground. Pren kept tugging the reins, but he pulled right back. She was being squeamish, afraid of the wood like everyone else. Now that Merreon was in it himself, it wasn’t all that bad. A bit stuffy maybe, but—

Merreon froze as a new sound reached his ears, one sharper than the rain on the trees and the rustle of their leaves. It was a clear, resonant … singing?

Pren whinnied again. Merreon tugged the reins hard to quiet her and turned an ear. It was signing sure as day, a woman’s singing. It was just ahead.

What madness was this? Merreon crept forward and found himself pushing through into another clearing, this one much larger than the last. And at its center …

Merreon’s eyes widened. A woman stood there, singing down to something in her arms as rain soaked her. She cradled something. The child. A small hand reached up toward her face.

A shout left Merreon’s lips before he could stop it. At some point he’d pulled his bow from Pren’s side, as it was in his left hand. He felt a surge of familiarity as he hefted it, then reached back and pulled an arrow. He nocked it without thought, as he’d done ten thousand times before. The bow was too heavy to hold at a draw, but he knew he could loose an arrow in the time between blinks if he needed too. “Thief!” he said to the woman, who had looked up at his shout. “Put the lord down, and surrender yourself.”

“What?” she said, her voice soft, urging innocence. “I am no thief.”

Merreon frowned. “You hold the stolen babe in your arms. That makes you one, does it not?”

She looked down, then back up. “I found him here, wailing. I had to comfort him.”

Merreon’s laugh soured the air, fake as it was. “You found him? You’ll find an arrow in you, miss, if you don’t put the lad down. You think I want to do it?”

“You would risk harming this child?”

“No risk. I’d never miss at this distance. Put. Him. Down.”

The woman wore tattered clothing, and no armor to speak of. Merreon had hoped the thief would be some sorry peasant man, seeking to ransom the child back for a goodly sum. He would’ve loosed an arrow by now, had it been. A soldier turned criminal was another guess, and he would’ve proved a tougher opponent than the peasant. But this young woman? She had neither armor nor the foulness of some derelict. In truth, now that Merreon really saw her, he saw beauty.

No! He couldn’t go easy on her. If she ran, he would ride her down.

Merreon sighed relief when she didn’t. She lowered the noble babe to the ground and set him there. He immediately started to cry.

“Can’t you see?” she said. “He needs me. I’ll come with you, just let me hold him.”

Merreon shook his head. “You won’t touch him again, I swear it. Come over here, so I might bind you to my horse. You’ll answer for this crime.”

Her voice changed in that moment, no longer soft. It came stern and forceful. “I told you, I am no thief.”

Her skin itself seemed to harden with her words. For the briefest second, Merreon thought it looked … scaly. She would try to frighten him? Merreon stepped forward and raised his bow. “I’m sorry, miss, I say it how it is. Thief.”

The words were said, and he regretted them, for a strange thought occurred. Something he’d heard before. Something he’d read before. And my form, it is not becoming of me …

“I—” he said.

But the woman was no longer listening. She was no longer a woman. It began with smoke, issuing from her nose. Her nose itself elongated, pulling her head with it. Her hair pulled together and stiffened, forming spines on her neck. She bent over and grew in size. As big as Pren, then larger still. Her thin clothing tore away, reveal skin scaled over. Her arms grew into wings, wide, with webbing like leather. Her bare feet became hardened, and the nails lengthened into claws.

Merreon backed away, gasping. He turned to Pren, but his mare was gone, bolted into the depths of the Orade. He turned back and his heart stopped. The curse at his lips came as a croak.

The woman was gone, and the Lord of Ilanden wailed away beneath the form of a towering dragon.

But … had she spoken true? Where was the thief, then? Why abandon the child? Merreon's thoughts came and left with the wind blown by the dragon's monstrous black wings. His hunt was over, and the prey he sought was gone. Before him was a predator every man feared, for none were known to survive the encounter.

NO! Merreon was not so weak. On his last instincts, he strode forward and drew his bow back with all the might he could muster. The beast rose in his vision, and he loosed on it. His arrow flew as true as it ever had, and struck the dragon in the center of its head.

Victory surged inside him, but it was gone as quick as it came. The arrow did not pierce that hard flesh. It shattered, and the pieces fell harmlessly away. His only arrow, as the rest had fled with Pren. Dread flowed into the pit of his stomach. It was over. The dragon looked down upon him and opened its mouth, where the redness of a fire’s hot coals began to form.

Merreon turned away and sunk to his knees. What had he just done? He'd gone and angered a dragon. A dragon. Merreon bowed his head and laughed as the roar behind him filled his ears.

Then, he felt a searing heat on his back.

***

The memories flooded back as she breathed fire on the foolish man, and the smell of burning flesh and wood wrinkled her nose.

It was the babe that had made her Change. She’d heard his cries from above, and was compelled to comfort him. He cried now beneath her, but she knew better this time. To Change was an error. It only made her weak. She needed to be away from danger before she could care for the little human. His kind would chase her far, but they could not reach the peaks of the Mysten. She would take him there.

As gingerly as she could, she dug the claws of her back foot into the soil around the babe, scooping up the earth and him with it. His cries were muffled, but she could feel him. He would have to hold on for a little while.

All the familiarities of flight rushed back to her, and she beat her wings. They threw rain and leaves into the air, and made the branches of the nearest pines splinter. She pushed off with one foot and took flight.

The cold no longer bothered her, and the trees ceased to be a nuisance. Up and up she climbed, until the clearing became small beneath her. She saw the edge of the forest west and many small houses beyond it. Further were towns, and amidst them was the dominating walls and towers of Ilanden, lit by night fires. She saw many figures moving on their roads, some fast and some slow. She would burn them if they came for her and the boy. She would burn them all, and their castle, too.

I am Falerya, she remembered, the Winged Maid of Terror. All men see me come ere flame.

She soared away towards the Mysten, the rising peaks in the west.