The Forest, by Ben Greenfield - Chapter 17: "The Princesses"

The deck of the Devil was eerily quiet. There was the sloshing of water against the sides of the ship. The whistling of cold dark sea air through sails and netting. The creak of broken ropes as they dangled from the damaged mainmast. The deck was also littered with bodies and blood of seafarers. Some of the bodies were simply limp and broken from being dashed against the ship from dozens of feet high. But most were more disconcerting, with twisted, terrified faces and mouths still locked in the shape of a death scream. Purple and red skin covered in poison lesions and seeping wounds inflicted by the tentacles of the sea monster. Limbs half ripped from joints adorned with frayed bone and torn strips of flesh. Terran couldn't take a deep breath. Seconds went by, maybe minutes. His lungs were only half fill and although his body was trembling, his white knuckled fingers refused to release the deck rail. He could feel mucus and seawater dripping from his chin. And something else sticky and salty. He could see Tink laying on his back, staring wide eyed at the sky. Hands still clutching his dagger chest, slowly rising and falling. He could see a River face down, collapsed near the stern of the ship. Everything was moving slowly, finger by finger. Terran unwrapped his hand from the rail. He wiped his chin. Blood. He pushed himself up from his stomach and into a kneeling position, then lunged with one leg forward and stood. Finally taking a deep breath, he ran his hands over his head and his face and didn't feel the sharp sting of any cuts. But when he pulled his hand away, there was more blood. Then he remembered and looked down at the half torso splayed on the deck beside him. This wasn't his blood. His stomach turned sour again and he bent forward to wrench. But nothing came out. For a moment he stood there with both hands on his knees, saliva dripping onto the deck, dry heaving. Then he straightened and fumbled for the ladder. Riv. Riv. Riv. He crawled backwards down the ladder, shouting River's name with each rung. Then he was flying through the air. The missing ladder rungs. The back of his shoulder hit the deck and stabbing needle shot down into his hand. He sprung up, clutching his arm to his side and kept stumbling towards River. He slid to his knees and with one good hand shoved river onto his back. The body felt cold and hard. Brother, can you hear me? He dropped his ear to the left side of the chest. He couldn't feel a throbbing, but couldn't be sure. He brought his cheek up against his brother's lips. All he felt was Cold air. Then a gasp. It wasn't against his cheek, but behind him. He straightened and looked back, already standing. Tink was there, still gasping for breaths, finding his air. His forehead was scraped and bleeding and his skin was bright crimson where the outline of the tightly wrapped tentacle still remained. And young Terr. He hacked, took another deep breath, then rasped, young Terran. Is he breathing? Terran's face contorted. He didn't want to cry again, but the tears came anyways. I don't know. He looked away from Tink and towards the rear cabin of the ship. I don't know. And I don't know if his heart is beating. And I don't know if he's dead. He crumpled his aching fingers and shoved tears aside. Why do I always have to cry? Tink knelt by his side. The elf's hands, covered in cuts and goosebumps, shook as he felt the side of Rivers throat with two fingers. At the same time he held his head close to River's mouth. He brought his head away, then back down. Oh my. Terran sniffed. What? Is he alive? Barely. The heart is weak, fluttering. His body is cold as an icicle and Tink stopped and frowned at the stern of the ship. And what? What? This ship is sinking fast. Terran threw back the canvas tarp covering the barrels. In the abandoned mess kitchen, already below deck, the seawater was up to his shins. Pots, cups and spoons were floating through the shambles. He shoved his head into the dark barrel, leaning with half his body into the opening and pushing his hands down in to feel the contents. Some kind of fruit. Apples maybe. He desperately scanned the kitchen for some kind of bag. Aprons. Those'll do. He shoved several handfuls of apples into one of the aprons. Porridge. Where'd they put porridge? He pulled on the door of a cupboard besides the cookstove. It wouldn't open. The water was already sloshing up against the doors of the cupboard. Holding it shut, he put both hands behind him, lifted his body up onto the cookstove, and drove both legs into the cupboard doors. The bottom of his bare feet stung as the wood splintered and the doors collapsed inwards. Metal pots. He opened one. It was empty. Above he could hear footsteps running. When he had ventured into the mess, Tink was on deck, frantically searching for some kind of a lifeboat or means of escaping quickly from the devil. By all signs, every man on the ship was dead and the gaping hole the sea monster's tongue had dug into the hole was towing them downwards. Terran looked up at the ceiling, then heard Tink's voice shouting down into the mess hall. Dinghy secured. We need to get off this boat. Any luck down there? Terran ripped the lid off another metal pot and thrust his hand inside. Success. Apples and porridge. He tied the apron and threw it over his shoulder, then clutched the metal pot and forced his body through the now nearly waist deep water, out the double doors of the mess hall and to the base of the stairs. Tink reached down through the opening and and took the apron and pot. He said nothing but simply turned and ran back towards the bow of the ship. Terran followed, looking towards where River's body had been. It was gone. A lump formed in his throat and he stopped. River. Where's River? Already secured, Terran. We must make haste. Hurry. Secured. Terran stayed as close as he could to Tink as they moved across the dark deck of the ship towards the forecastle. His foot caught in a tattered clump of netting and he fell face first, leaping landing on the wet, naked body of a dead seafarer. He gasped and backed away. Tink pulled him up by the armpit. They're dead. All of them. I've snatched what I can from their corpses. Tink let go of him and continued to run across the deck. Terran looked back towards the stern. It was even lower than before. They were sinking fast. He looked back towards the forecastle. Tink was gone. Tink. Tink's voice came from below. Here. Come over the deck. Terran saw two thick ropes hanging over the side of the deck and peered over the railing. A small wooden dinghy was hanging from the edge. River's body was there in the boat, covered in piles of seafarer clothing and laid in the bottom next to him were the apples and cold porridge along with three canteens of water. Tink was standing, arms outstretched towards Terran. Lower yourself down by the ropes and I'll help you in. We're nearly out of time and we must get your brother to go out straight away. Taran took a deep breath, grabbed both ropes and stepped over the railing backwards. Iria tightened her grip on the horn of the saddle and dug her heels into Piper's dirty white flanks. The horse snorted, breaking into a half gallop up the steep hill to catch Enya, who was riding Raven at a brisk pace back and forth along the sharply banked trail switchbacks. Enya, why the hurry area? Called up, her voice wobbly from Piper's frantic scrambling up the slope. Piper is already tuckered from yesterday's ride and me from not enough sleep. As if to agree, Piper snorted again and slowed to a walk. You know how tomorrow will be if we are late again, Ira. Ira grimaced and drove her heels in again, leaning forward to keep herself from tumbling backwards down the rocky slope as Piper jumped forwards. Surely if they were tardy for today's lesson, tomorrow would assign yet another impossible task. Like hiking to the peak of a Rara's bluff with a heavy rock. Or standing waist deep in the frigid creek for an hour. Or sprinting back down to the castle while holding a mouthful of water and breathing through the nose. Piper rounded another steep switchback on the trail and suddenly Enya and Raven were there, just a few feet ahead. Ravin's satiny black shoulders and back were dripping with sweat. Her mouth was foaming, her nostrils flaring open and shut. Patting Piper's neck to congratulate their progress, Aria looked up towards the peak. Their goal, a ridge at the top of the steep mountain trail, was close enough that she could see the figure of Tamar silhouetted against the horizon, sitting atop the great horse Logan. She imagined the likely grim smirk on Tamar's face and her heart sunk. Having a Knight of Aurora for an instructor was a difficult task. Having to wake before sunrise to meet for a mountaintop lesson was even more difficult, and knowing she and her sleep deprived sister would be training until dusk was a formidable task indeed. Enya looked down at Raven and sighed impatiently. The courtyard seems a more convenient place to train, sister. Just imagine how many oats and alfalfa we waste riding these horses up each morning. Iria shrugged, repeating Tamar's words at the top of the mountain. The air is clear and pure, the sunlight more severe. Your power is more secure. Enya glanced up towards where Tamar sat waiting and clicked her tongue at Raven. The black horse bared her lips and blew a spout of mucus from her big nostrils and they began climbing again.

When they rounded the final turn and approached the big pile of rocks that signified the end of the trail, Tamar was there just as expected, sitting on the enormous barrel chested horse Logan and looking at them with a grim smirk. Chainmail draped over muscular shoulders and torso, a hard leather helmet with straps pulled down over a square smooth jaw and thick hamstrings and calves built for battle to Tamar posed a daunting figure when framed against the sunrise peeking over the Aurora mountain range. Tamar sniffed, smirked again, and pulled off the helmet. Long, shiny brown locks fell to the knight's lean tapered waist. She grinned. Running a tad late, ladies, since the queen's death. King Imperius had never remarried. If he had, his choice would have been Tamar, direct blood relative to royalty and a member of the fierce wolf tribe from the valley domain of Aurora, who close to the border with Goaald. But Tamar would hear nothing of replacing the queen. She was too proud, too distant, too interested in swinging a sword rather than gracing a throne. Nonetheless, the king doted on her, knighting her, providing her unrestricted access to the entire mountain domain of Aurora and placing the princesses under her strict tutelage. Perhaps he hoped that one day she would replace the queen. Perhaps he hoped Aria and Enya would mature with both the gentleness of their mother and the fierceness of Tamar. Or perhaps he knew that strong ties to Wolf tribe would ensure protection of the western border should the shamans and cithrun succeed in ravaging Ga' Wild and then move on to the forested wilderness domains of Aurora. After all, when Tamar was just 15 years old, she had encountered a lone berserking cithrin when it attacked her family's farm. When the giant grotesque worm came crawling on its slimy scale belly to attack, melting the crops with poisonous heated breath and lashing at cattle with a forked tongue sharper than a spear, it was Tamar who stormed through the field and launched a wood cutting hatchet into the evil creature's eye. Had a shaman been controlling the cithrun, she would have met her death there in the field. Instead, she pursued the rogue cithrun into the woods and tracked it for a full day and night, finally returning with her hatchet and the severed forked tongue of a cithrun. It was not long after that that Tamar was summoned to Imperius Castle to train the two year old princesses to garner generous wages and to receive a coveted knighting over the mountain domain.

Perhaps later you will hike to the peak with your old reliable companion. Tamar nodded towards a heavy flat rock leaning against the lone ponderosa pine that stood bent at the peak of the ridge. But for now we train. She kicked Logan lightly and he trotted to the base of the pine tree, where on the opposite side of the flat rock was was a rugged oak bench on which ten small twigs were standing upright, each held up by a handful of pebbles. She wheeled Logan around and shouted back to the girls, here are 10 targets. From where you stand now, you must effect these targets. Aria. Blow the target over Enya. Ignite the target. Iria squinted barely able to make out the tiny twigs nearly 40ft away. Enya smirked and elbowed Iria. Easy child's play. Only one target, tamar muttered, already galloping past them, sword now in hand. Enya Gult targeting an entire row of twigs was easy. Singling out a single one was a different deed altogether. Tamar spun her sword up until the morning sun glinted from the silver blade, then pointed the blade down towards the gorge between where they stood and the next peak. Iria, I have sunk a wicker basket in the creek eddy directly where you water Piper. Today you will raise that wicker basket to the surface without allowing the rock which I used to sink the baskets, to slip away. Aria set her jaw. She had done this before, but not with the rule of the rock not slipping away. She would have to move air through water very carefully. Tricky. When Ira is finished, you, Enya, must boil the eddy. Enya raised an eyebrow. Boiling water was a little difficult. Boiling several feet of icy cold water as more water rushed in was would be exhausting. She felt her blood cool just thinking of it. They watched Tamar circle Logan back around to the tree and then point up to the thick branches. Nearly 30ft up, Iria, standing at the base of this tree, you must inflate the balloon. Balloon? Irh scanned the tree branches. There, hanging and well hidden, was a thin leather bottle, just the same as a knight would use to carry surprising amounts of water for days. Days on end, these bottles were nearly impossible to inflate with lips and lungs and muscles, much less by commanding air with the hands and the body. Aria silently hoped Enya's final task of the day would be as difficult. And you, Enya, must melt this block of ice. Tamar swung her sword down at a square block of ice sitting in the tall grass at Logan's feet. Melting ice. Iria muttered, the easiest task of all for Enya without burning a single blade of grass. Enya leaned towards Aria, unfazed, and cupped her hand over the side of her mouth. Does Father know she's raiding the kitchen to haul ice to a mountaintop? Tamar, with senses like a hawk, grinned but pretended not to notice. Ladies, tie the horses. Begin. And so another day of training began for the princesses of the mountain domain of Aurora. Sprinting and spinning, Iria and Enya used hands, fingers, bodies, arms, and twirling of head and hips to to send air and fire gliding into twigs, levitating baskets through water and boiling frigid creeks, expanding balloons and melting ice. The great knight Tamar watched her face grim, her furrowed brow occasionally shifting to the horizon, Watching. Waiting. Someday the hordes of wicked worms and vile shaman would come berserking over the mountains, looting, destroying soil and fields, raping, killing, and claiming new domains and lands of arbore under their possession. Someday they would come, and Aurora would be ready. The sulfurous scent of fish meat and brackish scent of seaweed saturated the mucky fog that hung over the bustling port of Gwald. Lining the narrow cobblestone road that paralleled the edge of the Charabidian sea was row after row of clumsy shacks, each plastered with wooden planks, beaten dull by the salty air, and each teeming with a ceaseless traffic of silence. Sailors, soldiers and traders, the loud arguing and bartering between fishermen and fish merchants, the bellowing of oxen and cattle stumbling over each other as merchants fought their carts through to unburden ship cargo, and the feverish banter of greedy seagulls drowned out the sound of the waves tumbling up onto the dirty, garbage strewn sand. Up and down the cobblestone road, wives and children were scrambling towards the sea, darting between cargo, hanging nets and crates stacked with fish, fish to help the men haul up the day's catch. Tucked into the shadowy alleys that diverged from the main road and leaning up against the dark sides of the port buildings were a more colorful array of characters, smugglers with clandestine dealings, smug women who had left the life of seafaring to instead tempt sailors after their days away from sea, and dirty faced pickpockets with caps pulled low over their eyes. Near the very edge of the port, draining through rusty metal grates into the sea, was a small black creek reeking of sewage, murky with oil and littered with fish bones. Leaning against the grates where the creek emerged was a battered and abandoned wooden dinghy. Three sets of footsteps trailed through the spongy sand, away from the dinghy and up towards the cobblestone road. Etched on the side of the dinghy were five letters DEVIL.