Elderpyre book two asp.., p.67
Elderpyre: Book Two - Aspirant, page 67
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. They tried to marry me to it. Said it liked my gait.”
Hunter blinked. “Did you…?”
“No,” she said flatly. “But I had to wrestle it before they’d let me go. Ceremony, they said. Tradition.”
“And you won?”
“Well…” Fawkes raised a brow. “I escaped. That’s what counts. Turns out a swift kick in the bollocks works as well on bears as it does on anything else. Ever seen a bear cry? Because I can tell you, it did.”
Hunter doubled over laughing, nearly spilling backward off the log he was sitting on. It wasn’t just the story itself; it was her deadpan delivery, the sheer absurdity of it, the image of Fawkes kicking a royal bear right in the crown jewels. He laughed until his stomach ached and he had to wipe his eyes.
It was the kind of laughter that didn’t fix anything, but made everything feel lighter, if only for a little while.
Hell, he would miss this. He would miss her.
They spent the whole night like that—talking, laughing, letting the weight of the world fall away for a few stolen hours. Stories gave way to memories, memories to jabs and banter, the kind that only comes easy with time and trust. Fyodor snored softly nearby, the ravens occasionally shifting on their perch, but otherwise the world felt like it had paused just for them.
It was well past midnight when Fawkes finally glanced up at the stars and sighed. “You should go,” she said gently. “Get some rest on your side of things. You must be worn thin.”
“I’m fine,” Hunter replied, leaning back on his hands. “I’d rather stay.”
She gave him a look—part tired, part amused. “Don’t make me mother you, lad.”
“You won’t be here to mother me come morning.” He met her gaze and held it. “I’ll have to make my own calls. Might as well start now.”
Fawkes studied him for a long beat, then gave a small nod.
“How about you?” It was Hunter’s turn to ask. “Shouldn’t you be getting some sleep? You’ve got a long ride ahead tomorrow.”
Fawkes gave a soft snort and rolled her shoulders. “If I’m going to spend the day stuck in the belly of Wroth’s Behemoth, I might as well chew on some valerian root, wash it down with some liquor, and spend it sleeping. Besides…” She looked out toward the tree line, her voice trailing a little as she ran her fingers through the sleeping direwolf’s thick fur. “Wouldn’t want to waste what’s left of this night shutting my eyes.”
Hunter nodded. He understood that feeling all too well.
But sleep did find her, in the end.
In the small hours of the night, as the last of their laughter faded into a comfortable silence, she let her silver-haired head rest against his shoulder. No words, no fuss—just the quiet surrender of a friend who had carried too much for too long.
Hunter stayed still, barely breathing, letting her rest. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare break the spell. He let her sleep for over an hour, his shoulder numb but his heart oddly full. It was the best of nights, quiet and simple and real. He held onto it for as long as he could before the light came creeping in to dispel it all.
Chapter 87
“So this is it, then,” Fawkes said through a yawn, stretching. She blinked hard, still groggy.
“This is it,” Hunter echoed, his voice ringing hollow even to his own ears.
On the other side of the village, the Behemoth riders were already up and about, breaking camp and loading the last of their gear onto their hulking vehicles. Hunter had sent Biggs and Wedge to keep an eye on them, to make sure Fawkes wouldn’t run late. But then again, this was Fawkes. She was up the moment the first meek ray of morning light touched her face.
Fyodor was still curled up at their feet, snoring peacefully. Did he realize what was happening? The direwolf was as attached to Fawkes as he was to anyone. Would he miss her? Hunter wondered. He had never had a dog—the closest thing he could compare Fyodor to. Hell, he had never even had a goldfish. The next few days would be tough on both of them, he supposed.
“The Behemoth riders are almost ready to depart,” he told her. “We can head over there whenever you’re ready.”
“Eager to get rid of me, lad?” Fawkes raised an eyebrow. “Hold your horses, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”
Hunter opened his mouth to protest, but she raised a hand, cracking a wry smile.
“I’m only winding you up. Just give me a moment to gather my things.”
They had a quick, quiet breakfast of herbal tea, rusks, nuts, and dried berries, and set off toward the Behemoth riders’ camp, Fyodor padding lazily beside them. The rest of the village was already awake as well, but the folken gave the Behemoths—and Hunter and Fawkes themselves, for that matter—nothing but sideways looks and a wide berth. There would be little love lost in that parting, it seemed.
They found Elder Wroth at the camp, just beyond the edge of the Brennai village. He was overseeing his crew as they prepared Thunderhead, his expression dour.
“Good. You’re here,” he greeted Fawkes with a curt nod. “All your things packed, then?”
“I travel light,” Fawkes said with a shrug. She carried only a small backpack and that sabretache; everything else she had made vanish up her sleeve.
“Good.” Wroth grunted again, then turned to Hunter. “Come to see us off, eh?”
“I wouldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye.”
Wroth gave him a long look, his features softening slightly. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he said at last. “You’re a good man, Hunter. I wish we’d met under kinder circumstances.”
“It’s been an honor training under you,” Hunter said, “even under circumstances such as these.” He and the Behemoth elder had certainly had their differences, but when push came to shove, Wroth was a good man. Hunter was glad to have known him.
Not a man known for eloquence even at his best, Wroth replied with another nod. “If I were you, I’d clear out of this place as fast as I could. Just saying.”
“No farewell committee?” Fawkes asked, noting the conspicuous absence of any Hawk Nation folk. “Nobody to see us off?”
“See us off?” Wroth scoffed and spat a gob of phlegm onto the ground, as if to punctuate his disdain. “They’d sooner chase us off, if they could. We exchanged words last night, me and their honorable elders.”
“Unkind words, I take it?”
“Ancestors scorn them,” Wroth spat again. “We came here to look for an evil stalking the woods. Combed half the thrice-damned Weald looking for ghouls and ghosts, and for what? We should’ve been looking closer to home, I reckon.”
He shook his shaggy head, as if trying to dispel that grim thought, then fixed Hunter with a washed-out blue eye and extended his massive paw of a hand to clasp arms.
“Anyway. Safe travels to you, Hunter. May your steps be sure and your burdens light.” He gave his arm a firm shake before letting go.
“And to you, Elder,” Hunter said. “May the Ancestors guide your way.”
Wroth strode off to see to the final road preparations, leaving Hunter, Fawkes, and Fyodor on their own once more. Hunter opened his mouth, searching for words, but nothing came. His stomach felt like an empty pit.
“I’ll miss you,” he said at last.
“You’ll be fine,” Fawkes said, almost offhand—but then softened. “I’ll miss you too, though. And you as well, you furry bugger.” She tousled the fur on Fyodor’s thick neck, and he leaned into the affection eagerly.
Hunter swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. A lump lodged somewhere in his throat, heavy and stubborn, and he found himself blinking faster than he meant to.
Fawkes looked at him with a rare softness, her silver-grey eyes warm, crinkling at the corners with a fondness she seldom let show. “In spite of all that’s been happening out there in the world, lad,” she said, hands still scratching the direwolf behind the ears, “and in spite of events here… in spite of all that wickedness abound, Hunter, the world is a beautiful place. Life is worth living, worth savoring. I want you to remember that.”
She unstrapped the sabretache from her shoulder and handed it to him.
“Keep this close. Don’t open it just yet, though.” She took in a deep breath. “A final gift, for when I’m gone.”
Hunter accepted it, numb. “I’ll miss you,” he said again, the words clumsy and thin—but they were all he had. His mind couldn’t conjure up anything else, couldn’t find a better way to express what he felt.
“Oh, come on now, don’t be like that,” she said, giving him a mock scold. “It’s not like this is goodbye-goodbye, lad. We’ll write.” She nodded toward the sabretache in his hands. “It’s all in there. You’ll see.”
She paused for a moment, found his eyes with that rare, soft look once more.
“And… if you ever find a way, if you ever decide to stick around on this side of things for good… come find me, yes?”
“You bet,” Hunter said, his voice coarse.
“Good lad.”
One of Wroth’s crew approached them, a young woman barely any older than Hunter, her hands and brow stained with grease. “Elder Fawkes?” she said. “Elder Wroth sent me to fetch you. Won’t be long before we set off now.”
“Thank you,” Fawkes replied with a tired smile. “I’ll be along in a moment.” She turned to Hunter. “Well, I guess—”
He pulled her into a tight hug before she could finish, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing tighter than he’d ever squeezed anyone in his entire grown-up life. After a brief moment of hesitation, she squeezed back just as hard. Fyodor, not one to be left out, shoved his massive head between them with a low whuff, nosing insistently at their sides until they made room for him in the embrace.
They didn’t speak a word. What was there left to be said? None of them moved, not until the low, rumbling growl of the Behemoth engines stirred to life. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment was over. Fawkes slung her backpack over her shoulder, gave Hunter one last smile, brushed a hand gently across his cheek, and turned to climb aboard the hulking vehicle waiting to take her away.
Almost all the Behemoth crewmen and women were aboard by now, either seated inside the hulking machines or perched on top, gripping handrails and gear. The seniors among them barked orders over the rising rumble, keeping the final checks moving as the first of the vehicles began to roll. Bonegrinder led the way, its massive treads chewing into the earth. Elder Rook’s Blacktalon followed close behind, dark and sleek despite its bulk. The Thunderhead came last. From its roof, one hand wrapped around a handhold, Fawkes turned and waved.
Only then did Fyodor realize what was happening. He let out a low, mournful whine, full of innocent, childlike confusion. It was that sound that finally cracked something open in Hunter’s chest. The ache he had been holding back surged up all at once, too big to swallow, too sharp to hide. His eyes stung. His throat clenched.
The direwolf’s fear of the rumbling hulks forgotten, he bounded forward, claws skittering on the packed earth as he tried to chase after the Thunderhead. Hunter tried to call after him, but no voice came. So he lunged instead, catching up to him just before he could dart too close to the grinding treads. He threw his arms around the direwolf’s thick neck, holding him tight as he twisted and strained in his grip, whining louder now, frantic.
From atop the Thunderhead, Fawkes looked back. For a heartbeat, her eyes met Hunter’s across the widening distance—one final, silent farewell. Then she turned away, her coat flaring behind her, and disappeared from view as the last of the Behemoths rolled on, swallowed by the bend in the dirt road and the thick curtain of trees beyond.
Hunter and Fyodor stood there in the middle of the road long after the dust of the Behemoths’ wheels and treads had settled. Hunter knelt beside the direwolf, his fingers buried deep in the thick fur, and let the tears fall—quiet, hot, and unrelenting, tears he had held back for far too long. Beside him, Fyodor lifted his head to the sky and let out a low, keening wail, a sound full of grief and longing that echoed through the trees.
Biggs and Wedge were perched on a nearby low-hanging branch, unsure what to do, their glossy heads tilting as if trying to understand. Their presence lingered at the edge of Hunter’s awareness, discreetly giving him space, not daring to intrude.
Before Hunter, the Weald stood steeped in the morning mist, old as time, untouched and unchanged, as if Fawkes of the Lodge had never set foot there at all.
But she had.
And though her footprints would soon fade, what she left behind in him was far from gone. A part of her would linger in him, quiet but steadfast; a spark tucked deep in his chest that wouldn’t soon go out. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, gave Fyodor one last pat, and rose to his feet.
“We’ll be alright, boy,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”
Fyodor gave a soft huff, ears twitching forward, his big amber eyes looking up at Hunter as if he understood.
They turned back toward the village, the four of them—a Transient, a direwolf, and two spirits in the guise of birds. Misfits, all of them, in one way or another. The morning sun was slowly making its way above the treeline, lighting their path one step at a time. Hunter looked ahead, squared his shoulders, and started walking.
Even with Fawkes gone, even with his welcome among the Brennai growing thinner by the day, Hunter felt things were looking up. There was a whole new world out there waiting for him to explore, full of wonder and adventure. It was a shame that his friend would not be along for the ride, but he had a feeling that things were going to change up once again, sooner rather than later.
His life before Elderpyre now felt mundane, uninteresting. Since he'd stepped foot on Aernor, it had been anything but.
For once, he was eager to see what tomorrow brought, the good things and the bad. They were just challenges to overcome, opportunities for growth.
Slowly but surely, he was coming to truly believe that, whatever this life or the other threw his way, he could take it head on.
“Right, then,” he said, not to anyone in particular, but to the world itself, as if daring it to listen.
“We still have much to do.”
Epilogue
As the Thunderhead rumbled on eastward with one passenger more, the Blacktalon did so with one fewer. It was balance of a sort; uneven, imperfect, but balance all the same.
Muirden’s period of indentured servitude to Elder Rook had come to an end. Unshackled at last, at least from that particular yoke, he had made his way westward. His destination was the Blood Grove of the Penitent, that same cursed place Rook had sent him to scout and survey just a couple of fortnights earlier.
Wroth, Fawkes, and their Aspirants had made an outright mess of it, by the looks of things; the entity at the Grove’s heart had barely enough strength to repopulate its ranks of Bramble Blights. Only a handful had shown up to stop him, sluggish and malformed. Muirden had dispatched them with ease.
Navigating the maze that encased the heart of the Grove wouldn’t be so easy, though, and Muirden wasn’t in the mood for games. Instead, he carved a path straight through.
He drew his second blade, the curved, cursed one, the one he kept a secret. With it, he cleaved through the hardened tangle of petrified wood and living plant matter alike. It whistled its haunting song with each swing, and the enchantment woven into its steel laid waste to the growth like a scythe through weeds.
As soon as he broke through, a notification flared at the edge of his vision. Unlike most, this one he chose to pay attention to.
Entering new dungeon area.
Threat level: High
He needn’t have; just as he’d guessed, the entity at the heart of the Grove—the eponymous Penitent—had already been all but dispatched. There wasn’t much left of it but roots curled like claws, blackened briars, splintered bark, and scorched branches. Everything was blanketed in soot and cold ash. Someone had set it alight and left it to smolder.
Even the vaguely human head and torso fused into the ancient tree’s trunk bore charred patches, the features blackened and cracked like ruined statuary. Its single outstretched arm no longer held the spirit fruit; someone had already taken it. Miraculously, though, the limb was otherwise untouched, still frozen in that beckoning gesture as if the offering remained.
The Penitent was centuries old, a tough, stubborn thing that had recovered from worse, if Rook’s stories were to be believed. Left to its own devices, it would have been made whole again. Slowly, painfully, yes—but bit by bit, it would have drawn strength from the surrounding Weald, weaving its power back together.
Muirden, however, had other plans.
“Tough luck, friend,” he said with a near-casual shrug, eyeing the malformed face of the thing. He knew some part of it could still understand him. “Still. Waste not.”
He hefted his blade and stepped forward, calm and unhurried. In the back of his mind, the predator entity that shared his body began to coil tight, thrumming with anticipation. It could sense the Essence, could almost smell it in the air, thick and tangy like sap. He felt it grinning in the dark recesses of his mind—a sharklike, toothy smile, disembodied and waiting.
He raised his curved blade and brought it down on the misshapen form’s clavicle, splitting bark and bone alike, tearing the ancient tree open to its heartwood with a single stroke. A bloodcurdling cry echoed, high, warbling, and inhuman, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Sap burst forth from the wound, thick and dark red, pouring like blood from an opened vein.
And among it all, there it was: his prize, the Core of the Penitent. It pulsed within the cleft of the tree, a spherical mass of tangled roots and brambles, knotted like veins. It glistened, wet and alive. A heart that had no right to keep beating, still pumping and dripping thick, dark sap.
