Page 7 of A Crown of Darkness

It was all he had of her. Once again. The sword had been his companion for more years than Elodie had.

Well, except in his dreams.

And now she lay locked in an enchanted sleep, miles away in Pelias, the power of the Aurum itself burning inside her.

At least, he thought bitterly, he knew where she was this time.

He made his way to the edge of their camp and into the bushes to relieve himself.

That was when he heard it: movement, all around them. He let out a low whistle to alert Olivier and backed up, bracing himself for attack.

The undergrowth came alive all around him, a wild rustling and groaning as the ground itself ripped open. Roots and vines rose like living things, tearing themselves up from the earth and down from the canopy, and Roland staggered back, drawing Nightbreaker. He wasn’t fast enough, not against something like this. No one could be.

This was more than an enchantment. This was wild magic, old magic.

Behind him he heard Olivier cry out in alarm, shouting Anselm’s name, but the other young knight wasn’t even fully awake yet. The same roots surged up from the earth around his sleeping form and engulfed him in moments. Olivier was backing towards him, trying the impossible task of covering all angles alone.

Roland retreated, aware that Nightbreaker had not flamed to life in his hands. Perhaps the Aurum was not able to help him here. Perhaps it couldn’t help at all anymore. Or perhaps this was not an attack of darkwoods or shadow kin, and therefore nothing to do with the Nox.

Then, abruptly, all went still. The leaves made soft murmurings in the breeze and the trees creaked softly. There was no birdsong, no sign of animal life around them. Just that eerie silence.

Some primal instinct in Roland would give almost anything to flee if he could. But that was not an option.

‘Hold,’ said a voice, young, soft and quiet, with a slight waver indicating it was not actually as confident as it was endeavouring to sound. ‘Hold or the forest will tear him apart.’

The roots and vines tightened on Anselm, one coiling around his throat. His face was visible, eyes wide with fear, his jaw clenched tightly. He struggled all the same, even though there was no getting out of that trap.

‘If that was your intention you would have done it already,’ Roland replied to the leaves and the undergrowth. Still no sign of who he was talking to. The woodlands were still and so unnaturally quiet. ‘Let him go. We mean you no harm. We’re just passing through.’

‘Knights of the Aurum just passing through?’ said another voice, definitely a girl this time, high and sweet as birdsong. ‘Now I’ve heard everything. Where’s the trail of death and destruction?’

The first voice – a boy perhaps – hissed something at her. Their voices came from all around the clearing though, as if echoing back on themselves. A deliberate trick, Roland thought, but a clever one. A warrior with less discipline would be thrown off balance, trying to look for the source and not focusing on anything else. Such as his priorities.

‘Let Anselm go, and we’ll talk,’ he told them.

‘Why do you think we want to talk to you?’ the girl snapped.

‘Shut up, Lark.’

Roland glanced at Olivier, who cast him a confused glance. They sounded like children, young adolescents at most. Siblings too close in years to talk without argument. Twins perhaps.

‘I mean it, Robin. We should just kill them and?—’

Roland raised his hands and slowly lowered his sword until he could set it down at his feet. They weren’t to know he couldretrieve it in a heartbeat. He was trying to make a point. Olivier followed suit, though he didn’t look happy about it.

‘Talk to me,’ Roland said. ‘My name is Roland de Silvius. I’m listening. What do you want? Who are you?’

A vine slid forward cautiously to prod at the sword and then recoiled sharply, as if stung. It withdrew, back into the undergrowth. If they had thought to snatch the sword away they’d have to do better than that. Nightbreaker could look after itself. It had been forged in the Aurum and magic was an innate part of it.

A boy stepped out of the trees, his hair tangled with sticks and leaves, his face smeared with dirt and coloured oils, not yet even in his teen years. Behind him, there was a girl, roughly the same age, wearing the same sort of clothing decorated with leaves, bark and flowers.

Not children. Not quite. But not definitely adults either.

Roland drew in a breath. They looked feral and he was not sure what was going on here, who they were or what they wanted.

‘We are witchkind,’ said the boy in a steady voice, glaring at the knights. ‘We live free or we die. And you’re all our prisoners.’

CHAPTER 4