18-4

  Syffox sat before the forest by a small fire cooking a breakfast of game he had trapped the night before. The predawn glow was bright orange, while the clouds on the horizon glazed pink. He watched as the tops of the trees became illuminated with the golden light of the morning sun before the rest of the landscape.

  The rays of the sun slid down the trees to touch the ground, then washed over Syffox with a glaring burst of sunlight into his eyes. He flinched and looked away from Coronus as the god awoke to see what was about to transpire before him.

  Syffox sipped his final tea as he contemplated that unseen—beneath Coronus’s stern gaze—hundreds of men were now pouring across the plain to kill him. Well, there was always one god watching. However, he knew Coronus didn’t matter. He always watched but never did anything, preferring to let people slowly languish beneath him rather than striking directly.

  As he basked in the warming rays, doubts came to him. Why should he fight for the forest if no one else would? He looked into his teacup as a tear escaped his eye. If he wasn’t with his Goddess, and he wasn’t protecting the forest, then why was he even in this world?

  Anger began to grow again inside him. This was a world that he’d helped build. It was his forest too! Why should he be kind and forgiving and cast aside while all those around him took what they wanted from him? He tossed the last of his tea into the fire and stood up, squinting into the distant sunrise. He allowed himself a grim smile. One last battle for his Goddess or damn them all. At least no one could say he hadn’t tried all that he could.

  With a wave of his hand, he doused the fire and stood at the edge of his clearing in the forest debris. He stretched and then sat down cross-legged. There was no hurry to prepare for the upcoming battle. He had pushed the soldiers so far back with his blasts, there was plenty of time before they arrived. He chuckled to himself. They should be in a fun mood to fight after the long run to the trees.

  He placed his bow in front of him and unwrapped it. He then pulled off his ever-present quiver and dumped its contents on the bow’s leather wrapping. Among the assortment of arrows that spilled out were some pieces of thick hide, a few balls of dark wool, a few extra bow strings and a set of sturdy leather arm and finger guards.

  He removed the old string from his bow, rolled it up, and tossed it into the quiver. He then picked up the pieces of hide. They were sleeves that fit over the tips of the bow and covered the broad flat recurve of the limbs. Next, he picked up a new string. Unlike the old string that was a long bundle of strands, this one was tightly braided. He threaded each end of the new string through the balls of wool. Finally, he looped an end of the string onto a notch at the tips of the bow.

  He tucked the arm and finger guard into the waist of his pants. Then he collected his arrows, placed them back into the quiver, and slung it over his shoulder as he stood. He caressed the bow for a moment, and then, for old time’s sake, he decided to string it by hand. He placed the bow between his legs and bent it forward. The wound in his back pinched and sent a spasm up his spine. He straightened his back and admonished himself for being so foolish. With an unspoken command, the bow easily strung itself for him.

  He gave a few test pulls, and then, with one final great pull, he released the empty string. Instead of the usual piercing crack, there was only a dull thud and fading hum. Satisfied, he smiled to himself. “Let’s go hunting dad, just like in the good old days.” He turned to step into the forest when a bite from Festor’s wound forced his leg to limp. He sighed. “Almost like the good old days.” He continued with the limp into the forest and, within a few steps, faded into its shadows.

  ***

  The prefect and his army poured down from the ridge on foot and spread across the barren land as they made the long disheartening run to the tree line. However instead of twinkling cataclysms falling from the sky, they were only greeted by the dark stillness of the looming trees. The men stopped a hundred yards before the forest and spread across the field of stumps in groups of ten or so. Within each group tall shield bearers stepped forward to create protective cover while archers behind them began lighting tar dipped arrows.

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  Over the night, the prefect had time to consider his commanders words. They may not have wizards to raze the forest, but they could still do decent work of setting it alight. He also had no wish to enter the realm of a mad sorcerer and fight him on his own terms. Nestled behind his own group of shield bearers, the prefect gave a shout for the archers to release a volley of flame high into the sky and deep into the towering trees.

  As the archers prepared a second round, a half dozen of the flaming arrows they sent streaked out of the dark woods and struck the shields before the captain. The shields ignited and the bearers were forced to drop them to pull out the flaming tar. Three of Syffox’s own arrows then whistled past the ears of the shield men. Two struck an archer on either side of the captain; the third jabbed into the ground between his feet.

  With a curse the captain order the shields raised aflame or not. He shook his head to his unseen opponent, whatever understanding this old man thought they had, it didn’t matter to him. He had a job to do. With a command, he ordered a second volley released into the forest.

  -

  Syffox watched with dismay as the flight of arrows flew over his head to ignite the forest behind him. This round landed closer than the previous. The prefect was trying to lead the fire forward and burn him out. Syffox appreciated the craftiness, but deep down, he was disappointed. It was as if all he’d said last night was for nothing.

  Setting the forest on fire would help attract the attention of his Goddess, though. Ultimately, Syffox knew he couldn’t really blame the prefect for the use of fire. He was a man of war and only doing as he was trained. Syffox smiled mischievously. It was time for some new lessons.

  As the prefect’s men fired a third wave off fire arrows, dark clouds swirled overhead to form a massive storm that released a downpour upon them. The prefect still shouted orders for arrows. The rain would not douse the burning tar. Unbeknownst to the prefect, controlling the fire was only part of Syffox’s intent for summoning the storm.

  An ear-splitting crackle reverberated from the far flank of the army. A lightning bolt struck a group of men, and they all fell to the ground. There was a second thunderous crack. This time a group dropped at the opposite side of the flank. A third and a fourth bolt of lightning boomed; more men at the edges collapsed. The prefect cursed out loud to Syffox and gave the call for his men to charge the forest.

  As the army ran, the lightning harassed them until they found safety inside the hushed gloom of the trees. The men’s footfalls were silenced by the damp ground, leaving the hiss of rain and distant crackling fire as the only sound around them. But it wasn’t long before the air was filled with cries of pain and men shouting.

  Syffox’s arrows came unannounced through the trees to strike the invaders. When soldiers would rush to where the arrows emanated, they would find nothing more than shadows. If instead of charging, they fired arrows at their hidden assailant, then the only reply was their own arrows being fired back at them.

  In the cover of the dark woods and with his magic, Syffox shifted silently and easily about the forest. Sometimes, he would strike from within the leaves of the treetops and sometimes from within the leaves of the bushes on the ground. All the while, he never strayed far from the prefect and only struck the soldiers to wound them in the legs or arms. He wanted to torment the prefect with the sounds of his injured men. If the prefect and his soldiers wanted to end this fight quickly, they would do better to pray to his Goddess than to fight him.

  Instead of praying or ending the fight, Syffox could hear shouts from the prefect ordering his men to slow down and take shelter. Now it was Syffox’s turn to curse. They were going to wait out his arrows until either he spent his magic, or the growing flames engulfed him. This was not turning out to be the epic battle he was looking for.

  Above the trees, the clouds of the storm grew menacing and swirled about. The winds howled and whipped the branches. The cries and yells of the prefect’s men were drowned out by creaking limbs, whipping leaves, and rushing wind. Then, with a sudden crack of snapping branches, the winds switched direction and the clouds twisted into a tight spiral. A great grey serpent slithered out from the sky and formed into a tornado that reached down into the forest, tearing apart trees and men alike. A god had finally taken notice of their battle.

  The prefect called for a retreat to any that could hear him over the roar of the voracious funnel, but there was no escaping. The wind and debris made it impossible to move. Rocks and splintered wood battered against the prefect as he wrapped his arms around a tree to stay upright. The smaller trees and scrub brush were ripped from the ground and were consumed by the tornado as it gouged towards him.

  With the undergrowth torn out, Syffox was exposed, standing not far away from where the prefect clung for life. He rooted his feet into the ground and held himself solidly against the raging wind, his bow still firmly clenched in his hand. He looked up at the funnel bearing down on them and then to the prefect.

  A defeated expression crossed Syffox’s face.

  The prefect’s grip was slipping. He dug his nails into the tree to hold on more tightly. Syffox raised his bow and fired an arrow. With a cry of pain, the arrow pierced through the prefect’s arms and bit deeply into the tree. The prefect was nailed in place, keeping Syffox’s promise that no more than necessary would die, even if it was for the wrong god.

  Syffox looked again up to the monstrous twisting finger of death. He closed his eyes with a final tear. “So be it Goddess.”

  The funnel swallowed him into oblivion.