Chapter Seven Dryad’khin

Chapter Seven Dryad’khin

Elloren Guryev

Noilaan

Yvan and I hold tight to each other. His fire sparks tempestuously against mine through our bond as we approach the portal’s

exit into the East, unsure of what level of chaos we might find there.

We emerge from one of the Verdyllion’s line of portals along with Soleiya and our other family members and allies.

Including the new Dryad’khin soldiers of Gardneria and Alfsigroth.

We pour out onto a hugely expansive, elevated ledge near the base of the half-decimated Vo Mountain Range, just west of Voloi.

I glance around, morbid unease shuddering through everyone’s power as we collectively assess the situation we’re met with.

The eastern bank of the Vo River is spread out before us, Erthia’s violent, unmoored weather tentatively held back by the

dome Tierney and her allies cast over the Vo and its bracketing land, a dome that they’ve managed to enlarge, its translucent

western side only a few paces behind us, their magic purpling the Vo’s waters.

“They did it,” Vothe marvels from where he stands in human form by Trystan, Wrenfir and his great-aunt Sithendrile bracketing

them. Vothe’s nostrils flare as he tilts his head. “I sense Tierney, Or’myr, and Viger’s power... and Fyordin Lir’s power

coming in from the far south... they managed to hold the Vo and its surrounding land.”

I nod then wince, a twinge of pain streaking through my injured ear. The throb along my torn ear’s apex is greatly reduced

after Yvan’s healing ministrations, but there’s no time for further healing, the trees surrounding us almost completely grayed,

the air chill and dank.

The Verdyllion is sheathed at my side, thrumming with the amplified energy from the rapid increase in Forest-linked Dryad’khin. The Shadow Wand is wrapped in several layers of buffering cloth and secured in Wynter’s tunic pocket.

But I’m tense, every nerve on high alert. Because the Shadow Wand’s subtle frisson of slithering energy is completely gone.

As if it’s hiding itself from us.

Wynter frowns down at her pocket, her eyes tinged with worry. “The Shadow Wand...” she says from beside Ariel “...its

power is strangely silent. It feels like it’s sunk into some type of evil dormancy.”

“I sense it too,” I respond as Sylvan, Yulan, Oaklyyn, Raz’zor, and Alder and many others, including Valasca and Ni Vin, set

about helping the severely weakened Dryad Fae who emerged from the Sublands. The Dryads stagger toward trees, seeking to bind

rapidly to the Vo Forest, kindreds rushing in to link to them, the Verdyllion’s energy having barely sustained the Tree Fae

when their Northern Forest was destroyed along with their kindreds.

I study the runic dome above us. Steel-hued knots of clouds churn violently just beyond it, dark, curving Shadow lightning

crackling through the tempest.

“Vogel’s Shadow corruption has slithered into the East’s unmoored weather,” Vang Troi states, glaring at the storm along with

Hizar’drile and Queen Freyja Zyrr.

I nod once more, ignoring my ear’s twinge. “The power holding up the Vo’s shielding... it’s wavering,” I warn, sensing

the great effort it’s taking Tierney and Or’myr to flow so much power into their shield from the far north, while Fyordin

Lir’s current of Asrai Fae power struggles to flow magic into it from the river’s far south.

A ripple of Deathkin Darkness eddies through my rootlines, and I tense, swept up in the fleeting sense of my Errilor Ravens’

auras coursing through me in a warning shudder, as I’m caught up in an awareness of the Deathkin collectively struggling to

hold Erthia’s Reckoning at bay.

“If the Vo River’s shield falls,” Wynter cautions, “the Shadow Wand will feed on the corruption flowing into the weather here

and amplify the chaos.”

“And a Reckoning will sweep over the entirety of Erthia,” Wrenfir bites out, his aura a lash of fire, fear edging into his

tone. “I can sense Hazel throwing every ounce of his power against it. But he’ll soon lose that fight.”

The awful truth of both Wynter’s and Wrenfir’s warnings lances through me, fear for my spark of a child resurfacing, both

Yvan and Soleiya protectively reaching out to me.

Soleiya was overjoyed to the point of breaking into tears when Yvan and I told her of the child taking root inside me, her fire aura steadily blazing around us both with a loving heat rivaled only by Yvan’s.

Large tendrils of Shadow curling through the storms catch my eye, my concern mushrooming. “I’m picking up what feels like

a line of Level Five wind magery amplifying the storms,” I warn. “Someone is actively pulling Shadow east .”

“I sense it too,” Vothendrile affirms.

Bleddyn curses, as I exchange a fraught glance with fellow power empath Vothe.

“Can you identify the power at play?” Andras asks.

Vothe and I shake our heads in frustration as we struggle to parse out who this remaining Mage enemy could be, a look of dogged

concentration tightening Vothe’s features.

Angry boom s suddenly sound against the Vo’s shield, wresting our attention, clusters of Shadowed clouds turning ghoulishly dark as their

curved, dark lightning strikes against the shield like a barrage of knives.

“Holy Vo,” Trystan breathes out just before three sick-looking Noi Herons fly out of the surrounding Vo Forest. They land

around Yulan and her heron kindred, traumatized looks in the graceful birds’ eyes, their lilac feathers and eyes edged in

gray.

Anguish brimming in her gaze, Yulan drops down and gently makes contact with the frightened herons, her expression tensing

before she lifts her gaze to meet ours. “This land has no chance of recovering if the weather cannot be rebalanced and stripped

of Shadow.”

“We need a mass planting of trees to drive off the Shadow,” Sylvan states from beside Iris. He pointedly holds up his III-marked

palm, the black Noi Fire Falcon kindred perched on Iris’s shoulder fluffing out its feathers, as if heralding their agreement.

“Our numbers have grown,” Sylvan says, “but we need the help of more Dryad’khin to have a chance of achieving this. Many , many more.”

He’s right, I empathically sense. But it will be an almost impossible challenge to quickly align the East with the Forest.

I zero in on the desperate chaos of the riverbank spread out before us in the distance. It’s covered, just covered , with a refugee tent city, Noilaan’s towering runic border just beyond, a large Vu Trin military presence visible before

it.

Luminous runic portals the Verdyllion crafted are scattered throughout the refugee encampment, and I can just make out the lines of Western refugees streaming out of them, new portals popping into existence faster than the knots of Vu Trin military can explode them into sapphire mist. I draw in a harsh breath, hit by the daunting reality of such huge numbers of people fleeing the Shadow horrors of the West, only to find themselves in the hostile East.

There’s a stark look in Gwynn’s golden eyes as she grips Mavrik’s arm. “Ancient One, Mavrik. Do you think my parents could

be amongst those people portaling in?”

Mavrik’s invisible lines of twinned magic embrace her more intently. “If they are,” he responds, “we’ll find them.”

“That refugee encampment,” Yvan says, exchanging a charged look with me, “it’s already at least ten times larger than it was

last time we were here.”

“It’s about to get a lot larger,” Jules interjects, a troubled current flowing through the water aura Lucretia is streaming around him.

Vang Troi’s aura gives a visible sapphire flare. “Well, it’s time to stir up the chaos a bit more.” Vang Troi turns to Hizar’drile

and Queen Freyja. The three of them conjure voice amplification runes and set about directing the bulk of our forces—along

with the Smaragdalfar army—to remain here to protect the recovering Dryad Fae and other rescued Subland civilians. They direct

the Mage and Alfsigr Dryad’khin who have abandoned the Shadow to remain here, as well, to avoid giving the appearance of a

military invasion when a segment of our forces portal into Noilaan.

With that accomplished, Vang Troi recharges her voice-amplification rune and succinctly commands a small portion of our original

army forward.

We make our way off the ledge and through the Vo Forest, eventually emerging from the tree line to stride into the tent city.

Gasps rise all around us as we enter the encampment, people recoiling with evident fear as we follow Vang Troi through the

sea of emaciated-looking refugees, many of the surrounding Kelt, Urisk, Elfhollen, Ishkart, and Verpacian people clearly thrown

by the point-eared Dryad-Fae appearance of myself and the other Mages among us, as well as the astonishing purple Strafeling

aura encircling Sparrow and flowing out to embrace Thierren beside her, Thierren’s arm defiantly wrapped around Sparrow’s

shoulders.

Naga leads our horde of Western Wyverns in her onyx-scaled human form, the wounds on my horde mates’ wings splinted and stitched with Lasair healing fire, their cores of fire rapidly strengthening. Oaklyyn remains staunchly by Raz’zor’s side, his pale arm wrapped around her for support, his left wing dragging.

A spark of worry for him ignites through my fireline, and he turns to me.

I will rise again in strength , he hisses through me, eyes burning red-hot, as will Erthia . He bares his teeth, and some of my worry dampens.

The refugees’ disquieted murmuring gains momentum as we move, en masse, toward Noilaan’s enormous runic border, which runs

along the edge of the Vo’s western bank, the Goddess Vo’s starbright dragon form emblazoned on its expanse.

I glance up toward the border wall’s high apex with trepidation that I feel mirrored in the flow of Yvan’s fire around mine.

“That wall is twice as high as it was before,” Yvan hisses in Wyvern.

A hard blaze of concern sizzles through our bond. We take in the Vu Trin military ships and skiffs darting along the runic

border wall’s upper edge, a thick band of soldiers lining the wall’s base. How will we peacefully get past this and bring the East into alliance with the Natural World before the brewing Shadow attack breaks through?

“Wyn Juun!” Trystan calls out, breaking into my dire thoughts.

Following my brother’s line of sight, I spot an elderly Noi priest approaching, a purple Noi Starling perched on his shoulder.

The priest clearly recognizes Trystan, a palpable warmth entering his dark eyes. Wyn Juun is garbed in the holy garments of

the Eastern Realm’s Vo’lon faith, his tunic’s worn, sapphire fabric embroidered with Vo’s twelve dragon manifestations, each

dragon a different color. His long, snow-hued beard is tied in a knot below his chin, a cloth marked with a purple Xishlon

moon tied around his arm.

My heart twists as I take in the gravely ill Mage baby Wyn Juun is cradling in his arms. Yvan and his mother immediately launch

forward to lay their hands on the baby, but I know his Lasair healing power is not equal to the vicious Grippe, even Yvan’s

immense Lasair might holding only enough magic to slightly alleviate the Grippe’s cruel symptoms.

The baby’s eyes and mouth are encrusted with sores, the child struggling for breath through dangerously congested lungs. Wyn

Juun looks pointedly down at the baby, then back at us, determination on his face as he raises his palm to us, displaying

the mark of III.

The energy of alliance shocks through both Yvan’s and my fire as well as Trystan’s and Soleiya’s and through the power of my Dryad’khin surrounding us as we raise III-marked palms to the priest in instant, mutual recognition. The motion is echoed by a number of refugees moving toward us, a multitude of kindreds closing in with them. I cast Hizar’drile an appreciative look.

“Well done, Hizar’drile,” Queen Freyja Zyrr says. “Those Wyverns you sent out to bring people to the Forest seem to have made

inroads.”

A deeper astonishment takes hold as I notice how many of these new Dryad’khin refugees are Mages and now possess the pointed ears and deeper forest green hue of Dryad Fae. A large number of them are also wearing the same

Xishlon moon–marked armband that Wyn Juun sports. And the scattered Alfsigr refugees I can make out all possess a pale green

Dryad’khin tint to their alabaster coloration.

The Forest’s call for everyone to align being taken up by so many new allies.

But my tenuous spark of hope is doused as I notice how many of the refugees are sick, many quite ill with the Grippe, Dryad’khin

and non-Dryad’khin alike.

Bleddyn shoots me an alarmed look. “Holy hells,” she exclaims, “Elloren... these people need care. Immediately. ”

My own concern gains traction as a chorus of congested coughing sounds all around us, our newly established Dryad’khin bonds

with the surviving Natural World not able to heal the Grippe on their own.

A remembrance of the huge expanse of Norfure flowers I came upon in the Zhilaan Forest surfaces, just before Vogel captured

me, my urgency sliding into a heated rebellion. There’s no reason for anyone to suffer from this sickness. We know how to

treat it. All we lack is the will.

And that needs to change.

Now.

“You have joined with us, Wyn Juun,” Vang Troi somberly greets the priest as my uncle Wrenfir draws up beside us and glances

around at the sick people with an expression of abject horror.

“It is true that I have become Dryad’khin,” Wyn Juun affirms. “As have so many here. More each passing hour...”

“These people need medicine ,” Wrenfir snarls, cutting him off, fire blazing through my uncle’s rootlines and practically spitting off his skin. “They

need Norfure tincture immediately .”

Wyn Juun turns his dark eyes toward my uncle. “They do,” he agrees before both he and the purple starling on his shoulder glance up at the border wall. Wyn Juun’s gaze narrows, as if he’s sizing up a potent and insurmountable enemy. “But our new Vo Conclave wants all those here to return to the West.”

A growl bursts from Diana’s throat. “The West would be a death sentence!” she snarls, my Lupine sister’s amber eyes ablaze

as she takes in the sick baby, the look of misery in the Mage child’s bloodshot eyes positively heartbreaking.

“Access to medicine could cure this child in a day ,” Wrenfir stresses.

“We need to get these children and the others who need help to the Sublands,” Ra’Ven urges as a crack of Shadow thunder booms

overhead, the dank air growing chillier. “They shouldn’t be exposed to the elements like this, especially with the power of

the shielding above us dissipating.”

Wyn Juun gives Ra’Ven a hard look. “The Vo Conclave has magically walled off the Sublands with the Smaragdalfar Elves’ own

Varg magic. There’s no getting in or out.”

A lethal glint enters Ra’Ven’s gaze. “They’re still warring with my people? With the Shadow about to break into the East and destroy everything ?”

“Holy gods,” Sage says to Ra’Ven, alarm flashing through her eyes and power, “Fyn’ir and Fern... and so many others...

they’re all imprisoned there.”

“Effrey’s likely trapped underground, as well,” Sparrow cuts in, giving Thierren a tortured look, her violet aura taking on

a static, martial energy.

“Elloren.”

Aislinn’s shocked voice beside me draws my attention, my Lupine sister’s hand clamping around my arm. I turn and take in Aislinn’s

stunned, amber gaze as she stares into the crowd before us, her concern mirrored in Jarod’s gaze. “My family ...” she stammers.

“Linnie!” a stout, conservatively dressed young Mage woman calls out as she rushes toward Aislinn.

Recognition hits.

Aislinn’s sister, Auralie. Utterly transformed. I remember her beaten-down appearance when I met her at Verpax University

on Founder’s Day. But now, her green eyes blaze with purpose, and she wears a Xishlon Moon Resistance band tied around her

black sleeve, a gravely ill child who looks to be about six years old in her arms.

It’s Erin , I realize, my heart painfully clenching. Aislinn’s niece. So bubbly and full of life when I last saw her, excited about

a new kitten and her marble collection. Now, there are Grippe sores all over Erin’s face, her black hair dirty and matted,

her pale green face scarily gaunt as she struggles to breathe.

“Ancient One,” Aislinn cries, lurching toward them. “Erin...”

Erin takes one look at Aislinn and lets out a congested whimper, then recoils when her bloodshot eyes turn toward Jarod. “He

turned you into a wolf monster !” Erin cries.

Aislinn gives Jarod a devastated look, and he immediately takes a careful step back so as not to further spook the child.

“Don’t be afraid, sweet one,” Aislinn insists in a gentle, fractured tone as she turns back to the child. “I’m still Auntie

Aislinn. And Jarod—” she motions to him “—he’s my mate. We want to help you.”

Erin only cries harder and shakes her head in emphatic refute, choking on tears that quickly devolve into hacking coughs.

Aislinn looks imploringly to Auralie, her tone turning desperate. “Where’s Liesbeth? And the rest of the children? Are they

ill too?”

Auralie’s face hardens. “I had to practically throw them into the escape portals. The West has become a nightmare. The weather’s

gone wild, skies so gray it’s like a stormy night all the time. The crops have all failed. There’s no food, Linnie. Or medicine.

And Shadow monsters... they’re everywhere . All manner of multi-eyed creatures. But Liesbeth is still terrified to be here . She’s convinced we’ve fallen into one of the Ancient One’s hells and will be massacred at any moment by the Evil Ones, you

included. Our children—almost all of them are sick. Erin’s got the worst of it. Linnie, we need your help.”

“I’ll help these children,” Wrenfir offers, stepping forward. “I’m an apothecary. I have a few vials of the medicine they

need in my laboratory in Voloi—”

“Get away from my child!”

We all turn as Aislinn’s sister Liesbeth pushes through the crowd, making for us like the Ancient One’s own avenger. Her transformation

is as shocking as Auralie’s. Gone is Liesbeth’s perfectly put-together, zealous, Styvian poise. Her form is skeletal, her

hue a pale, sickly green, fear stark in her eyes as she takes in Aislinn, Jarod, and Wrenfir, and then me and Yvan.

Liesbeth grabs desperate hold of Erin and moves to flee from us.

“Stop!” Wrenfir implores, and Liesbeth startles and turns, terror and rage in her eyes. Wrenfir takes a step toward her, his fire

aura turning fiercely protective, great, glowing strands of it flowing out to encircle both Erin and the baby in Wyn Juun’s

arms. “Please,” Wrenfir begs, my uncle’s usually caustic tone more impassioned than I’ve ever heard it. “I had this disease as a child,”

he says, voice splintering. “I know what it’s like to struggle for breath. We are not what you think we are. We are this child’s last chance . I’m an apothecary. A good one. Let me help her .”

A tortured expression overtakes Liesbeth’s face as her eyes lock with my uncle’s, conflict warring in them. And then, shockingly,

she gives him a quick nod of assent before her eyes flutter closed and she collapses.

Yvan, Wrenfir, Aislinn, Soleiya, and Jarod all spring forward to catch both Liesbeth and a sobbing, coughing Erin. A semiconscious

Liesbeth winds up in Jarod’s arms, Yvan’s hands pressed to her temples, and a terrified Erin in Wrenfir’s arms while Aislinn

murmurs soothingly to the child.

Wrenfir glares at us all, his power striking to wildfire heights through his rootlines as he cradles Erin, looking as if he’d

walk through hell’s own fury to save her. “I need to get to my lab in Voloi. Right now! ”

Bootsteps sound, and we turn to find a contingent of Vu Trin marching toward us, swords drawn. Their eyes scan us before zeroing

in on me, then Yvan, and then Soleiya with evident surprise before narrowing on Vang Troi.

“The Black Witch and her allies are wanted by the Vo Conclave,” the lead soldier firmly declares, the expression on her angular

face severe as she glares at us all.

“Good,” Vang Troi shoots back, her aura pulsing with lethal sapphire light, both her hands around the hilts of her sheathed

swords. “We need to speak with them.”

“And we’re taking these children and this ill woman with us,” Soleiya insists, her gaze spitting fire.

“I’m ready to blast right through your border wall to get them the help they need,” Yvan warns as he draws back from a tenuously

stabilized Liesbeth and fans his wings combatively out. There’s a vehement glow in Yvan’s narrowed eyes, his internal fire

ratcheting hotter.

“We’ll join you in that inferno,” Naga hisses, her golden gaze burning bright as my horde moves in around us.

Vang Troi gives Yvan, Naga, and Soleiya a look of agreement before pinning her steely gaze once more on the Vu Trin. “We stand

with Yvan and Soleiya Guryev and Naga the Unbroken’s horde in this demand,” she states, her lips lifting in a slight smile.

“So, you’d best lead the way, Noi’khin.”