The Dryad’s Sacrifice

  First Novella of the Sylvan Prelude series

  Alycia Christine

  Purple Thorn Press

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The Dryad’s Sacrifice copyright © 2015 by Alycia Christine

  Skinshifter excerpt copyright © 2015 by Alycia Christine

  Cover illustration and design by Alycia Christine

  Cover copyright © 2015 by Purple Thorn Press

  THE DRYAD’S SACRIFICE. Published by Purple Thorn Press. Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher except for brief passages excerpted for review and critical purposes. Please contact Purple Thorn Press for more information. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Purple Thorn Press books may be purchased for educational, business, or for sales and promotional use. Please contact Purple Thorn Press for more information.

  Purple Thorn Press logo designed by Alycia Christine.

  Alycia Christine

  http://alyciachristine.com/

  Purple Thorn Press

  http://purplethornpress.com/

  ISBN 978-1-941588-31-4

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Contents

  Dedication

  The Dryad’s Sacrifice

  Prologue

  Chapter I: An Initiation Quest

  Chapter II: Crossing the Gorge

  Chapter III: The Fireforger’s Final Plea

  Chapter IV: Gifts and Sacrifices

  Chapter V: The Griffin Aerie

  Chapter VI: A Desperate Journey

  Chapter VII: Saboteur

  Chapter VIII: To Arms!

  Chapter IX: Of Love and Betrayal

  Chapter X: Entrapment

  Chapter XI: Crawhmongue

  Epilogue

  Extras:

  Meet the Author

  Author Interview

  Skinshifter Excerpt

  Also by Alycia Christine

  Subscribe to the Newsletter

  To sisters, in blood, in law, and in bond.

  Prologue

  I sit with my good hand shielding my eyes from the cheerful light of the glowing lichen orbs sitting on the mage’s makeshift desk. I am too weary to feel anything beyond the steady throbbing of my broken leg as it stretches out on the bed before me.

  “Eliza.”

  The remembered sounds of war drown out my whisper as I stare at the blackness of my eyelids. I squeeze my eyes against the sudden tears gathering at their corners and sigh in frustration.

  “Why don’t you begin at the beginning?” Jocelana says gently.

  I lower my hand and stare at her a moment. Her head is still wrapped in a linen bandage, although it is smaller than the one she wore the first day we met. She looks as tired and worn with grief as I do, but she smiles her encouragement nonetheless.

  For a moment, I try to speak and hear no sound. Then all at once, the words come—tumbling from my mouth like a river no longer barred by a dam and I feel a sudden freedom in my thoughts’ confession.

  “I barely remember my sister’s smiling face, just the sweet scent of her green feet when she would run through the grass and leaves without sandals. I think of her often, especially when the wind cries like an injured bird among the leaves of my birth tree at twilight. Then I climb high among the boughs and sing out her name in time with the rhythm of the distant whispering pines. Sometimes the forest will call back to me, but most often the trees and breeze simply stop their ceaseless swaying for a moment out of respect for that which was lost and can never be found.

  “I seek the comfort of my home in my birth oak then—merging with its core and snuggling deep beneath its protective bark all the way to the roots in search of solace. Such peace is difficult to find even when I burrow so deep. And still the echoes of her quiet laughter tease me with every rustle of my home oak’s leaves.

  “It was shocking to see the lifeless state of her birth oak, and it will be more terrible still to gaze at the towering pine marking her final resting place, but I will make the pilgrimage between trees nonetheless to strengthen my resolve against our enemies. I will walk each spruce-length barefoot so that I can better remember our brief time together and tell others once again about the thrill of adventure and the fear of being hunted that early autumn day…”

  Chapter I

  An Initiation Quest

  Come along quick! You mustn’t be late for the Glen Council,” our elder sister Qaressa urged us.

  We had donned our traditional initiate robes, which were white linen and festooned with little besides braided green cord belts. Nevertheless Qaressa had fussed over Eliza and me in her usual manner—fretting over every little detail. Now we had to run to the meeting ground below the dryads’ sacred Millennial Oak just to be on time. Eliza was glaring at the leaves now stuck to the hem of her gown as we sprinted over the grass.

  “When you greet the Council of Sisters, be sure to bow properly and give your thanks for your admittance. Not everyone has the opportunity to quest so early in their maturing cycle. Why I myself did not quest until the —”

  “Last third of your cycle. Yes, yes, we know!” Eliza said. We had already heard this story twice this morning after all.

  “Humph! Well, I never!”

  “Don’t be cross, Eliza,” I said between breaths while precariously holding my skirts off the forest floor. “Please excuse her, Elder Sister. She is just nervous about going before the Council, as am I.”

  Qaressa smiled then. “No, do not worry, don’t worry at all. I am certain you will both do fine. Why, I remember when Gwinetha went on her quest. An absolute shambles that journey was…she didn’t even make the trek to the foothills of Mount Denth sol Dyvesé before she became so fearful that she had to turn back. A bad situation, if you ask me…”

  Of course I had not asked at all, but I nodded politely and tried not to listen as Qaressa recounted some of the more gruesome details of our sister dryad’s latest failed quest. There was no stopping Qaressa when she wanted to gossip.

  I could tell that Eliza had a more difficult time ignoring our sister elder’s harangue than I did because her palms were sweating so much by the time we reached the Glen Council that she had to surreptitiously dry them on the underskirts of her white robe.

  “Ah, there you are, Eliza, Ella. Navaia thulus!” Queen Mother Betha Etheal said when we had positioned ourselves at the clearing entrance.

  “Navaia thulus, Queen Mother,” we greeted her in unison.

  “Come, come, approach for your counsel.”

  We both bowed respectfully to our ruler and then approached at a half-bow as we had been taught. Queen Mother Betha motioned us to fully stand as she and the Glen Council members debated on our merits for a quest. My sister and I were two of the best sproutsingers among the sapling-aged mages. That fact, however, did not prevent my own palms from sweating as they all methodically discussed each of our personal weaknesses and strengths in turn. Of particular concern was our young age. Most dryad Initiation Quests did not occur until the candidates in question had lived at least sixteen winters while I, as the youngest sister, was only nearing my fourteenth. Our youth was the single factor which had tied the council’s previous voting session and I hoped it would not bode ill for us today.

  “Very well, my sisters, what say you? Those in favor?”

  “Yea,” said six of the ten.

  “Those opposed?”

  “Nay,” answered four.

  “Let the votes be marked in the records as favorable for Ella and Eliza Etheal’s quest.”

  “So shall it be,” the council members intoned as the scribe set down the outcome in her volume of the Leaf Records.

  “Very well, your quest shall begin at dawn two days hence. You are dismissed to gather any supplies needed for the journey to Mount Denth sol Dyvesé. May the Creator bless you on your journey and may the bright spark of Aribem continually guide your path in mind, body, and soul.”

  *

  Packing our basic survival tools did not take long; however, packing the nonessentials required far more deliberate thought. I finally decided to carefully prune small branches from my birth oak tree and rolled them into a fagot with pieces of older bark and leaves. It was important to me to take a bit of home wherever I went and this seemed the least difficult way to do it. Of course my birth-sister had other ideas and simply peeled a large section of bark off of a dying limb of her own home tree. I winced as she did so, knowing how much pain the act caused her and her oak. Somehow she finished the process without shedding more than a single tear and then joined me in packing our rucksacks for our first unaccompanied journey beyond Dryad Territory.

  Our farewell the next morning was courteous but brief. We were brought before the council to announce the contents of our packs for the council’s approval. Once they gave their final consent, we expressed our gratitude and bowed our way from the Council Tree and the Glen clearing. We left the dryad fortress of Mount Sol’ece by the South Gateway and trekked east toward the bog country mainly inhabi
ted by the naiads, ogres, and kelpies.

  “What is the point of taking the South Gate when our true destination lies in the north, Ella?” Eliza asked once we were well away from the enclave. She might be the eldest, but I was the best at navigation.

  I frowned, looking between the map and the terrain ahead. “I think all dryads must go this way to avoid trespassing too deeply into the werecat clans’ territory. The southern route allows us to skirt around the naiads’ lake.”

  “So we must instead infringe upon the naiads’ lands then? That makes not an acorn’s weight of sense, sister.”

  I shrugged and stared back at my thick papyrus map. “The naiads are a strange people. They would just as soon drown their allies as help them, some say. In any event, we cannot cross their lake without their consent nor can we tarry on the shore. The lake’s wasp willows would surely sting us to death if we stray within range of their barbed tentacles.”

  “I hate those retched things,” Eliza growled. “Very well, what trail must we take to avoid upsetting allies and inviting enemies?”

  I pointed to a faint mark on the map and traced its trail to the Nyghe sol Dyvesé Mountain Range. Eliza stared after my pale-green finger. “You want to use the Ancient’s Trail of Retreat? Are you mad?”

  “Perhaps, but it would be the most direct route to the mountain. I know the road is sound because we used part of it the last time I accompanied Qaressa on a trading visit to the werewolves.”

  “That’s just eerie,” she muttered.

  “What? The trail’s history? Oh, come now, there are no Asheken deadwalkers or poltergeists on it now. Or are you afraid of a little history lesson?”

  “Neither. I was speaking of your having to travel with Qaressa, of all beings.” She shuddered dramatically.

  I nudged her in the ribs, but smirked nonetheless. “She’s not that bad.”

  Eliza rolled her light-brown eyes. “No, she just annoys everyone she meets. I’m surprised you two weren’t roasted for the werewolves evening eat!”

  I laughed. “Werewolves don’t eat the flesh of beings, but in her case they might make an exception.”

  The thought gave us both good cheer as we hiked into the darker parts of the Sylvan Forest.

  *

  Our first night was mostly uneventful. We slept cradled in the boughs of an old elm tree with the bundles of our own birth oaks pulled close for comfort. The effect was almost as good as being home. The morning’s dawn brought the fresh scent of dew-doused vegetation to our nostrils. That glorious smell roused our empty stomachs and brought us to our feet even before our eyelids had fully fluttered open. We chewed happily on the gold-tipped elm leaves and the sweet grasses crowding the base of the tree before gathering our knapsacks and crossing the worn, stone boundary wall into the Ten Fang Marshes.

  The marshes were named after the ancient Battle of Ten Fangs fought between the allied werewolf clans and the vampire coven of Zjalíchí—the Long Fangs. The battle raged for ten days before a werewolf skinshifter mage managed to sneak behind enemy lines in full wolf form and slay the coven’s founder Lord Churn. Many of the coven’s members scattered after that, but nine more vampires were destroyed before they could escape.

  I stared at the crumbling wall, which now scarcely topped my shoulder. Our clan histories all said that the wall had originally stood a good half of a spruce-length tall. Now it was barely a twelfth of that. I peered past the tumbled gray stones and flaking white mortar into the marshes beyond. How different they must have looked during those days of glorious battle—before the vampires’ deadwalker Taint had poisoned the land!

  The recent summer rains had left the hunting trail threading through the marshes impassible in places, so my sister and I spent much of our time bounding from tree limb to limb instead of sprinting along the ground. Despite the extra work, I was grateful to be high above the soggy ground in the added concealment of the trees.

  I disliked this wood. The trees that formed our impromptu walkway were gnarled and hunched, their bark black with swamp grime and decay. All around me, I sensed a world still deeply scarred by the collisions of war. Although this place had seen hundreds of winters since the Battle of Ten Fangs, I still felt the lingering sickness of the land long after the deadwalkers’ absence. It frightened me.

  When I tried to explain my growing agitation to my sister, Eliza simply laughed at me. “Don’t be such a squalling little seedling, Ella,” she told me. “The vampires and their slaves have long since been expelled from this place. We have enough worries on this trek without you adding phantasms to the trail.”

  I nodded and tried to calm my unsettled nerves. Even so, we slept huddled together in a single hammock high in a waterlogged Poplar tree that night. Eliza claimed that she wanted to do so for warmth, but I knew better. Ever since we entered this abysmal swamp, I felt the growing sensation of unfriendly eyes watching us among the trees and I knew she felt it, too. I only hoped that our observers were naiads and not ogres, since the former were far less territorial than the latter.

  “Don’t worry,” Eliza whispered to me as she wrapped her slender arms gently around my shivering shoulders and pulled me closer to the comfort of the tree’s craggy gray trunk. “We should be out of this dim swamp and onto drier ground tomorrow.”

  I nodded as I heard the rolling splash of a sawtooth below our tree. The reptile had just caught a wading bird and was now happily drowning its newest meal among the red reeds. I cuddled closer to Eliza as the beast started its death-roll and the bird’s last piteous squawks were silenced. Of all of my eighteen kin sisters, I was fondest of Eliza. Despite being so close in age, she and I rarely fought with each other. Instead we usually found ourselves allied against everyone else in the family. I was so grateful to have her with me on my Initiation Quest now. Her presence made me feel braver.

  Chapter II

  Crossing the Gorge

  The warm autumn light filtered through the trees as we made our way out of the swamps and onto the rolling hills preceding the Nyghe sol Dyvesé Mountains. The Hunter’s Path led us northeast just beyond the hawthorn hedgerows marking the werewolf clan territory borders. Occasionally, we heard the long double-howl of a sentry as he marked our progress along the outskirts of his race’s domain. Twice we glimpsed a furry gray face peer around vegetation at us before silently disappearing.

  Eliza expected a challenge, but none came until we reached the Nyghe Gap within sight of the pine-cloaked mountain range itself. As we neared the narrow gorge, Eliza and I spotted a lone werewolf standing before the entrance of the gap’s only bridge. Like all the others of his odd race, the male stood upright on his back paws and gripped his battle axe in clawed front paws that looked almost like hands.

  “Do we draw our weapons?” I asked Eliza.

  She subtly shook her head. “He might appear to be alone, but he is not. Keep your sickle within easy reach, but do not draw it unless absolutely necessary. If you show aggression, the pack will respond in kind. The last thing we want to do is incite a clan war.”

  I nodded as she greeted the muscular male. “A golden morning to you, My Sir.”

  “And to you, My Young Madam,” he said, returning our bow of greeting. “I am Fenraz of the Bardrick Clan of werewolves. What brings you to this hallowed place?” The werewolf towered over both of us, the bottom of his ribs stationed just level with Ella’s forehead. He was covered from his pointed ears to his clawed back paws with shaggy black fur. He was clearly a formidable gatekeeper, and yet his keen pair of golden-green eyes peered at the pair of us with a strangely gentle curiosity.

  “I am called Eliza; this is my sister Ella. We have come to lay a Sol’ece flower in tribute at the mouth of Aribem’s Spring, My Sir.”

  “Ah, you are on quest then.”

  Eliza nodded. “We are.”

  “So young,” Fenraz frowned. “So young a pair to be granted such a perilous task.”

  Eliza and I watched him silently.

  “By what right and privilege do you seek the Sylvan Savior’s hallowed mountain?” the black werewolf finally asked us.

  “By the grace allotted to us through Aribem’s fiery sacrifice.”

  The werewolf bobbed his head. “Correct. You may proceed. A word of warning, however: we who guard the mountain have seen odd things occur of late.”