Sylvi Narin

The Upper Branches

The World Tree

 

“How much longer do you think they’ll need, Miss?”

“Just a little longer, I think.” Sylvi assured the squirrel-rider. “Sorry, Sir!”

“It’s alright, lass.” The man sighed. “These horticultural types sure take their time, though, don’t they?”

Sylvi chuckled awkwardly as she rubbed the back of her neck. “Yeah…sorry.”

As the sun came up that morning, Sylvi tightened her scarf as her hooded fall coat wasn’t shielding her from the brisk morning breeze as much as she had liked.

I knew I should have worn the winter coat instead, she thought to herself.

The fact that Sylvi was half-human and half frost elf—a periwinkle blue elf native to the Jördlands—wasn’t doing her any favours either. At the altitudes they were at, the frigid winds were simply murder, even in Autumn, even for her. She had black hair that was blowing about in her face, and freckles on her face, not that anyone could see much of them with how she had covered most of her face with her scarf by that point.

Thankfully, Branch’s End isn’t up this high. Oh, boy! I’m looking forward to getting back to my cozy old fireplace when I get back home tonight…

Sylvi was excited to see the chief horticulturist, though. He was a Human—an Imagebearer—by the name of Esko, and he had been an old family friend that she hadn’t seen in a while. This was mainly because of the duties that came with his profession, and also because of the duties that came with her own job as one of the Queen’s handmaidens. And so, she was very excited to meet with him—so excited that she had prepared a special brew of her mother’s old tea recipe that she placed in a thermos, as well as a basket of her mother’s special sugar-toasted bread rolls.

“Watch your step there, Olaf!” came a voice from somewhere in the distance. “There’s a ton of ice on these steps. I keep saying to the queen and the wardens that we should have a team dedicated to maintaining the walkways but—”

“Oh! Over here! Hello, Esko!” Sylvi called over. Being sure to mind her step, she walked across the bark to meet with the assessment team as they made their way down a staircase that was carved into the trunk of the tree and went deeper in the higher up one went on them.

“Oh, there she is.” The man leading the team down the steps smiled. Esko was a rather lanky human wearing a pair of goggles, a fur coat, a warm-looking hat, and he was carrying a large backpack. The rest of the team behind him were wearing similar outfits. “Hello, Sylvi! Didn’t keep you waiting too long, did we?”

“I don’t mind, Esko!” Sylvi said, giving Esko a great big bear hug. “Although, the gentleman over there that gave me a ride up here might say a bit differently.” She pointed back to the man sitting his saddle as he scratched the ears of his giant squirrel.

“Is that, Cedar? Ah, he’s fine! Look, Sylvi, it’s great to see you again, but we should make haste for my office…I’ll make this quick…we’ve got some bad news.”

 

*

 

The Chief Horticultural Examiner’s Office

Branch’s End

 

“Wait…what are you saying, Esko?” Sylvi demanded shortly they had all returned to Esko’s office. “What about her powers? Magic shouldn’t even be a factor for the World Tree—her ability to negate it should do just that—negate it!”

“It’s the truth, Sylvi.” Said Esko, sitting down in his armchair. “I don’t know why, but for whatever reasoning, the withering or weakening sense that has haunted the Queen Tree for some time now is only getting worse. We did a full assessment too: a visual inspection, a thorough diagnostic test, and we even examined her past growth records…she’s fading on us, Sylvi. And worse than that, we believe that The World Tree is slowly being overcome by dreamblight.”

Sylvi took a step back upon hearing this diagnosis as what she could only describe as a cold heaviness expanded in her core, bringing pain to her chest.

The Dreamblight was a magical illness as prevalent in Enchantyon as cancer. It all stemmed from the same place, but reached across the continent and—as far as anyone knew—the entire world. When one fell prey to this particularly cruel, ancient, and chance bewitchment, the victim in question would fall into a deep slumber that would last for an untold amount of time. The magical ailment would make their bodies immortal to aging, but they would be comatose—lost to loved ones—possibly for centuries. All the while, a light blue aura of light would hang around them, not all too different from that of the Northern Lights.

It should not be possible for Aslauga—The World Tree herself, with all of her power—to fall prey to this.

“What am I supposed to tell her?” Sylvi whispered. “What am I supposed to say?”

“You don’t need to say anything, Sylvi.” Then Esko pulled out a large scroll out from one of his bags and handed it out to her. “Just pass this on to her. It’s my full diagnostic report on her condition. She can read it for herself. Just make sure it gets straight to her, alright?”

“Yes, of course…oh, Esko. This is terrible…”

“I know, lass, I know. But cheer up, eh? Me and the lads are going to do everything we can to find a solution to this. We’ll think of something, I’m sure. And, lass? As far as telling anyone goes, remember to keep this one on a strictly need-to-know basis.”

After they finished talking and had finished the small meal that Sylvi had brought with her, the two hugged and said their goodbyes for the time being. On her way back to the Palace Chambers that the Dryad Queen resided in, Sylvi wished that Aslauga truly was as omniscient as a few of the residents of Vinterlund tended to think she was regarding the state of affairs in her realm. That way, she didn’t have to be the bearer of bad news.

When she made it back and the guards let her inside, she was quickly met by was a human woman who was looking at her impatiently. This woman—named Ingrid—was the World Tree’s senior handmaiden.

“You’re late.” Said Ingrid. She held out a single hand, eyeing the scroll in Sylvi’s own hands.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Nan…” Sylvi said, handing over the scroll.

Ingrid was Sylvi’s Nan on her father’s side. She was a very strict woman who was determined to have Sylvi be a member of Aslauga’s court of handmaidens. This way, she wouldn’t have to worry about Sylvi getting injured out on the battlefield. Again.

“…What?” Her Nan’s face paled as she read the contents of the scroll. “Have you told anyone about this? Have you?”

“What? No, Nan, I haven’t,” Sylvi replied, folding her arms. “Why would I do that?”

Her Nan didn’t answer. Instead, she rolled the scroll back up and said, “I’ll deliver this to Her Majesty. You go on and finish up your chores for the day.”

“What? But, Nan, I wanted to ask Aslauga about—”

“Stop it!” Nan hushed her. “Be quiet and do as I say. Honestly. Twenty-something years old and you still whine like a child. Go on now. Off with you. I’ll see you later on.”

 

*

 

Aslauga, The World Tree

The Province of Vinterlund

The Jördlands

 

Aslauga’s throne room was typically a buzz with traffic, even outside of official audiences—not that she minded this at all. In fact, she encouraged it. The World Tree enjoyed having her inhabitants be comfortable with her presence—so much so that she had even allowed them to build entire settlements in her branches and in the various caverns of her tree’s body over the centuries. Her royal court preoccupied themselves with their various tasks as their ethereal matron watched them all from her tall throne.

Aslauga—in her dryad form—was sitting on her emerald throne. At that moment, she was a ten-foot-tall image of winter woodland regency; a crown made of frost-covered leaves adorned her head. She had straight, luscious black hair that flowed down past her shoulders and perfectly framed her flawless, pale, and diamond-shaped face. Aslauga’s eyes were a captivating grey, and she wore the finest of robes made from the cozy and toothed furs of a monstrous man-eating tree that had once terrorized a part of her lands before she felled it herself.

“Milady.” came a voice from somewhere below her.

Aslauga looked down, and standing next to her throne, reaching the height of her knees, was a human woman, Ingrid, who was looking up at her patiently. Ingrid was her senior-most handmaiden, and grandmother to one of her other handmaidens. And while Ingrid had been by Aslauga’s side from a very young age, Aslauga couldn’t help but note a hint of nervousness in her handmaiden’s eyes as she approached the throne.

“What’s the matter, Ingrid?” Aslauga asked. “How can I help?”

“…Excuse me, milady. I don’t mean to interrupt your thinking. However, my granddaughter has just returned with news from the horticultural expedition and…please, have a look see.”

The old woman reached up to pass her a scroll. Upon taking it and reading it, a wave of dizziness passed over her, and Aslauga was grateful that she was already sitting. Then, as the moment passed, another feeling altogether settled in: it was a feeling of resentment—a dropping sensation that was compacted with a numbing of the anxiety she had just been feeling, along with all other emotions within her.

The dreamblight, she thought to herself. This cannot be…

“Also, milady,” Ingrid continued, apologetically. “Word has just come from a part of the outer regions. It’s from Lord Runolf. He sent an owl requesting your immediate presence just past the border, ma’am.”

This shook Aslauga from her daze. “An owl?”

The senior handmaiden nodded.

That was unusual. Why would Runolf send an owl to summon her—there was simply no need to; as her favoured amongst the Lundis—the people of Vinterlund—and chief amongst her Wardens, she had gifted Runolf with a direct telepathic link to her should he ever have need, or desire, to use it.

So why is he wasting time with my owls for? Aslauga tried reaching out to him with her mind, but was immediately met with a sense of being rebuffed. My Lundi…why would he put up boundaries? How…inconvenient…

“Very well.” Aslauga finally answered, failing to hide a tinge of annoyance in her voice. “Did this owl mention what exactly the matter was?”

Ingrid shook her head.

With a loud sigh, Aslauga rose from her throne and to her feet. As she did, everyone in the grand throne room stopped what they were doing, turned to face her, and then either bowed or curtsied.

“Carry on with what you were doing.” She said, addressing her court. “I will be back soon enough.”

And without another word, the room blurred away as she allowed her dryad form to teleport across the realm to where her wardens were awaiting her.

When the world before her came into focus again, Aslauga was just outside of the winter wonderland that was the Vinterlund; the wind—not quite howling—was dragging flurries of snow to and fro, icicles were hanging from every branch in sight, and all around her were several armed and armoured men bowing to their knees at the sight of her. All of them did this, but for the one she came to see.

“My Lady,” said the man still on his feet. This Lundi had long, dirty blond dreadlocks, a matching beard, and chocolate eyes. He was wearing chain-mail armour underneath a white cloak—while his men wore light blue cloaks—fastened at the shoulder with a silver broach in the style of a leaf from Aslauga’s tree. And as weapons, there were two large, rune-marked hatchets hooked onto his back that clinked together as he walked. The Lundi approached her towering form with calm familiarity and looked up at her with an outstretched hand. “Please, come down and walk with me,” Runolf continued. “So that I may show you something that requires your attention.”

Without saying a word, Aslauga granted Runolf’s request. Within seconds, the dryad shrunk herself down, so that she was standing at the same height as him. Then he took Aslauga’s arm under his own, and she let him lead her to what he had found. The other wardens followed not too far behind them.

“I received a scroll just now—from the Chief Horticultural Examiner.” Aslauga whispered.

Runolf turned his head slightly to look at her. “Yes? And?”

“It’s dreamblight, Runolf. He says I’m coming down with dreamblight.”

This made the Jörd stop dead in his tracks and stare at her, while the ones following them did the same in response, no doubt wondering why they had stopped.

“How is that possible?” Runolf demanded. “I understand that you haven’t been feeling well, but even if it was possible for you to contract such a thing, your powers should have—”

“I think it’s time we accept that my condition isn’t going to be getting better anytime soon, Runolf. But we shall leave the solution to that problem for another day.” Aslauga said, shortly, pressing on and causing the rest of them to resume their walk with her. “Now then. Would my Chief Warden be so kind as to explain why I was summoned with an owl?” Aslauga prompted, her grey eyes locked on him and trying to make a connection with the Jörd’s eyes.

Keeping his gaze firmly locked in the direction they were walking, Runolf said, “The bodies are just over here.”

“Bodies?”

“Aye. Here, have a look.”

They entered a clearing and the bodies in question were strewn about on the forest grounds underneath some trees. One body was hunched up against a large boulder, and the others were somewhere else in between. Altogether, there were about a dozen human bodies littered in front of them.

“What happened?” Aslauga asked, taking the bloody mess in. “Are these…these are not Jörds.”

“No, they’re not.” Runolf grabbed one of the half-frozen corpses and turned him over so that his neck was visible. “They’re Midlanders…now have a look at this.”

Aslauga stepped forward, and she saw what he was making a note of: on the dead man’s neck were two wounds—puncture wounds. One below the other.

“Bite marks.” Said Aslauga, with clear disdain. She didn’t need to ask what kind of creature gave them. Instead, she merely asked, “Where is it, Runolf?”

Runolf pointed at the corpse that was slumped up against the boulder. In that moment, Aslauga noticed that the body, lying in the frigid winter sun, appeared black and charred.

“That one. That one right there is the vampire.” Runolf spat at the corpse from where he stood. “And you see those ones over there? The ones with antlers—the grey elves. Whatever happened here did so recently.”

“And what are denizens of the Dark Province doing in my realm—this far north?”

“To that, I cannot speak, I’m afraid.”

“…Are there anymore of them? Any alive?”

“We haven’t spotted any others. Not yet, at least.”

Aslauga turned to the other wardens around them. “Spread out. I want to know if these were the only ones or if there are any survivors.”

Without question, the Jörds moved out on her command, with Aslauga and Runolf going off in their own direction in the search.

“Are you going to give me an answer, then?” Aslauga asked once they were firmly out of earshot of the others. “About why you still need time to consider the offer I gave you.”

Runolf scowled as he continued to walk ahead. Then, after a moment, he finally said, “Milady, I don’t—”

“And I told you not to call me that, too. My name is Aslauga, and I would have my chosen champion to use it.”

And it was at this point that Runolf came to an abrupt stop. “…I cannot be your next champion, Aslauga. I’m sorry…”

“Why?”

“I…”

“…You won’t say? You won’t say why you’re denying your regent—your lady—her personal request?”

Aslauga stared at him, waiting for an answer, but none came. Runolf merely continued to avoid her gaze.

Aslauga was about to press him on the matter again when a thundering roar—clear as day—came from somewhere west of their position. Runolf instantly bolted past her and towards whatever the source of the roar was. Aslauga ran to catch hold of him, grabbed hold of his arm, and then teleported them over to the source was. When they re-materialized, they faced an active battlefield in the woods just past the border of Vinterlund.

On one side of the battle was a black coach pulled by a pair of black stallions. The coach was carrying what looked to be a blood red wooden coffin. The coach itself was surrounded by several pale and malnourished looking human soldiers wearing paltry black armour that was more cloth than chain-mail. Rallying these soldiers was a man in crimson armour that was adorned in bat-themed motifs—like the bat wings on the helmet. In one hand, this knight held the reins of the coach’s horses, and in the other hand, he cracked a whip—not at the horses, but at the soldiers that were actually fighting the battle.

“Don’t you dare think of running, blood-bag!” bellowed the Knight, in perfect Jördic. “You thralls will keep fighting until each and every one of those runaways are caught! Your masters demand it!”

And on the other side of the battle were several grey elves, with the antlered males among them casting spells in defence of the females and the children that cowered further behind them. What was truly curious about these particular foreigners were the red-headed beings that fighting alongside them.

“Are those…” one warden began once he and the others had caught up to Aslauga and Runolf.

“Vampires.” Said Aslauga. “Vampires…who are protecting those grey elves.”

“It’s probably some sort of dispute over underlings.” Said Runolf. “One group fighting for the whole lot of them—they’re fighting over their blood, I’ll bet...”

Aslauga barely heard him, though. Her gaze had turned to the forest itself; caught amid the fight, the trees just beyond the borders of her beloved land were being battered—hacked at with weapons as fighters dodged out of their way. The vampire Knight on the coach was casting spells of the chaos axiom—some of the eldritch bolts he cast met their marks and annihilated several elves. But there were others that would miss their targets, and instead collide with other trees, starting blazing red fires that were spreading from tree to tree at alarming speeds before the dryad’s eyes.

In an instant, Aslauga transformed herself from her image of pale, regal beauty clothed to an outfit worthy of a woodland battle queen, complete with a helmet bearing two gruesome, curved antlers on her head.

“Wardens! Lundis!” Aslauga bellowed. “Ready yourselves! The arrogance and recklessness of these Midlanders is setting the doorsteps of my realm ablaze! Destroy these thralls and this Blood Knight master of theirs. As for the elves, defend them and apprehend the red-headed vampires fighting alongside them. Later, we will determine how altruistic their intentions really are.”

Not waiting for anyone else to start the charge, Aslauga’s hands changed to large, wooden, razor -sharp claws. Then she roared, leaping into the fray, with the wardens close behind following suit and letting loose barbaric battle cries of their own.

With her clawed hands trembling as she came within striking distance of the first of her prey, her entire being vibrated with anticipation. Her very skin felt like it was buzzing as her claw sunk into the stomach of the first of the Blood Knight’s thralls. The thrall’s howls of pain were quickly cut off by his own gurgling as he choked on his own blood. Aslauga pulled her two claws apart and roared as she pulled the man’s body apart—severing him in two halves. Eyes wide, she boomed towards her next prey. She would teleport from thrall to thrall, hacking them to pieces, and leaving little for her wardens to actually take on themselves beyond their initial targets. Before long, a mess of blood and body parts covered the snowy ground.

“Where are you?!” A giddy, hoarse laughter escaped Aslauga’s lips. She turned to the armoured monster still sitting on the black coach and said, “That can’t be all of you…where’s your mighty army, so-called Knight?! Was that the best you could muster?”

“Steady, milady…steady…” Runolf had approached her, with one arm up to touch her on the arm.

His motion and the calm, low voice he was using reminded Aslauga of how an animal trainer might try to calm down a scared beast…or one that’s simply feral. Aslauga then noticed that all the wardens were keeping their distance with their weapons still at the ready—as well as the elves they charged in to save, and the red-haired vampires that were with them. All of them looked at her blood-soaked and gore covered visage with outright fear—like a group of adventurers who had just crossed paths with a monster.

A loud scoff from the direction of the black coach interrupted the odd mood and drew Aslauga’s gaze back to the Blood Knight, who was now stepping down from the coach and in front of its horses, with his whip still in hand. With a crack of his whip, the horses reared, whinnied, and then galloped off into the woods—presumably back to wherever the vampire’s camp was—with the dark red coffin still stowed safely onboard it.

“After the coach!” Runolf bellowed. “Don’t let that other damned mosquito get away!”

A shockwave shot from the Blood Knight’s hand quickly put an end to this thought, though, as well as sent some of the Lundis flying backwards. Then the vampire took his whip and cracked it against the blood-red snow on the ground at his feet. And when lime green sparks of magic flew from his whip, the strewn about severed limbs and other bits of gore began to twitch and spring to unlife. And as his invocation of the Rotting Praxis did its work, all the body parts gravitated towards each other until they amalgamated into a pair of twisted, grotesque golems made of the enchanted gore—both of them towering several feel above them all in height, and both of them were gurgling up some of the blood that they had only just absorbed in the moments of their conjuring.

Runolf swore loudly under his breath. “Did we even kill that many thralls?”

The Blood Knight then pointed a finger at Aslauga, uttered some command in Gibberish—the one language of Tesardess that had long since eluded her—and the golems charged forward with alarming speed for creatures of their size.

Aslauga roared, and with a simple wave of her hands, a dozen spiked roots shot out of the earth and skewered the golems. The golems raged and howled in pain as the wardens began chopping and hacking away at their limbs. They struggled to wrench themselves free of their restraints, but the World Tree’s roots only entangled themselves further into the monstrosities’ stolen flesh.

Aslauga took the opening this moment made, charged at the vampire, and moved to slash at the vampire’s helm. But the Blood Knight—guided by unholy reflexes—dodged it with unsettling ease. Back and forth the two sides went, each gash deeper than the last. Then finally, Aslauga pinned him down with her roots long enough to come up behind him and grab hold of his helm.

“Let’s see how you fare in disinfecting sunlight, mosquito!” Aslauga channelled the supernatural strength of her tree so that she could pry the helm from the torso of the Blood Knight’s armour. The metal of it creaked and groaned until finally the helm flew off his head, and Aslauga let out a triumphant cackle as she awaited the searing of the fiend's flesh to begin.

But nothing happened. Instead, the vampire under the helm turned his head back towards her just enough to show her his bone-chilling grin.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dryad.” Said the Blood Knight mockingly. “I’m afraid the sun’s tyranny no longer holds any swayed over me!” The Blood Knight then exploded into a swarm of bats that began clawing at the Dryad Queen’s face and body, and all the bats bellowed, “AND SOON ALL OF MY PEOPLE SHALL BE FREE!”

Then, as quickly as the bats came into being, they flew into the frozen woods, leaving behind the battlefield entirely, in the same direction that the black coach had fled to earlier.

Somewhat exhausted and wincing from the battle, The World Tree Dryad looked around her, and saw that her wardens had not only subdued the golems, but they had also restrained the vampires with red hair that were seemingly fighting alongside the grey elves.

“No, wait!” one of the grey elf men blurted out suddenly, in broken Jördic. “Don’t hurt! They’re with us!”

Upon hearing this, Aslauga approached them all and demanded, “And who, pray tell, is ‘us’?”