Annon nearly caught his breath when he saw them, appearing out of the gloom—a massive wall of unruly trees. The vicious sandstorm had slammed into the impenetrable woods and spent its fury out. Fresh sand was everywhere, clearing tracks or trails. Annon’s heart lurched at the sight.
The Druidecht had always considered the twisted shape of oak trees to be a slightly frightening thing. The tortured limbs and branches often took on grotesque shapes. The trees of the Scourgelands were ancient, hulking and misshapen beyond anything he could have expected. Several trees were so huge and bent that their limbs were too heavy to hold up and sagged on the blighted earth. The trunks were wide enough that it would have taken all of them to join hands before managing to clasp the entire tree. The air had a rotten, decaying smell. Mixed with the sparse leaves were dense, shaggy moss and other growth, probably mistletoe. The colors were muted because of the glowing sunrise, but they revealed themselves in swaths of greens, grays, and mottled browns. Each oak was unique and there was no symmetry or pattern to the forest. Some had branches forked like towers into the drab sky. Others were so twisted and bent that they seemed to be crawling across the earth like fat spiders with too much bulk.
There were no ferns or shocks of crabgrass or other signs of plant life—only the presence of ancient, hulking trees. The woods had a presence, a majesty that went beyond his ability to describe. But it was a terrible majesty, a powerful force that scorned the approaching mortals. The Scourgelands seemed to bid them, in whispered, haughty tones, to enter its midst and die.
Annon heard a muffled intake of breath, a sob unable to be concealed. He turned and saw Phae, her lashes wet, as she stared at the Scourgelands. She stopped in her tracks, unable to calm her trembling. Tyrus joined her side, putting his arm around her. Shion was there as well, even his face betraying some deep emotion. Was he reliving memories of the place? Was this where he had earned the scars on his face?
“It’s so sad,” Phae said in a choked voice. “I feel them, Father. I can feel them even from here. This is a terrible place. Such terrible sadness.” She coughed against her wrist, then buried her face against her father’s cloak. “The memories. There are so many memories.”
Annon’s heart clenched with shared pain as he watched Phae suffer. His own heart felt as if it would burst when he saw the oaks and realized that he had lost Neodesha forever. Mortals were banished from Mirrowen because of these trees, the barrier preventing the two worlds from communing.
It reminded Annon, very briefly, of how the sick woods around Havenrook felt. Those had suffered from neglect and the relentless gambling and commerce of the Preachán. Wagons had carved ruts into the dirt. Axes had sliced a crooked path through the forest to reach its destination. No such road greeted them into the Scourgelands. The twisted, tangled oaks were a buttress—a fortress of colossal size that stretched across the horizon in both directions.
Tyrus murmured softly to his daughter, trying to help her steel herself. Annon saw a sick pallor on Phae’s cheeks. She nodded at something her father said, but Annon noticed her arm clutching her stomach, as if her bowels troubled her.
“Why are we dawdling?” Kiranrao said with a raspy voice. His eyes glittered as he stared at the trees. “Let’s finish this madness.”
“The madness is only beginning,” Tyrus said stonily. “Remember my warning. Come to me when I yell the word Hasten. I will not wait for anyone. We must act as one.” His breath started to quicken, his eyes crinkling with worry. Clutching Phae to him tightly, he kissed the top of her head. Then letting her go, he began marching toward the maw of the wicked trees.
Annon stared at him, amazed at the courage. His own heart was teeming with trepidation.
Go, Druidecht, Nizeera thought, nudging his leg with her nose. I fulfill my oath at last.
“Why is it that we fear dark places? Even a place well trodden by us through time can arouse the greatest foreboding when un-illuminated. We tread carefully. Our ears strain at every sound. Darkness is but a pause in breath of a voice we do not wish to hear speak.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XV