To Scale the Emerald Mountain (The Willowbane Saga #1)

2. CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

I ’ve been on the move for half of a moons’ cycle since my escape, simply wandering the mountain forest with no direction. My thoughts are as bare as when I sat locked in that dungeon.

Picking absentmindedly from a blueberry bush, my attention is snapped to my right, towards unfamiliar rustling in the dense woods around me.

Odd, heavy footfalls that are wholly foreign to me begin to replace the soft rustle of disturbed leaves. The noise has me on alert, the thick blanket of fog coating my thoughts lifting with jarring clarity in this moment of perceived danger.

A surprised gasp flies past my lips as thick adrenaline spikes.

As I attempt to form a hasty plan of self preservation, that unnatural cadence draws closer.

Backing away slowly into the shadows of littaweeds around me, the tendrils of weeds swish against my arms. Inflaming spores instantly burrow into my skin in angry red patches. As I crouch hidden in the thicket of brush, my fear coats my throat with each inhale—a sickening scent of honey and onion that makes my stomach churn. For all the defense mechanisms the human body holds, this hormonal reaction to fear is a stark contradiction to the inherent need for survival; a spotlight to single out fearful prey. I’m certain that whatever is closing in can smell me through the weeds with their mildewy scent, like a rain-soaked cloak not laid out to dry.

How could it not? Even I can smell my fear.

My heart hammers against my ribs while I listen to the sounds around me.

Remaining motionless in my ill thought hiding place is difficult. Ignoring the itch developing on my sweat slicked skin—the relentless scratch in my lungs—is futile. I suppress a cough and hold my breath.

I count the seconds, only allowing myself a soft inhale or exhale every one, two, three, four, five…

It takes all my effort to not cough with that awful allergen scraping at the inside of my throat. I hold my breath, struggling to bring it back in silently and not in a panicked rattle. The overwhelming suffocation of the humid summer air, along with the dusty heaviness of the pollen sprinkling over me, only adds to my terror. As I attempt to sit in silence, my eyes bulge, sliding to take in my surroundings.

Of course, someone would be sent for me. I don’t know what or who, but if I had been imprisoned, surely someone would come when I escaped. How had this thought not occurred to me before?

My body screams at me to run; to breathe; to scratch. But I know that any of those things will only lead to a certain demise.

Quiet. I know I need to be quiet.

My anxiousness to move takes over, and I instinctively wipe a shaky hand against my nose. Pulling my fingers away, I find red viscous fluid staining my fingers.

My sudden movement puts the creature on alert to where I’m hiding. The beast’s stare moves to my general vicinity. It sniffs audibly, a wet sucking sound that makes the hairs on my neck stand, followed by an unearthly air piercing howl. The sound reverberates for miles. My breathing hitches as the ear-splitting noise vibrates through my head, my chest, my very bones.

Whatever is hunting has found its prey.

What is this following me?

Faint glimpses of memory suddenly come to me, bleeding into my mind to feed hungry holes. Previously hidden knowledge of these forests in the Emerald Mountain Range in the Kingdom of Brhadir.

The word ‘kynior’ comes to me. It knocks into my mind like a shockwave, accompanied by an image of a canine-like creature with mottled patchy fur, spindly legs, a sunken torso that shows individual ribs, white eyes devoid of pupil or iris, and a gaping maw with dripping fangs.

The minor details coming to me on a whim are hazy, and I certainly can’t think of what you’re supposed to do when you encounter a kynior.

The single howl turns to many. A pack.

The noise surrounds me, coming from every direction. There is no escape. The creatures are closing in on me, and full blown panic is hitting now. Where that small voice was leading me before, there is nothing but silence now.

What do I do?

Terror solidifies, and I leap to my feet and run. I barely make out the large canine form charging in my direction when I emerge from the weeds before I dash ahead as fast as I can.

My short, thin shift is easy to move in, but I have no shoes. The terrain is not soft or smooth. Lack of adequate rest, food, and water has made me weak. I stumble over rocks and fallen limbs, running for my life .

My rattling breaths rip through my lungs on fiery inhales as I cough and run through the dense foliage, branches and leaves reaching out to scrape my bare legs.

There’s a kynior behind me, quickly catching up. I sense others on my left and right. They’re herding me, cornering me. I can smell the two closest to me closing in, like dirty, wet dog and rancid meat.

My ankle catches on a fallen limb, and I yelp as I go sprawling to the ground. Dread wells as reality sets in that this is it, whatever freedom I felt is over. I will die now, knowing nothing about who I am. I’m lying in the dirt, eyes closed, struggling to gulp down scraping breaths—reluctantly accepting my Fate—when suddenly, there’s a male voice snarling at me.

“Get up!”

He grabs the neck of my sad shift and yanks me up, the fabric chafing my itching skin.

I turn to him, wild eyed, shocked to see another person. Either he is well practiced in stealth or I’d been too blinded by my fear to be aware of my surroundings. He puts a finger to his lips, motioning for me to be quiet. Before I can process what’s happening, he grabs my hand, and we disappear into nothing.

It’s black and silent. The silence is strangely both draining and pressing, making my eardrums shriek and protest. I try to draw in breath, but I can’t. Just as new panic begins to set in, my eyes open, and I’m back in the woods, gulping down air. But we are not where we were just a moment ago. There is now a curving stream right in front of us that wasn’t there before, its clear waters glittering in the sun.

The stranger motions for silence again. He holds out his hand to me, this time warning me what’s about to happen. I take his hand and we jump into smothering silence and darkness .

My eyes dart around. We are now standing in a small clearing in the same forest. The sounds of the kyniors are much fainter. The man holds his hand out to me again, nodding silently. When my hand connects with his calloused palm, he wraps an arm around my waist before we disappear into the void.

When I open my eyes, I understand why he held me tighter, and I let out a startled cry.

We’re sitting on a thick tree branch, rough bark digging into my thighs, at least fifty feet in the air.

He pulls me into his chest and then whispers in my ear, “Careful, if you scream or fall off this tree, all that work will have been for nothing.”

Turning to him, I fully take him in. He has black hair, shoulder length. High, proud cheekbones, and a creamy brown skin tone. Eyes a breathtaking depth of darkest brown. A full mouth surrounded by a dark beard.

Strikingly handsome.

“You’re staring,” he whispers. I turn away quickly, red creeping up my neck.

We sit in silence for a long time as I relent to the bone-deep discomfort from the littaweeds and scratch my arms and chest. My rescuer lets out a noise of frustration when I give in to the itch. But to me, it’s a surprisingly welcome distraction from the sticky blanket of confusion still trying to suffocate my thoughts.

Hours go by.

The light of the horizon swirls to a dusty pink. The sky gradually grows darker, and the view of our two moons becomes more defined. The larger of the two is a bright white and its smaller brother beside it emits a green luminescence; not as brilliant, but more beautiful in its muted way.

Only after the sun fully sets, and we hear no sounds from the kyniors, does the stranger speak again.

“We will stay here tonight. You sleep first. I won’t let you fall.”

“Who—?” I begin.

He cuts me off with a curt, “Tomorrow. For now, rest.”

There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep. A wave of vertigo hits as I make the mistake of glancing down. My breath catches.

The mysterious stranger lets out a long exhale, sounding irritated. “I told you I won’t let you fall. At least try to rest. And do not look down again. If you keep trying to delve into panic over every last thing, we will never make it.”

Definitely irritated.

I say through clenched teeth, “I didn’t ask for your rescue.”

“And yet, here we are. Rest. I won’t say it again.”

Opening my mouth to spew back a smart retort, he gives me a pointed stare—so intense that I instantly shut my mouth.

His arms around me become incredibly apparent as he pulls me back into him. Attempting to take my mind off the warmth of him against me, I focus on the stiffness creeping in from sitting awkwardly on this branch for hours. Exhaustion comes over me, and I lean back into him, succumbing to my weariness. I don’t know this person, but I somehow wholeheartedly believe he won’t let me fall.

Closing my eyes, I try to make sense of everything that has happened, the effort making my mind feel thoroughly spent.

Inhaling deeply, I search to find some semblance of relief within myself. Instead, I catch his scent, a heady combination of worn leather and sea salt.

I resist the urge to nuzzle into him .

Why can I not remember anything, but am somehow aware of where I am? Frustration washes over me as I try, and fail, to dig through my mind for anything, anything at all. Sleep eventually takes me, and I welcome the reprieve from my predicament and utter confusion over everything.

I wake sometime just after dawn, disorientated and hurting. My whole body is sore from running, falling, and most of all, sleeping in a tree. Large blotchy patches of red are littered across my skin, but at least the itching has subsided. Turning my head to the stranger, I find him staring back at me.

“You’re staring,” I mimic his words from the night before. We square off for a long moment before I ask him, “Do you not need sleep?”

He gives me a steely glare, as if unhappy that I’m speaking to him at all. “No. Now is not the time for me to rest. We will be moving on now that you’re awake. Can you climb down?”

I peer south. Panic.

“I told you not to look down,” he says.

“Well, how am I supposed to know if I’m capable of climbing down without assessing what’s in front of me?” I spit back. Swallowing my fear as best I can, I take stock of the branches below me. I’m not wholly confident, but out of sheer stubbornness I say, “I can do it,” and start my descent.

My feet make slow work of it at first, ensuring my footing is secure before letting go of the branch above me.

My unwitting companion moves much quicker, multiple times ending up right on top of me, making noises of impatience. With every huff, I have to suppress a smile. When my feet finally hit the soft ground, he jumps down the last stretch and lands on nimble feet.

He shoots me a glare, and says, “If I had thought it was going to take you half the morning to get down a tree, I would have just jumped us down.”

I smile innocently at him. “Well, why didn’t you if that was an option?”

“Because when the magic is depleted, it takes time to replenish. The energy should be saved for emergencies,” he says condescendingly—as if explaining something simple to a toddler. It’s now that I notice that he has a refined accent: a pronounced drawl that I can’t quite place, though it sits precariously on the tip of my tongue.

“I know magic takes time to replenish.” As I say the words, I know that they’re true, a strange tingling creeping to my fingertips.

Do I have magic of my own?

“Well, you don’t have to drag me along . We will go our separate ways now.“ I then add unsurely, “Thanks. For helping me.” With my crossed arms and clipped tone, I don’t sound very thankful at all.

At least I said it. At least I tried.

“As lovely as it sounds to be free of you, no, we will not go our separate ways now. We will separate when I am sure that I will be free of you for good.”

I gape at him, unsure of what to say. Based on his seemingly unfounded hostile attitude toward me, paired with his timely rescue, I can’t help but wonder if we somehow know each other.

“Who are you? ”

He gives me a smile that is anything but friendly. “Locane. And you?” he asks, visible irritation on his face.

“Me, what?”

“Do you have a name?” he seethes through clenched teeth.

I find myself inexplicably wanting to fan his foul mood. “Most people do,” I singsong.

A glimmer of pure rage flashes in his dark eyes before he takes a deep breath, attempting to tamp down his anger. “Well, are you going to tell me what it is?”

Meeting Locane’s intense stare with assessment, I try to hide the fact that I’m digging for the name I know has to be buried in there somewhere.

A soft click sounds in my mind, my name coming to me instinctively. “Ellya,” I say with surety. Somehow, I know that it’s true.

“Well, Ellya. Let’s go.”