26: Baby Heads

26

Stellina

We duck and weave through the needle trees, not knowing what we are looking for. Where would a NightCrawler make its nest? In the hostile trees where it can wrap its arms and tails around? Hidden in a bundle of bushes? Underground? We left when it was still dark, when the sky was still undecided on how to present itself for the day. Iridea uses the coat Ms. Mais lent to us, but she shivers still.

Even as we walk, I question what we are doing. Intentionally killing the Gods’ creations is against Zela’s teachings. Is a NightCrawler a creation or abomination? I know Hyxver, and all that comes into contact with him, is apart from God. As far as I know, a NightCrawler has no connection to Hyxver but instead to the Fae who are their own divine beings. Does that make this hunting any better?

How do we begin to track something that leaves no trace? Do we look for the absence of tracks? When we were attacked it must have left scratches on the trees it bounded from.

“Check the trees; last time we met it used those to travel.” Feeling like we have some sort of direction, the journey seems quicker, but it is not long until this tactic falls flat too and my determination wavers.

“Wait, over here, I think I’ve found something.” Hawthorne ushers us over and points at a spattering of blood on a boulder.

“That could belong to anything,” Iridea huffs.

“Maybe we’re focused on the wrong thing. We’re trying to track something that experienced hunters can’t track. So, what does leave traces? Its prey.” Hawthorne points further into the forest, his finger follows a line of blood that trails in front and behind us. Iridea is hesitant but Hawthorne makes a brilliant observation. Not waiting for it to be discussed, I dive into the investigation. The path takes wild turns, blood arced across the trees. I can almost imagine the monster sprinting along this path with a cow clenched between its teeth, the head lolling.

It ends all at once in a clearing, surrounded by tall trees. I swing my head to the sky; maybe it climbed up and is waiting for us there. There is nothing. Iridea sighs and shrugs her wings.

“Back to square one.” The sun is clear to see in the break of the forest’s canopy. Somehow it must be noon, or close to it. For all we know we may never find this monster. Perhaps we should head back and see if we can catch it in action or try another route more promising than an animal that can not be caught.

“We should-” I have made up my mind to turn back when my step finds no purchase and I pitch forward, falling through the forest floor into darkness. An eye watches me.

But I have not taken a step. I am still on the forest above.

“We should?” Iridea asks, moving closer to me. I thrust out a hand and she stops, startled. Everything is the same. Where did that come from? Did I imagine myself falling? But it was so vivid. I could feel the leaves brush my cheek as I fell. The clearing is deathly quiet besides the sound of our breathing. There are no birds. Like the Castle gardens, they have vacated this area. My chest is warm and I remember: the necklace. I pull it out from beneath my dress. It glows unnaturally, like a tiny moon.

“What is that?” Hawthorne stares as it rotates in the air.

“I will explain after.” I return it to its concealment, “It is beneath us, be ready.” Iridea inhales sharply. Her wings lift her from the ground. “I will draw it out, let us throw everything at it.” As quietly as I can, I sift the leaves in front of me to make sure I have the right spot. They slide into a dip in the forest floor.

My fingers are a catalyst. With a snap, a flame wavers on the tip of my finger, waiting to be commanded. I point it at the dip and pour all of my energy into it. Pins and needles fill my hand as fire erupts. It eats at the leaves. Smoke fills the air. When the leaves have disintegrated, the flame flies into a dark hole. I extinguish the flame so as not to drain myself before the fight even begins and wait for a response.

We do not have to wait long.

A screech that combines the snapping sound of an Ernifil and the scream of bats erupts from the forest floor, shaking the singed leaves above. Hawthorne and I squat with our feet planted firmly into the dirt as we have learned to do in the past two weeks. We will throw everything at it as soon as it appears. It will not have time to react or attack.

From out of the dark pit, like it was ripped from the shadows itself, emerges the NightCrawler. The fur surrounding its face smokes in an ugly mess. Seeing as fire has not failed me before, I feed it more. If Xada knew that this was just for the recognition of a King, he would scold me and walk me through all the other, better, longer ways to achieve what I want. But I do not have weeks. I cannot take my time when it comes to Hyxver. As soon as I can face him with an army, I will. Otherwise, he may attack first and I will have no one to follow me.

Through the warm heat of my magic, I cannot see the NightCrawler, just occasional flashes of struggling black fur. Iridea throws spheres of caustic shadow into it. Every so often, her magic whips outwards to the trees but she reels it in as Hawthorne leaps forward with a strong swing. A headache ebbs at the back of my mind. If I do not cut the fire soon, I will become a burden on our progress back. As it grows from a distant knocking to a tolerable throb, the erratic movement of my target slows until it stops completely. I pull my energy back into me.

At our feet lies…something. Something that has been burned until it melts; ruptured with holes of nothingness - windows through black fur to the forest floor beneath; cuts that have cleaved parts to lie like a puzzle beside its form. It looks like something a NightCrawler would hack up, not the formidable beast itself. We did that without a scar upon us. It cannot have died just now, it must have been dead for a long time while we attacked its lifeless body, each hit jolting it like a puppet until it could not facilitate comprehensible movements.

I bend over and hurl onto the ruined earth. The smell of my upturned stomach mixed with burnt fur and meat spills more from my mouth. I ruined something so completely that it can not be identified. The image of the bodies which were torn apart in front of the sommelnium flashes into mind. Bodies which were trying to escape. Arms detached. Eyes gleaming from the darkness inside a head held in terror.

I had to. Did I? Should I have done the long, clever plan which would have, by no means, led to this? Did Hyxver have the option of a longer plan without the murder of thousands? No, this creature was terrorising a village. I have done them a favour. The King should thank us when we bring its - well I suppose there is no head left to be reckoned with. Zela, what have you witnessed me do? I click my fingers together for a spark, expecting my powers to be cut off from me for this mortal sin, but two flames appear strong. Does Zela approve? Or is my power separate from her divine force? Perhaps she is regretting my creation now.

A sound crawls from the dark pit and I turn at once, fingers aimed, expecting another beast at my feet. Nothing but shadow greets me. It comes again. Hawthorne crouches and squints into the pit.

“It sounds like a baby,” he whispers. Indeed, it sounds like a whimper, although there is a crackle in its softness. I inch forward. The afternoon light makes the pit look like a cavernous hole. If I were to step in would I fall into the bowels of Zyrona, just as Zela might intend after my sin? But my feet continue to make purchase as I creep forward. The whine continues. Did the creature steal a baby from the town?

Leaves fall into the pit, their charred ends bring smoke to my nostrils. Just as its reputation describes, there is no trace of the NightCrawler’s frantic defense out of this tunnel. The dirt walls are unassuming; this hovel could belong to a bear, a family of foxes, or it could just be an empty hole in the ground. With each step, I leave the light of the forest further above. Hawthorne follows, his feet crunch on the burnt leaves. My eyes adjust to the pitch black, although there is not much to see: dirt walls with roots protruding. It reminds me of when I woke in this new world. I have to look behind me to make sure I have not gone back in time. Hawthorne creeps behind, sword steady in his hands, focused on avoiding the roots. The cry grows louder and the shadow in front of us recedes as we reach the end of the tunnel.

In front of us roils a huddled mass of fur and oil curls. I never considered the NightCrawler, an abomination of nature, to have offspring. Yet, here they are; a kettle of them crying for their parent on a mess of bones and animal hides. The flames on my fingertips whisk into smoke. I cannot bring myself to finish our job. Surely, they will just die anyway if we left? Would it be kinder to kill them now before starvation eats their stomachs? If starvation does not kill them, would they grow into monsters who continue to terrorise townsfolk and travelers? Those gleaming black eyes act as mirrors and I remember myself scared, looking at Xada’s body.

“What is it?” Hawthorne bumps into me and scatters the reflection. When nothing comes out of my mouth, Hawthorne presses, “Stellina? Is everything ok?” I work the lump out of my throat but my voice still comes out strangled,

“There is babies.”

“Babies?”

“I mean… more.” I cannot connect them with babies. I cannot give them my sympathy.

“Do you need help?”

“Give me sword.” I do not want to taint my kind’s magic further with the bloodshed of young creatures. Perhaps Zela will be shielded by iron when I commit this act.

I step closer to the monsters and their noise grows louder. Their eyes reflect only darkness. I raise the sword but I cannot tell how many there are. If I could just identify their heads, I may spare them pain and complete our mission. Pain? Do they feel anything? No. Of course not.

I stab into the heap. My ears are assaulted by bone rattling chitters. The creatures try to escape but they are all tangled together. Oil drips from the blade. I stab again. Again. Take out the eyes - the eyes make me see things. My eyes spill with oil, thick on my skin. A harsh cry mixes with the crackling whines. Beneath my shadow blade, children fall from bridges. Again. Again. A hand rests on my shoulder.

“I think you’ve got them,” Hawthorne says, he prises the sword from my tight grip, “it’s done.”

My chest heaves. There is nothing but silence. How long has it been silent? I turn around so I do not see what I have made. I leave Hawthorne to collect our bounty. I run, nearly bolting, out of the tunnel into the chill air. The emaciated NightCrawler startles me and I trip into a heap of leaves. Iridea sits on a fallen tree. She jumps up at the sight of me. Why is she so relaxed? How could she be calm with what happened below and before?

“Watch!” I yell at her, “You were supposed to watch!” She takes a step back, her eyes wide. Then, she crosses her arms and stiffens.

“Nothing came out, you seemed to have it under control.” Why did she stay above in the first place? Why did she not come with us?

“Coward! Coward!” I shriek as more oil pours out of my eyes. I thrust it away, “Why did you not come down? You stay above, not do anything, not fight, just run - coward!” Iridea’s arms fall to her side.

“Are you ok?”

“Watch!” I throw my arms into the sky where Zela resides, “Look what I have done! A mother and babies. Have I done it before? Will I do it again? See this wreck of a star you have made from me. Why did you do nothing? Coward!” Arms encircle me and hold me tight. I collapse onto the forest floor. More oil. My vision blurs and turns the orange leaves into fire.

“Coward. What have you done?” The pain in my chest is unbearable. Is this what my mother felt when she was killed? My throat burns, as if I have lit it on fire. Surely it is nowhere close to the pain that creature experienced when I killed it. All my other attacks have been of self-defense, this is the first I approached with intent to kill; kill a creature of nature, created by the heavenly Gods above. Does its previous actions forgive this sin? Then to kill its offspring - each stab I feels nestled in my bones. What does this make me? A killer? Is this what I need to become in order to face Hyxver? Is this why my kind could not defeat him - but were defeated?

“It’s ok,” Hawthorne whispers in my ear, “They’re dead.” Is that not the problem? They are all dead, and for what? Some conceited King’s approval? What was I thinking? Was I thinking? Were any of us? I want to squeeze my body into itself, melt into my parts and become nothing. Nothing at all. I could do it if I tried, I know I could, but not before I kill Hyxver. Maybe I will do anything to kill him. Maybe. I do not know what I would do.

“They’re gone. We did it,” Hawthorne chuckles, “We’re so close. We’re doing it.” I am so confused by his words, by his joy. His arms are a comfort and a constraint and I am so confused by that too. I let them stay in place, but I do not respond until they fall away. I stand up and rub my aching chest. Every part of me is in place, yet, I feel shattered.

Hawthorne already has the small heads in a bag. Iridea and I carry the big one between us - we tied its tendrils around the head like a sack. We leave their bodies to rot. I thought of burning them into ash so they could rejoin the stars, but I cannot think like that.

We spend the night in the village where are lodgings are upgraded from the tavern to the governor’s rooms. We put the heads in the stable. I worry they will wake, grow legs and tentacles, and come for me. My dreams are this, and darkness. The townspeople are happy. The children line the streets before the stable to see the heads. This is not my Zyrona. I hide my distaste in the neat bushes - which are not as neat as those at the Castle. The Castle bushes are like a solid object, there is nothing natural about them.

Our journey back to the Castle is assisted by the Governor’s carriage. It is pulled by a large beast with wax-like skin in rolls, nostrils the size of my arm, and ears hugged tight to its face. It smells horrific. Yet, despite its size, it plods up the mountain with long soft steps on the rocks. We arrive at the Castle gates before noon. The guards stand aside to let us in. We thank the driver and enter into those silent gardens. All other noises deafen, just like the forest floor above the NightCrawler’s den and Lumnia’s main square graveyard.

The same boy welcomes us. He takes Hawthorne’s sword and scurries back, this time leading us through the Castle’s front doors. They part like leaves separating and enclose us inside the mountain. The ceiling here soars. Delicate glass orbs twists from the ceiling where a window to the sun is placed. The sun’s light filters through the glass bubbles into prisms of light, bouncing off of tapestries which show war to peace. Yet, even the peace that is showcased feels violent. How strong is the Castle’s union really? Are its promises only held to paper? As we pass corridor after corridor, the light sweeps away as stone embraces us.

As before, the boy shows us to the King’s conference room. The doors lie open in invitation. A hunter passes with an axe on her back and a bag of coins clacking against her hip. When she sees the head carried between Iridea and I, her eyes widen.

“Stellina,” The King lifts himself from his chair and places a hand on his chest in formal greeting, “A grand entrance, as always.” The head falls to the wooden floor with a thunk. Other bounties line the edge of the risen platform like trophies at his feet. Hawthorne empties his bag, I lift my gaze above the small objects that tumble out.

“We have rid threats from village below,” I say.

“Good job, I expect you would like payment like everyone else?”

“No, I do not want your metal disks. I wish for Zyronian safety. If killing beasts does that, I am happy to be people’s servant.” Iridea told me to say that, although it was already true for me. Forever, my mission was to keep my people safe. That is what I understood my place as royalty to be - a servant of the people.

“How very noble of you.” The King seats himself and rests his cheek against his palm. My breath comes measured through my teeth. “Your service is appreciated.” His words are bored, repeated. His eyes slide away, his mind already on something else. We stand there, shifting our weight from foot to foot. Do we leave? But how can we? We wait for the King to say something, and with time, he does,

“If you expected me to be impressed by your actions, I’m not entirely. I had hoped the Star Elf would be capable of taking down a lowly animal, and this confirms you can. Good. But so could my guards, or any regular hunter,” he sighs and his tone takes a disappointed turn, “this capture does not earn my trust or prove anything of your character, except that you take opportunities when they are presented. That is all. You can continue to stay here while I wait for something more deserving of my favour but I can’t house you forever, especially if you prove to be dangerous, or just plain lazy.” Throughout his speech, his eyes wander the room. Now, he focuses on me, “Good job. You are dismissed.”

My mouth fills with a metallic taste. His last sentence was delivered like a sharp pat on my head, as though I were a child. My stomach roils with unruly fire but to snap back would be unwise. I sink into a curtsy and walk out of the hall. Anger simmers within me. My thoughts jump wild. I walk aimlessly and I walk away from my friends.

Lowly animal? The NightCrawler is the most feared beast in the wild. Hawthorne told me no hunter had even detailed its appearance before we survived the first. If any regular hunter can take it down, why were there not more NightCrawler heads? Instead, there were wolves, snakes, venomous vermin, some regular animals with physical abnormalities like more than two eyes, scales growing around their ears where there should be fur or a horn growing out of their skull where there should not be a horn at all. All regular hunter catches. What is a suitable monster for him? And what have his guards done but stand like statues? I have seen nor heard of any action from them that warrants praise.

And lazy? I do not think I have seen him take more than fifty steps in our entire stay here. Most of the time he is seated. Sometimes he stands to pace and look mildly intimidation. What a hypocrite. What a- what a king? What is this royalty that demands killing and spits brass when it is done? He is placid and lazy. He has done nothing for this poor frightened country. He should be replaced by some one far more suitable. Now, I see why Iridea thinks he would be frightened of me for the thoughts flying through my head, but even still, I feel he has too much pride to contemplate assassination. I could do it. It would not be hard. He is all flesh without an ounce of magical blessing residing in his soul. I could get around the guards; throw an icicle between his eyes. I could do it and I could be Queen, just like I trained to be, and I could rally Myan against Hyxver at the forefront, drive him out. I could-

I think of Xada’s disappointed face tutting before me. You never could control your emotions. My mother would be ashamed of my lack of grace, where did these thoughts come from any way? When did I become so bloodthirsty? My father would be distraught to see me like this. Yet, I am without their guidance, alone in this world where all I can bring myself to think of is taking out he who took my world away. I do this for them, and for them, or because of them, I will steel myself. Zela, rid these heinous thoughts from my skull.

With a stifled scream, I fling an icicle into the skull of the practice-yard dummy. The fabric opens to spill hay like the curls of brain matter.