Copyright ?? 2022 by Saffron Honey. This is a work of fiction and fantasy that is (currently) being published exclusively on . All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner. Nas, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SONG of EMBER
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Fly beyond the hills and fields,
Fly beyond the moors,
It will find you, it will co—
Through fastened bolts and doors…
- Rhy of the Valley
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THE SUMMONS
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Alazy river snaked along the quiet forest path, warbling beneath trailing fronds and over polished stones. Two horses dozed beneath an ancient oak, its gnarled roots winding over boulders and curling in on themselves like a tangle of petrified snakes. Nestled amongst those roots and tall grasses rested several packs and a threadbare blanket.
These ostensibly belonged to the pair of disheveled travelers who sprawled upon the bank. One of them poked at a smallish fire with a cookpan that hadn't been cleaned in weeks. His eyes were small and squinted. The other deftly gutted a little fish.
Loose coals shifted, setting a flurry of sparks adrift over the river.
The squinty man flinched.
"Hah." His companion tossed the fish into the pan, taking up a crude pole and shaking his head. "What is it this ti?"
The squinty man surveyed the foliage across the river, eyes flicking from tree to scrub, and gnawed intently on one grubby fingernail. At length, he snapped the stick and tossed it into the fire.
"Birds are quiet, s'all."
"And so?" replied the other, with a jovial grin. "I could use a little quiet after listening to you complain all day. Slls nice here too… like after a rain."
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"Mighty peculiar seein' as it hasn't rained."
"You would say that." He cast out his line.
As the hook landed in the river with a gentle splash, sothing soft whispered from the nearby rushes—as if a wind had stirred them, though there was no wind. Their horses whickered, ears pricked and eyes bright.
Both travelers glanced toward the bend in the river, waiting in breathless silence—for what, exactly, neither could have said.
Like the plucked string of a lute, the air quivered.
A single whistling note.
Deep, and clear.
When the last echo faded into nothing, the talkative one stuck his fishing pole into the mud with a dull thuk, rising to his feet. His empty fingers trembled.
"Maker's breath," he croaked. "What was that?"
The other man scrambled to his feet, irritation twisting his pockmarked face as he kicked dirt over the fire. "Ti to go!"
He moved with a shocking speed, darting beneath the tree where the horses were tied and snatching up one of their wayward packs. The creatures whickered in alarm as he lashed it to the nearest saddle, fingers flying with a practiced swiftness. He turned around to grab the other - and stilled.
The shore where his friend had stood was empty.
A set of footprints trailed through the pebbly mud, and into the rippling water. He caught the faintest glimpse of a stooped silhouette vanishing into the low-hanging branches further up the river, and a flash of brilliant ruddy orange, like a red-breasted bird in flight.
Then it was gone.
He held his breath, paralyzed in indecision. A fool might call out after his companion, but he was no fool—and anyway, his throat was terribly dry. Better one survive than none.
His mind was just made up to take off running down the path when the cursed note ca again, echoing through the woods—shrill, demanding.
There was no mistaking it now.
A fell summons.
Everything in him pulled toward the sound, but so deep-rooted instinct scread within his mind. Swallowing hard, he drew a rusted dagger from his pack, eyes darting along the opposite shore. He had scrapped and vanquished badger tooth and bear claw, and the most cunning and vicious hunter of them all: his fellow man.
Was he now to be brought low by so strange bird of the forest?
His roving gaze paused on a cluster of distant reeds, where scattered evening light t the darkness of the deeper woods.
One slender shadow stood tall among the rest; he felt it had almost a womanly form—but before he could grasp whether it were real or imagined, it had lted away into the foliage, leaving him grasping for one more glimpse of the figure.
Co...
The dagger slipped from his nail-bitten fingers.
Why had he been holding it at all?
He andered down the embanknt, into the shallow water, and through the reeds and rushes at the unhurried pace of a man walking in a dream. Until he, too, disappeared into the shadows, the clear-flowing currents gurgling in his wake.
Faint stars twinkled above the wooded valley as the larks and thrushes resud their evening calls. But down by the river the horses stamped, chuffing and hawing as fingers of inky darkness swirled through the rushes…
The burbling river ran red.
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