The Forester of Mikkelvenuvik

The Forester of Mikkelvenuvik

By Andrew Bruce Fisk © March 2013

The deep throated call of the forest birds woke Aakon from his sleep. The rugged surface of his cabin felt cool to the touch of his feet as he trod barefoot to the workshop. It was early in the day and time for his first task. Out under the glowing skies of Mikkelvenuvik the creatures of the night prowled, ever wary of venturing close to the home of the man of the woods.

It was an hour after dawn when he finished at the lathe. The tools he crafted were smooth and honed ready for use. It occupied his mind. Now that the suns of his world climbed high above the towering peaks that guarded the frontiers of his forest realm he would walk amid the trees and gather food for his table. This was his way. It had been the same for many years and so it could continue today.

The woodlands of his home were at peace. He feared no danger. The predators of the deep woods were absent. No one would trouble him. He found the berries and roots that he sought and harvested them quietly. He did not want to disturb the sleep of the trees.

They came to him soon after. The softness of their presence touching his mind with thoughts of affection and concern. Flitting between the undergrowth they strayed out of his vision. He smiled. His friends were so shy even after so many ages had passed as they measured time. He left some of his catch for them in the lee of a great oak and retired to the seclusion of his house.

He found the amber soon after. The gift of the shadow folk was a payment in kind. Every morning the fey ones of Mikkelevenuvik would come, never showing themselves, and they would leave the glowing tree jewels on his hearth. He would thank his friends and place the precious material within the safety of his workplace. As the days grew colder he would tap the warmth of the amber drawing comfort from the life force that burned inside. That too was his way.

The evening came and once again Aakon walked alone amidst the glades of his home. The first of the suns had already dipped low towards the tips of the mountains. The light had changed. Its quality poorer now. He listened to distant calls. Voices of a long lost world that reached out to him drawing him back from the refuge he had made for himself. His time was passing. The thought troubled him for a moment. The forest had many needs and his resources were so limited. The moment passed and he lost himself in the dreams of times long ago.

Someone had entered the forest. A stranger walked in his land. A man of violence.

He found the newcomer by the high falls. The spray waters had wrapped a mist around them as they met, perhaps shrouding them from prying eyes. Aakon’s vision penetrated deep into the being of the other. He saw that the man who had come to him was in need of healing. The physical hurts that had been inflicted were great but a wound much more severe was present. Its mark stood out.

The man that lay dying at the woodman’s feet carried a message. He was a ganthir. A warrior from a distant world. One which Aakon had left behind. The man had no name. Dark blood issued from his mouth. Words stuttered out in broken form. A war had begun. Help was needed. There was a threat.

The warrior died before his message was complete. Aakon left his body in the lee of the falls. He would have no dealings with the outsiders. He shut his mind to them. Their ways were not his to own. Let them fight their battles alone.

The night fell. The suns had set over Aakon’s realm.

With the first light of the new day he returned. The body was gone. He cleansed himself in the waters and then made to leave. Out of the sides of his eyes he noticed them.

“Thank you.”

The amber they had left for him lit his way home through the still darkened forest trails. His mood lifted by a degree. Still he was troubled. Arriving home he set about his creations. The day was long and his thoughts were mixed with worry. He spent the night awake considering the events of the day. In the early hours sleep finally took him into its embrace. His dreams were clouded with ambiguity. He could see no reason in them. The darkness dominated the woodlands of Mikkelvenuvikk and its protector.

It was early that day that the stars fell from heaven. Five in number they burned bright in their descent to the forests below. Detonating as they impacted the mass of trees they shattered revealing their incandescent interiors. The creatures of the woods fled in terror. They knew the peril that now walked amidst them.

The elderlord watched the spreading devastation. Fires ripped through the foliage in every direction. The four krell waited impatiently. They were hungry. The journey had been long. The scaled hides protected them from the surging heat but it drew energy from them. They needed to feed.

Elsarina shut her ears to the complaints of her servants. Her thoughts focused on the task she had set herself. He was here. She could sense the presence of one of her enemies. She must act swiftly.

The essence was following free now it had been liberated by the flames. Wisps of life-energy flickered into vision, their ethereal traces burning patterns on her retina. She stood tall against the skyline. A challenge to the one who dwelt here. Her dark sylvian features hidden behind the savage cut of her armour. She was ready to claim the prize. The glory of victory would be hers. She opened the visor and gazed on the spreading inferno. The fires were doing her work. Their evil energy ripping the heart out of Mikkelvenuvik. Soon he would have to act.

She was ready.

The cries of the shadow-folk woke the forester from a deep dream. He had fallen asleep against his will. His body overwhelming his mind. The smell of woodsmoke mixed with the terror of his adopted terror. He awoke in anger. An unusual emotion. Leaving the cabin he strode out to a ledge where he could see for himself the encroaching danger. The heat wave struck him then. He drew breath slowing, calming his racing heart. The horizon was filled with horror. A dying world greeted his eyes. His world.

Aakon saw her silhouetted against the sky. He watched her turn and face him. A mile away perhaps. The flames defined the beauty of her form. A woman of deadly intent clothed in the garments of war. She had done this. The crime was hers.

Aakon paused. Thought and action became disconnected. His desire for revenge quenched by a deeper understanding. She had come for a reason. He knew her kind. The elder-race were governed by law as well as emotion. They followed the patterns of the realms in their arcane, yet ultimately predictable, ways. He had fought them in ages past in the old wars that had scarred both the lands and his soul. He had sworn to kill no more. His oath stayed his hand now.

She spoke to him then. A soft pattern of thought that touched the edges of his mind imparting the words with seamless effort.

“Lord of the woods, why do you hide?”

Aakon stood defiance raging in his eyes. His body set in stone.

“Great Aakon your trees are burning. Save them!”

The mockery of language continued to flow into his thoughts. This was their way. Aakon let his mind stray for one brief moment. Somewhere deep in the heart of the woods an ancient servant rose from slumber, ready to serve, ready to drink the blood of elders once more. The man of the forest contemplated the possibility for an instant longer.  It would be so easy to take up the weapon he had abandoned and slay these creatures of chaos. He had forged the great blade he had called ‘Drakkensorg’, the Dragon Sword, in ages past. He remembered those times. An age of blood and shattered bones. A time of terror and shredded dreams. He returned to the present. The forest burned. Its creatures scattered. The amber was fading. Its power broken by the spells of the invaders. Anger flared inside him. His hands itched. He locked his eyes onto the face of his distant enemy. Aakon spoke.

“Leave this place in peace. You are wasted here.”

The elder-lord laughed. The susurration washed his mind. “Come proud lord! You will not save your forest but will you save your children?”

Aakon remained impassive.

“What has driven you to hide here brave Aakon? Why do you not ride to fight with your brothers? Maybe the fey folk of Mikkelevenuvik have bewitched you with their charms. We will free you of their touch.”

The silence continued.

“Your sword is hungry for my blood. Take it, use it!”

His thoughts flickered. A momentary lapse.

“Yes!” She laughed.

The suns bled their light across the darkening sky. Soon the evening could capture them in its grip. Aakon smelt death. He saw the flames torch the lives of his charges. The trees screamed in his ears. Still he said no more. The invaders prowled the valley floors of Mikkelvenuvik unhindered. Finally he raised his eyes once more to the fey lady that faced him.

She held something.

The orb glowed in eldritch light. Its blue glow rich in potential. The forester knew its purpose. It was his end. A faint touch of cold traced across his heart. The fire orb would capture his soul. He would lose his freedom. His essence would be mined by the elder-race. It would be used in their eternal wars. He could not resist without breaking his vow. So this was destiny?

“You leave me no choice Man of the Woods. I, Elzarina of the house of Sharazinni claim that which is rightfully mine.”

The orb pulsed brightly. His thoughts were torn from him. His body trembled as the evil powers of the stone ripped into his being. He opened his mouth to speak. A final command. A plea?

Other voices spoke for him.

A multitude of shapes and colours flashed through his vision. His ears rang with the songs of many voices not his own. He understood.

The scream of fury ripped the walls of Mikkelvenuvik down. In the moment of weakness a god awoke from long slumber. An ancient oath had been broken. The invaders from another world ceased to exist. Their lives snuffed out like the fires they had perpetrated on the world of the innocents. Violence was done in the name of peace. A father protected his children.

A time passed.

They came to him in the evening. They bore gifts gathered from the woods. He thanked them and sent them home with food for their tables. In the quiet of his workshop the forester returned to his lathe and kept his thoughts hidden. Softly he worked the wood. Mending that which was broken.

That was his way.