Cursed, p.19
Cursed, page 19
Serilda pressed a hand to her temple, overcome with an odd dizziness. How was this possible?
Not long after that, before they could seek out toadstools and embroidered oak leaves, the hounds caught a scent and dashed off. The Erlking spurred his horse forward, and Serilda’s mount hastened to follow. The shadows of the forest blurred past. Every now and then the trees and ferns were illuminated by a shard of moonlight cutting through the dense foliage.
Nothing was familiar. Everything was strange and impossible and topsy-turvy.
This wasn’t right. She was suddenly overcome with the sense that she should not be here.
But she could not escape. Not only because the Erlking would never allow it, but also because she would be immediately lost in these scraggly woods, filled with monsters and magic.
“Blackberries!” someone cried. “There are blackberries up here! And an oak tree.”
The Erlking grinned smugly. “Nonsense with sauce,” he muttered.
When they caught up to the hounds, they had indeed reached an oak tree. It was the biggest oak tree Serilda had ever seen, its trunk wider than the carriages that trundled in the distance, trying to catch up.
Serilda gaped, knowing that she shouldn’t be surprised at this point that her ridiculous lies were coming true, but … really? This particular bunch of lies had been exceptionally ridiculous, even for her.
“I found this,” said one of the hunters, holding up what appeared to be an oak leaf, embroidered. The hunter tossed it into the air and it fluttered down, down to the forest floor, landing with its tip pointing toward the tree.
The oak tree—the more Serilda thought of it—seemed awfully familiar.
But that was impossible. The only time she’d trekked through this forest was when the schellenrock and the moss maidens brought her to see Pusch-Grohla, the Shrub Grandmother. She remembered that day so clearly. Everything they had discussed. The thinly veiled threats against her life if she ever dared to betray them to the Erlking.
But now that she thought of it, why couldn’t she remember how she’d gotten there? Where was there?
A babbling brook. A salige that tried to attack her. The hollow clatter of the schellenrock’s coat. A village among the trees. Pusch-Grohla seated upon a tree stump.
Her words came back to Serilda.
Should you ever try to find this place again, or lead anyone to us, your words will turn to gibberish and you will become as lost as a cricket in a snowstorm.
Serilda didn’t remember this oak tree, but suddenly, she knew where she was.
She knew where she had just brought the wild hunt.
Not to the lair of a unicorn, but to something far worse.
Her eyes widened with horror.
“Your Grim,” she said, reaching for the Erlking’s arm. “I’ve just remembered—a story I heard when I was a little girl. About a unicorn that liked to sleep among a cluster of birch trees off the banks of the Sieglin Riv—”
“That’s enough,” said the Erlking. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but that will do for now.”
He leaped from his horse, landing soundlessly amid the brush.
“Wait!” said Serilda, sliding off her horse with much less grace.
The Erlking did not wait. He approached the oak tree and peeled back a layer of vines and moss that clung to the wide trunk, revealing a narrow hole in the tree’s roots, tall enough for Serilda to walk through, though the Erlking had to duck. She noticed that he took care not to touch the tree’s bark, and she thought of an old superstition—that oak could keep evil creatures at bay.
“Light,” he called, and a hunter appeared with a torch. The Erlking took it and held it high, revealing the hollow insides of the trunk, like a small cavern.
Hung on the other side was a tapestry. Serilda’s breath caught as the Erlking held the light to reveal the image woven with fine threads. A white unicorn standing proud in a vibrant glen, surrounded by every creature of the forest, from the simplest squirrel to the most alluring water nix. The image was breathtaking, a vibrant work of impeccable art.
“Lovely,” said the Erlking.
Then he brought the torch flame to the fabric.
“No!” Serilda cried out. “Please!”
The tapestry caught fire like dry leaves. The flames spread. Black smoke quickly filled the cavern within the oak tree, and the Erlking pushed Serilda out of the tree as the fire began to consume it from the inside. Smoke rose, blocking what little moonlight tried to find them through the tangled branches overhead. Twigs crackled and splintered and fell. Heat pressed against Serilda’s face, driving her back toward the line of hunters.
It did not take long for the entire tree to become engulfed, and for the fire to spread, jumping across the branches into nearby trees.
“Gods alive,” she breathed. “You will destroy the whole forest.”
Beside her, the Erlking grunted. “It would be worth it.”
She looked at him, aghast.
“Oh, calm yourself. The forest will live. You see, the fire is already containing itself. It will only destroy what this tree was meant to hide.”
She didn’t understand. The flames were spreading, and quickly. Ash was falling down like snow across the forest floor—
Ash.
Blanketing the world before her.
Revealing—not a dense forest—but a village. A village built of tree houses and vine bridges and homes nestled among the roots.
The fire was not burning down all of the Aschen Wood.
It was burning down Asyltal.
As the great oak tree collapsed into itself, releasing a flurry of blinding sparks, Serilda saw the figure standing amid the flames and destruction.
Grandmother to the moss maidens. Protector of the forest. Pusch-Grohla.
She was glaring, not at the Erlking, but at Serilda.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I should have known better than to let live a human once you had seen our home,” said Pusch-Grohla. Her long white hair hung in tangles and knots, run through with sticks and bits of moss and even a clump of hardened mud. Completely out of place was the elegant pearl diadem that rested on her wrinkled brow.
“I’m sorry,” Serilda gasped. “It was an accident—”
“Yet bring them here you did. Which should not have been possible. I made sure that you would not be able to find us again.”
“I didn’t mean to! He was asking about a … a unicorn. I just made up a story, I swear. I never would have betrayed you!”
“The unicorn was a nice touch,” drawled the Erlking, striding into the clearing. “All this time, hidden behind one of Hulda’s tapestries. Clever gods.” He glanced around. “Have your children scampered off in fright? I had expected more from the so-called forest folk. I thought you were raising them to be warriors of a sort. Or—let me guess.” He tilted his head back, peering around at the towering trees. “They’re tucked away, hiding in the branches, waiting for just the right moment to heroically throw themselves into battle.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I do hope that moment comes before it all burns to the ground.”
“With or without our home,” said Pusch-Grohla, “we will fight you and your selfish path of destruction.”
He chuckled. “Not if you’re dead.”
In one motion, he unsheathed the longsword and swung it at Pusch-Grohla. She blocked it with her staff and where metal struck wood a swarm of white-winged moths fluttered into existence. They flurried at the Erlking and in that moment’s distraction, a war cry sounded out.
Hundreds of moss maidens appeared from the surrounding woods, horns and antlers flashing gold in the light from the consuming fire. They wielded bows and daggers and spears as they charged at the hunters, who rushed forward to meet them with their own eager weapons.
Serilda screamed and crouched down, trying to protect herself with raised arms, but no one paid her any attention as the world was thrown into chaos. The ground rumbled and she fell to one knee, thinking it was hunters’ horses rushing into the fray. But then she noticed enormous tree roots breaking through the forest floor and lashing at the hunters like snakes. Soon, the roots were joined by vines whipping down from the burning branches. Brambles winding around hunters’ legs. Birds appeared from the trees to hurtle toward the invaders with sharp beaks and sharper talons. Spores from enormous fungi mixed with the fire’s smoke, choking and blinding anyone who came in contact with them.
But though the forest magic was strong, the hunters were brutal and well-trained and immortal. In the frenzy of battle, they focused their attention on the moss maidens, meting out blow for blow.
Screams everywhere. Of pain. Of rage.
Then—Serilda!—little voices calling her.
She blinked to clear the dust from her eyes.
The five children were hiding between the wheels of a carriage. Though she was afraid to move, Serilda forced herself to skitter forward. Dodging a hunter’s knife and a moss maiden’s hatchet, she threw herself beneath the carriage, panting. “Is anyone hurt?”
“We’re all right,” Hans answered for them, though Gerdrut was crying as both twins tried to shelter her with their arms.
From this vantage, Serilda had a better view of the turmoil. The fire continued to spread, forming a barrier around the glen that had been the village of Asyltal. Every now and then a branch would splinter above and fall, crashing down with a surge of sparks.
The ghosts were mostly seeking shelter themselves, hiding inside or underneath the carriages, their cursed tie to the Erlking keeping them from fleeing into the woods.
All except Agathe. Like the hunters, she was in battle mode. A broadsword in her hands, she moved like a dancer through the fight, cutting through moss maidens with dazzling speed and grace. Oh, how Serilda wished the skills of the weapons master could have been used against the dark ones, and not the forest folk.
Serilda couldn’t watch.
Turning away, she spotted the large wagon, not far off, sheltering a handful of cooks and scullery maids. She recognized that wagon. Her wagon. The one harboring her body.
Could she get to it? Break the curse? Reunite her spirit with her body and free herself for real? No one was watching her.
But … no.
The children were still trapped, enslaved to the Erlking. She could not abandon them. She had to …
She gasped and swiveled her attention to the Erlking. He was advancing on Shrub Grandmother, who was fighting back with an onslaught of forest magic. Roots winding up his legs. Tree saplings grasping at his arms. Wildflowers sprouting from the king’s own scabbards and pockets when he reached for his weapons. No matter how quick or ruthless the Erlking was, Pusch-Grohla always had a trick to throw him off or slow him down. Where any warrior might have been frustrated, the Erlking was grinning, his blue eyes bright and zealous.
He still hadn’t used the long golden chain tied in a loop at his belt, as if he was saving it for a special occasion. She knew the hunters had more, somewhere, from when they had captured the tatzelwurm and fought the bärgeist, but she had no idea where they might be keeping them. But the Erlking’s chain was right there, glinting in the firelight.
If Serilda could somehow get that chain, she could use it to free the children.
“Stay here,” she said, crawling out from beneath the carriage.
The children’s dismayed cries followed her, but Serilda ignored them. She thought only of the Erlking and that chain and how she had to get closer to him without being stabbed by an errant dagger or impaled by a wayward spear.
At least the hunters and the moss maidens were so focused on killing one another they paid no heed to the girl ducking and crawling and sprinting through their midst.
She threw herself behind a stone to catch her breath. She was close now. The Erlking and Shrub Grandmother fought not a dozen paces from her.
He was intent, so focused on his quarry.
But Serilda could sense the battle was nearing its end—and the dark ones were winning. Bodies of fallen moss maidens littered the ground, along with all manner of forest beasts. Bats and badgers, foxes and owls. Lifeless eyes peering up into the night. Bodies punctured with bolts and arrows or cut through by swords. The moss on the forest floor was soaked through with blood, and everywhere fallen tree branches and burning embers mixed with carnage.
Even Pusch-Grohla was losing ground, having been continuously beaten back by the Erlking’s advances until her back hit the trunk of a towering pine tree. Its upper limbs were burning. Ash swirled around them.
The Erlking grinned and lifted his sword, the point hovering at her throat. “Have your tricks finally run out, you old hag?”
To Serilda’s surprise, she spied a glistening tear in the corner of Pusch-Grohla’s eye as she took in just how much devastation the fire had caused.
“Please … Solvilde,” Shrub Grandmother whispered, her throat scratchy from the smoke, “if you ever cared for anything beyond yourself, help us.”
The Erlking laughed, a cruel, cold sound. “The great Pusch-Grohla, begging for what? A rain cloud? A thunderstorm?” He clicked his tongue. “Unfortunately, Solvilde has not been in a position to answer hopeless prayers for a very long time.”
Holding her breath, Serilda left the relative safety of the stone and crept closer, her eye on the looped chain.
Shrub Grandmother’s face contorted. “What have you done with them?”
“The same thing I’m about to do to you.” He lowered the sword. His other hand reached for his belt.
He unhooked the chain at the same moment Serilda caught hold of the loop.
The Erlking started and turned toward Serilda, sword raised. But he froze when he saw her, both hands gripping the chain.
“I won’t let you hurt her!” she yelled. “She only wants to protect the forest. You are the villain here! You can’t do this!”
One corner of the king’s mouth lifted with amusement. “Never has a mortal surprised me as you can.”
With a single tug on the chain, he pulled Serilda toward him and wrapped an arm around her waist. Serilda cried out, refusing to let go even as her hands and the chain were trapped between their bodies. The Erlking craned his head, his breath dancing across her cheek.
“Don’t forget your place.”
With a snarl, he shoved Serilda away, yanking the golden chains from her grip. They tore across her palm, leaving wicked gashes in her skin. Serilda fell to the ground. “No!”
The Erlking swung his sword—not at Pusch-Grohla, but at a series of enormous thorns that had shot up from the ground right where he and Serilda had been standing. She was certain that one would have impaled her had the Erlking held her even a second longer.
“Enough!” the Erlking roared. With a flick of his wrist, he unwound the golden chains and sent them flying at Shrub Grandmother. They whipped around her and the burning tree, trapping her against the trunk.
She released a guttural, inhuman sound, more howl than scream. She thrashed against the bindings, but with her struggles, the chains only wound tighter.
“Go on,” said the Erlking. “Keep fighting. I’m rather enjoying this.”
Shrub Grandmother snarled and spat a glob of mucus at him. It landed on his leather jerkin, where it hissed like some sort of burning venom.
The Erlking groaned. “Disgusting creature.”
Pusch-Grohla’s nostrils flared and she lifted her chin in defiance.
Then, to Serilda’s surprise, she whistled a fluttery, melodic tune, like an enchanted birdsong, that echoed long and loud across the glen.
Hope lifted inside Serilda. Was she calling for reinforcements? Some unexpected ally from the forest who would rush in and destroy the hunters where they stood?
No.
Her hope quickly fizzled as she saw the remaining moss maidens, battle weary but still alive, turn and flee into the forest, obedient to their grandmother’s order.
“They are retreating,” one of the dark ones yelled. “Your Grim!”
“Do not pursue,” rumbled the Erlking’s voice as the moss maidens disappeared like fireflies at dawn. “We have what we came for.”
He regarded Pusch-Grohla, who had stopped writhing against her bonds. Her expression remained obstinate. As the Erlking approached her, she bared her teeth at him, and Serilda remembered how odd her mouth had looked to her the first time she’d met Shrub Grandmother. As if the few teeth she had left had been taken from a horse and crammed behind the chapped lips of a crone.
“What an easy victory,” said the Erlking. “I had hoped to slaughter many more of your daughters before you called them off. Where will they go, I wonder, now that Asyltal burns to the ground.” He made a point of surveying the flaming trees. The air was so thick with smoke it stung Serilda’s eyes, but the dark ones seemed unbothered by it.
“You do know that all of this could have been avoided,” the Erlking went on. “We could have been … well, not friends. But cordial acquaintances. All those years ago. If only you had lent your aid when I first came to you. If only you’d placed a child into Perchta’s womb. Do not tell me your magic could not accomplish it. By denying us, by denying her, you brought this plight on your forest and your own children.”
Shrub Grandmother snarled. “Perchta is a soulless heathen. Any child placed in her womb would have withered from the poison in her blood. If by some miracle she carried a babe to term, then it would have been born a monster and grown into a beast the likes of which I cannot begin to imagine. I would never give my blessing to such an ill-suited mother. I do not regret my choice, and I never shall.”
The Erlking held her gaze a long, quiet moment. “Then I suppose we are at an impasse. Pity.” He reached up and tapped a finger against the pearl diadem on Pusch-Grohla’s brow. “I will be requiring that horn.”
“And I will be requiring a strong mug of winter-berry cider,” Pusch-Grohla shot back, “but it is the dead of summer and we don’t always get what we want.”
“I usually get what I want just fine.”
The Erlking reached into his quiver and pulled out—not a gold arrow, but one tipped in black. Identical to the one Serilda had pulled from the basilisk.
