The Wyrded Forest by Remi Black

Author:Remi Black
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, epic fantasy, sword and sorcery, witches and wizards, werewolves and shifters, myths and legends, Elves and Fae, mystery fantasy
Publisher: M.A. Lee
Published: 2021-09-28T00:00:00+00:00

~ 9 ~ Hermit’s Hut

Sun in her eyes woke her. Desora felt disgruntled, apprehensive. Those were common states. Her body had stiffened from sleeping so still, curled on her side. She missed her bed in her hut. The camp had woken before her, and she smelled woodsmoke and heard a fire’s crackle under the murmurs of the men.

Rangers, she remembered. Seeking her.

Braxton. Who claimed he knew her. Who had memories of her, from before.

On that, she remembered the monster, cloaked by that miasma, armored by metal.

And the wyre, who wanted her dead and left off their pursuit in the environs where that monster would hunt.

Apprehension increased to fear mixed oddly with determination. Those were new.

The others had already rolled up their blankets. The horses remained at their tethers, saddled, tails swishing at the bugs that tried to find a landing space.

The sun’s radiance warmed the flat shelf of granite, cooled in the overnight. As Desora sat up, a breeze trickled across her face. In summer, the wind continued until the sun reached its zenith. As the day heated to mid-afternoon, the wind would die, only to resume at late afternoon. For now, it was a kiss that cooled.

She stood and stretched then knelt to deal with her bedroll.

Seeing her movement, a man rose from the fire circle. He brought her a tin cup and gave her a smile. One of the Citadel’s guards, for he wore armor over chainmail and leather. “Captain said you’d want this.”

“Thank you. What is your name?”

He grinned, looking as friendly as his captain. “Challach.”

The cup held an aromatic dark liquid that she could smell before he extended it to her. He transferred the cup carefully. She realized how hot it was when she touched fingers to the bottom. She quickly let the sturdy handle take the cup’s weight. Hot on a midsummer day that would become hotter. Her usual drink was a weak herbal tea. She sipped this drink tentatively.

Flavor filled her mouth, deep and strong. She liked it. In her mind a spark flared in a dark corner. I should remember this, but no memory surfaced, just that flash of recognition. She wanted to weep for all the groggy mornings when she’d needed something to brace her for the day and had only an herb tea, flavorful but not strengthening.

She was finishing the cup, holding it with two hands, when a man came beside her.

Brax. She lowered the cup and smiled, and his returning grin expanded. “Have you not had jahvi for a while?”

“I don’t remember it. At all. I like this. Is there more?”

He led her toward the fire and picked up a brewing pot from a flat rock in the ring. He gave it a shake. At the slosh, he grinned. “Another cup?” The jahvi didn’t quite fill the cup, and as she inhaled the brew, he opened the lid and shook the drops out of the pot before handing it over to one of his men. Then he watched her blow across the dark liquid to cool it enough to drink.

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