Kraken Lore | Mashup | Fantasy | Dark Fantasy

The Lady of the Woods

A bargain once struck must be fulfilled

“Don’t dawdle, my brave boy,” Mother had whispered in his ear before kissing him farewell. “She’ll want a good look at you before a bargain can be made. The Lady’s woods are no place for strangers in the glare of the moon, even those she loves dearly.”

Ryon followed the well-trodden paths south, far past the barley fields and churches of their corner of the world, for as long as he dared. It would not do to be seen heading towards the Lady’s woods in such a hurry. The new god’s followers would not have it, and in the light of day, they all were his servants.

There was no Lady of the Woods. They all said so, and the good father had told them often that these myths were only deception and demon’s trickery — such things had no place in a brighter world. His mother knew better, as had her mother, and countless generations far beyond the memory of the living.

Buckler was as loyal a horse as anyone could wish for, but the brown-speckled broodmare was getting on in age, and the trek through rough patches of wilderness, overgrown and blanketed in broken cobble ruins was hard on her. Ryon himself was hardly faring better — he wasn’t used to riding Buckler for hours on end, and never at such speeds — but there was no time to spare.

Mother needed help, not tomorrow or the day after. Now — weeks ago in truth. She had tried her best to hide her sickness, but Ryon saw more than she knew. In his nightmares, a death’s-head shone through her skin, and a brightly glowing malaise festered in her lungs. He knew only the Lady could help now. There was power in the old world.

By the time he and Buckler arrived at the edge of the woods, both exhausted from the long ride, the sun had sunken deep on the horizon. Here the grasses grew wilder, and the trees denser, hiding away ancient forest soil beneath thick thorns and lilac-spotted ivy. Ryon’s mother would have told him to make camp and wait for the night to pass, but he knew death would visit in his dreams. No time, no choice.

“Good girl, just a little further,” he said to Buckler while petting her ears. “It won’t be far now.” She shook her head, neighing all the while, and Ryon knew she was afraid — or maybe she sensed the fear that had grown in his belly ever since leaving the farm.

With a light tap of his foot, they went off beyond the first trees, along an old wildlife path, concealed by nettles and shade. The birds sang for them, but all else was silent.

The smell of these woods was strange and rotten. It reminded Ryon of the old bog to the north of their farm. He used to venture there with his cousins, to play and dare each other to go deeper, but they stopped going after one of them almost drowned. There was no danger of drowning here, but the fear felt just the same. He could almost hear the screams amid the sound of dry branches snapping beneath Buckler’s hooves.

The trail soon vanished and was replaced by densely packed undergrowth, and thorny vines that slashed into his skin, leaving behind thin scratches on his neck and cheeks, aching badly. Ryon felt bad for the poor old horse, being forced to take the brunt of it.

“Be gone,” sang a voice sweet as honey and dry as kindling on the wind. A chill sank into his bones, and Buckler reared high into the air. For just a moment he felt as if he was flying. Ryon had always dreamed of flying. Then the ground came to meet him.

His head was spinning, and his knees were scrapped bloody. Crooked thorns pierced his thighs and hands, and the scarce light that broke through the trees had turned red. Buckler was long gone by the time he got back on his feet. His eyes followed the trampled thornbushes, and he figured she was heading back in the right direction.

A small blessing. He was all alone, or worse, not alone at all. Had that been the Lady’s voice? Why would she want him to leave? For a moment he considered that maybe the good father had been right, and only demons dwelled here.

But he couldn’t be right — if he was right, his mother was lost.

“My Lady!” he yelled, feeling less sure of himself than ever. “I have come to…to bargain!”

Nothing. Silence. Even the birds stopped singing, and the rustling of the wind gradually died down. Ryon looked for some sign, and a silent shudder passed through him. The trampled undergrowth was gone as if it had been reclaimed by nature itself — this was the Lady’s domain, and nature was hers.

Any sense of direction disappeared with it, and the sun was too obscured by the blanket of trees to guess its position. He was lost, alone, and soon the moon would break through the sky and swallow him whole.

Caw.

Ryon turned around. A massive crow had settled on one of the thorn bushes that had slashed his skin and pecked at the blood-speckled growth. It looked right in his eyes and waited.

“I-I have come to bargain…for my mother’s life. She is very — “

Caw. Caw.

The crow unhinged its beak and looked at him expectantly. His mother had always put a drop of blood in the tallow candles she made. “There is truth in blood,” she had told him once, as she pricked her finger with a needle. “There is no need to fear it.” He had to be brave now.

Ryon plucked the thorns from his right hand, wincing all the while, and presented the small red pools to the crow. He expected it to hurt, but the bird was gentle, nipping at the bloody spots with its tiny black tongue and letting the liquid dribble into its mouth.

Caw. Caw. Come.

The bird took flight and flew in tight circles just ahead of him. Come, the crow screamed, and Ryon followed through the thorns and thicket until the sun disappeared entirely, and darkness blanketed them. The black bird’s eyes shone brightly in the night.

After a long while the trees grew thinner, and undergrowth parted for rotten moss and dried shrubs. All Ryon could focus on, was a massive weeping willow, larger than any tree he had ever seen, surrounded by a circle of death — or was it reverence? The crow headed towards the lower branches and fell silent.

Ryon looked towards the sky and saw the sickle moon’s white slicing through the night. Just in time then, he hoped.

Amid the gnarled roots sat a woman of uncertain age, blanketed by the willow’s spiralling leaves. Where her legs and lower body should have been, she was one with the tree, and roots bit into her arms, back and chest, keeping her upright, like a queen on her throne. Her hair was the color of freshly turned soil, and her eyes crawled with red veins.

Ryon approached with fear in his heart. His mother had told him many legends of the gracious and kind Lady, but sitting on her throne of thorns, she seemed no different from the demons the good father had spoken of.

The crow rested on the Lady’s shoulder and dribbled his blood into her mouth. Her lips glistened with it.

“Come, boy,” she whispered with the voice of a crone, but not unkindly. “Let us bargain, then. Your blood speaks true.”

He had been taught to kneel before royalty, but this seemed entirely unfit for those rules. So he simply stood and searched for words.

“I am here for my mother,” he said, doing his best to keep the tremor from his speech. “She is very sick. Deadly sick. She won’t last long…I’ve dreamt of it.”

The Lady of the Woods considered him, with a gentle smile on her lips, petting the crow by her side.

“Your mother has done me good service. I can taste her in you, and hear her words in your voice. Your blood is an old one, rooted deeply in these lands.” The willow shook when she extended a hand towards him, spindly fingers flowing with sap.

Ryon instinctually recoiled from the hand. He could see the yellow-green veins beneath her pale skin. Then he stepped forward; this was no time to be afraid.

“Now I see she has kept the end of her bargain. You have not forgotten the Old Ways,” the Lady spoke.

His mother always said that no promise can be made without a firm handshake — that you can feel someone’s worth in the way they shake your hand. But his mother never told him of any bargain.

“My mother’s bargain?” he asked.

“One child in a barren womb in exchange for service to the land. Raising you, she served it well.”

Ryon had never known his father and never had any siblings. Whenever he asked about him, his mother avoided the question. He assumed the man had hurt her badly, but now another thought came to mind.

“Who was my father?” The words tumbled out before he could consider them.

The Lady laughed, filled with a patronizing joy. It made him shudder. “Look around you, boy.” Her arms extended and swept wide, and the willow tree’s branches followed. “You are born of this land, as far as your eyes could see, on the highest peaks of the mountains. And it shall be yours.”

This was too much. He regretted asking immediately and pushed it away. He had not come here for this.

“I am here for my mother!” He took a step forward in anger born from uncertainty, but the Lady did not flinch. “Help her. That’s all I ask. Please.” He felt the tears coming, but he promised himself not to cry anymore.

“You shall help her, child. You shall.” Her expression changed, and kindness was swept away by something older and more terrible. “There is a poison spreading through the land. The trees feel the steel, the animals shy away in pain, and the rivers drown in it. Your mother feels it too, and it will kill her if you don’t act. The Old Ways must be preserved.”

“How?” That was all he could muster, without breaking down. “I’ll do anything to help her. Just tell me how!”

“The false god and his servants must be driven from this land.” The tree swelled to a terrifying height, and its branches whipped the air wildly. “His churches must burn, and his brick and mortar shattered to pieces, so the forest may reclaim what has been lost. All you must do is take my hand, and they shall learn to fear the wilds again.”

The milky sap ran free and formed tears on the Lady’s face. There was desperation and fury in her eyes. The white sickle moon shone brighter than ever, and Ryon banished his fear. His mother always said there was power in the land. He only had to grasp it.

“A bargain then?” he asked.

“A bargain. Your mother’s life, for your service.” The Lady of the Woods answered and flexed her spindly fingers.

Ryon grasped the hand tightly and shook it. Before he had a chance to reconsider, the roots burrowed into his skin, enveloping him completely — changing him as the land saw fit.

That night the crows sang in unison under the sickle moon, and Ryon’s mother awoke from her sickbed, with fever dreams of weeds growing between cracked stones. Outside she heard Buckler stomping around the yard.

The new world would learn to fear the Old Ways again, she knew.

Point Tally:

Main Theme: 2 Points 
Your hero must reach their destination by sundown!

Constraints: 3 Points
- A horse
- The Moon
- A scrapped knee or elbow

Hardcore Constraint: 2 Points
Engine trouble! (I'm guessing "horse trouble" counts?)

Literary Device: 5 Points
Bildungsroman (I think farm boy to eldritch tree servant works!)

Tally: 1 Point

Total Points: 13/14 Points

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed my first attempt at a Monday Mashup, and thanks again to Jonathon Sawyer for tagging me!

If you enjoyed this, feel free to check out some more of my short stories: