Lord of the Forest Read online

  Gifted with extraordinary hearing, Marius could hear a feather fall anywhere on his isle, for he was neither human nor fay, though he resembled both in many ways and treated them as brethren. He was an immortal elemental of the land, of nature and the forest, cursed by the gods to live out his lonely existence for all eternity, sharing the body of a creature he had once killed. He was endowed with many supernatural gifts, but not one among them could overcome the curse, for he had disturbed his bond with Nature—shattered it—when he killed the beast he had been duty-bound to protect, a most grievous crime. Oddly, it wasn’t the crime itself that cursed him. He could have repented with a word. It was his lack of remorse for the beast’s death to this very day, though the offense had occurred eons ago, back during the great cataclysm when the archipelago was formed. He never spoke of it, but what was happening to him now harkened back to the day of the curse, brought it all rushing to the fore of his mind. It was unbearable.

  The willow tree’s hoarse voice assailed his ears again, and he streaked through the little copse and confronted it, rearing back on his hind legs, forefeet flying. “What? What?” he trumpeted. “Spit it out, you lazy good-for-nothing voyeur!”

  “Impetuous fool!” Philonous cried. “Look! Look to the sky. What do you see?”

  Marius squinted toward the indigo heavens. Even though the pool was cloaked, the same sky stretched above. The moon had risen. Granted, it wasn’t much of one, but the slim sliver shining down should have been enough to keep the centaur at bay. Why hadn’t it?

  “Did I miscalculate? I don’t understand,” Marius said, scowling toward the heavens. “If that moon hanging there is real, how am I thus?”

  “These things are the gods’ doing,” the tree said. “You were not so very wrong, but it appears that the phases are not yet complete. It is not quite moon-dark. With all your worrying about what might be, you’ve lost sight of what is. You will be able to make your run tonight after all, possibly even on the morrow as well. By the looks of that moon, I wouldn’t think you’ll be fortunate enough to manage the whole three-day celebration, but it shan’t be a total loss. Now, calm yourself, then go and make ready. It is nearly time.”

  Marius pounded his flanks with white-knuckled fists. “How can I, like this? And you haven’t answered me—why am I in this body if the moon hasn’t quite gone dark yet?”

  “She brought the centaur out, young fool. The passion you felt for that exquisite creature’s embrace is what’s done it.”

  Marius had to admit that Philonous was right.

  “If what occurred here before has made me thus, what is to keep it from happening again if I do make my Midsummer run?”

  The tree sketched another shrug, lifting a long, feathery branch. “Nothing,” it said, “except perhaps your willpower, now that you are aware. You are being tested, Marius, Lord of the Forest, by the look of it. These things occur for a purpose. We are never enlightened without one. Do not fly in the face of destiny. You are shown this now to prepare yourself, because you will have need of the knowledge at some point. Now, calm down and let Marius, the man, emerge.”

  “Who was she, Philonous?” Marius asked. “Will I ever see her again? No one has ever made me feel like that!”

  “She told you who she was.”

  “What, that business about her being spirit? Midsummer nonsense. They all have their tall tales to tell. You don’t expect me to believe that?”

  Philonous sighed. “In all the eons that you’ve roamed the realm of Arcus, one would think you’d have found the time to read its lore, young Marius.”

  “You are saying she told me the truth? If that is so, tell me how is it that ‘in all the eons’ I have never seen her before?”

  “Linnea shows herself to whom she will when she will. Evidently, you have finally gained her favor. At the very least, you have definitely caught her notice.”

  Marius’s jaw dropped. “L-Linnea? The Huntress?”

  The sage tree nodded its foliage. “They say she is the daughter of the Great White Stag that protects the forests of this isle and all the forests of Arcus.”

  Marius’s mind reeled back to his latest encounter with the legendary stag, when it drove the demon lord Ravelle back into Outer Darkness, saving the forest and liberating Marius, Lord of the Dark. Gooseflesh crawled the length of his spine just thinking about it.

  The blood-chilling recollection triggered deeper thoughts, and the legend of the huntress ghosted across his memory. Linnea was one of the most well-guarded secrets in Nature. She was reputed to be the offspring of the Great Stag himself, and Ria, a Nature elemental of mixed human blood who possessed the spirit of the antelope. Linnea was an enigma of myth so far removed from worldly and otherworldly lore that she had become lost in the mists of time. It was said she did not give her favors lightly or often…and she had favored him. He could not wrap his mind around how incredible that was.

  All at once, a shock to his middle doubled him over. The change back was occurring, and he groaned, for it was always painful when bones stretched and muscles expanded and contracted. Falling to his knees, he let the transformation take him, and in a blinding, pulsating streak of silver-white light, he returned to his human form, naked, his body running with sweat from the ordeal. Staggering erect, he dove into the pool to let the mineral salts soothe his sore skin and penetrate his aching muscles. It were about to begin. He would wear no costume. The race was run naked. He would, however, be masked, just as Linnea had been. He blinked and saw his headdress in Philonous’s branches. The tree offered it with reverence.

  “Stag of the chase,” the tree said. “You are safe from the centaur for this night at least, but you must steel yourself against passion, or you will call him back again, which is why you had this little test.”

  “I will try,” Marius said dourly. It did not bode well.

  “You will succeed,” the tree corrected him. “Do not trouble yourself overmuch with things beyond your comprehension. Enlightenment comes in its own time—not yours.”

  Marius didn’t need the lecture. He was hardly a novice. He’d done this since time out of mind.

  “Indeed,” Philonous said, answering Marius’s thoughts, “but you’ve never had a visit from the goddess of the hunt on Solstice Eve before. Now go! The celebration has begun!”

  Marius made no reply. He took the elaborate headdress and slipped it on. It completely covered his head, but the eye and nostril holes were well placed, giving him ample air and a wide field of vision. He glanced behind him. The willow sighed and settled back into sleep mode. A quick glance toward the star-studded vault overhead reassured him that the tiny slice of moon still hung there. All was well. Why, then, were the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing on end? Why was cold sweat running over his brow beneath the stag mask? And why was his heart racing like a runaway stallion?

  Marius heaved a sigh, and another, deep and cleansing, as if to purge whatever unease his extraordinary powers of perception had set loose in him. Then moving his head from side to side, he flexed every muscle in a ritualistic limbering exercise and stepped back through the invisible portal into the forest.

  The hidden pool was situated deep in the wood. Few ventured this far, for it was a dismal place, where beings who had aged to a point of nearly perpetual slumber awaited their final journey to the afterlife. While they were immortal just as he was, they celebrated their lives at different plateaus of existence. Only fools disturbed their slumber.

  Moving stealthily, Marius padded from tree to tree, following the brook fed by the mineral spring until he came to the clearing that separated that desolate quarter from the rest of the forest. There was no way to breach the distance and reach the dense forest except by sprinting across.

  The bonfires had been lit in the clearing, the only place they were allowed since a past holocaust had cost many Ancient Ones their lives, for they were vulnerable to fire. Already, female revelers were dancing naked to the music of flute and lyre around
the Midsummer tree, their lithe bodies tinted golden in the firelight. The trick would be passing them unnoticed if he was to gain a head start in the chase. This would not be easy. He’d seen his image in the brook, and it was a breathtaking one, his lean, muscular body burnished to a bronze patina, his erection standing out in bold relief against the night. Every muscle, every corded sinew of his powerful frame was at the ready for the ritual to come. Crowned with the traditional stag’s head, his magnificence would be hard to miss, but the disadvantage was all part of the game.

  Best to have the whole thing over with. He took a bold step into the open and began the run.

  All around, the forest was alive with milling bodies, some in pursuit, some engaged in orgiastic rituals that would go on through the night. The days were reserved for sleeping, when not sampling the endless array of food and drink set out in colorful tents. Here, mead and May wine overflowed from fountains, and solstice cakes bursting with unborn grains and slathered with honey were heaped on trenchers, alongside platters of summer fruits. No meat was eaten. No animal was sacrificed.

  What he gave, he would get.

  Pursuit was instantaneous, but Marius was a skilled runner. He would prolong the chase as long as possible before he let himself be caught by some comely maiden anxious to forfeit her virginity to the stag of the feast. But it wasn’t for the sake of the ritual that he prolonged the sport. Truth be told, he was hoping for a glimpse of Linnea again—hoping to have her catch him and finish what she’d started with him earlier, the centaur be damned!

  With the help of the Ancient Ones’ lush foliage, it was easy to evade the pursuers from time to time, just long enough to confuse and scatter them throughout the wood to be further misled by the tree spirits. It was all part of the chase. Then, after a time, he would emerge from the woods again, and the chase would recommence. Sometimes the reprieves were brief, and sometimes a clever young maiden would best him and claim her conjugal right as queen of the solstice feast. At that point, they would pair off and the rest would seek their pleasures among the other revelers until the dawn.

  Marius was in the midst of the second such reprieve, when he saw an image through the trees that stopped him in his tracks. Moving stealthily among the Ancient Ones was another naked runner wearing a stag mask identical to his own. He could have been gazing in a looking glass. Gooseflesh puckered his scalp beneath the headdress. What was this? There was supposed to be only one Lord of the Feast.

  Ravelle! It was the first thought that came to mind was the demon. The appearance of the great satyr boded ill. Ravelle, the Lord of Outer Darkness, had nearly decimated the Forest Isle with his projected image in an attempt to destroy Marius, Lord of the Dark, Marius’s friend and fellow Arcan prince. While that plot had failed, the demon had old and bitter scores to settle with Marius, and it would stand to reason that the lord of the Arcan netherworld would next turn his wrath upon the Prince of the Green. What better time than the Solstice for the demon to exact his current revenge? No other entity—human or fay—would dare to make so bold an intrusion upon the Midsummer rituals.

  That the demon had taken on human form was not unusual. Ravelle was a skilled shapeshifter, able to move about in any body, whether it be in the flesh or merely his projected image. Which was Marius seeing now? It was nearly impossible to tell from this distance. Even at close range it would be difficult. That was what made Ravelle such a formidable adversary.

  Concentrating upon where the mystery stag was going, Marius didn’t see the net until he’d been caught in it. Thrown off balance, he crashed to the ground and landed hard in a heap of mulch, the net cinched in so close around him, the antlers on his headgear became hopelessly tangled in it. It looked as if spiders had spun the delicate mesh, and yet it was as strong as steel.

  He’d been caught fairly, and he made no protest as his captor came into view, her image thus far having been restricted by the awkward angle Marius found himself trapped in—his own fault for losing focus.

  How fair she was, seen by fire glow, flushed from the chase. How long and slender her legs were. No wonder she’d taken him down so easily. She moved with an ethereal grace that defied description, and took his breath away as she set about the business of freeing him from the net.

  Her movements were lithe as she glided around him, freeing his antlers. She did not speak as she worked, nor did she meet his gaze, though Marius never took his eyes from her beautiful face. She smiled, and dawn broke over his soul like thunder, or was that his runaway heart? It was racing, thudding against his ribs—but not from the chase. He had never seen anything so exquisite as this golden maiden bending over him, her firm breasts, with their rose-tawny nipples so close to his hungry eyes. It was all he could do to restrain himself from capturing one between his lips.

  And her hair! Cascading over her shoulders from a center part, it was like a silken stream of honey, starred with pinpoints of reflected light from the bonfires, her oval face framed in wispy tendrils. His fingers ached to touch it, to run through its gossamer silkiness—ah, he couldn’t remember when he’d been so taken by any female, human or fay, in all his years roaming the planet.

  All thoughts of Ravelle evaporated when at last she gazed directly at him. Those eyes, those incredible golden eyes, were all he’d glimpsed of her lovely face, concealed behind the elaborate antelope mask, when she’d appeared by the hidden pool. This was Linnea; there was no question. He would know those eyes, that body, anywhere.

  Kneeling, she lifted the stag mask from his head and set it aside, according to the ritual custom, the gesture signifying capture. It was hardly necessary. She had captured him at the hidden pool. He’d thought of nothing else since—until he’d spied Ravelle. He beat that image back, crowded it right out of his thoughts. There was no place for it now, while this exquisite goddess was bending over him, her sparkling eyes revealing her arousal.

  Her scent hypnotized him. The exotic vanilla orchid blended with her own feral musk, racy and evocative, overwhelmed him. Delicate, irresistible, it wafted through his nostrils, paralyzing his senses, reducing the shadow of the demon to nothing but an annoying pin prick at the back of his mind. He was as drunk on the intoxicating scents drifting from her golden skin as a knave in his cups.

  Swarms of revelers had gathered around them. Beguiled, Marius hadn’t noticed them until they were practically on top of him. The Ancient Ones crowded closer too, bending their boughs to form a canopy above them for the ritual mating, a verdant bower cocooning them, and keeping the others at bay. The rest soon paired off and settled into their own carnal pursuits. Though the coupling of the lord and lady of the solstice feast was private, the mating of the masses was a very public thing.

  “Why have I never been favored before?” Marius murmured. It was a perfectly natural question, since they had both roamed the hemisphere since time out of mind, and he had only heard of Linnea, Goddess of the Hunt, in legends.

  Straddling him where he reclined in a bed of moss and mulch, she put a finger over his lips. “Take the gift, my lord,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I will.” He gave a guttural chuckle. “I just need to understand—”

  Her deep, searching kiss swallowed whatever he was going to say. She had the most extraordinary effect upon him. Her touch numbed all else. Her sweet breath against his heated skin was like an aphrodisiac, seeping into every pore. She was one with Nature just as he was, as if sprung from the earth beneath them. The sighing of the Ancient Ones surrounding them seemed a mantra, for it had an erotic rhythm that joined with their pulse until it beat as one. What was happening between them was more spiritual than physical, heightening awareness in a way Marius had never known before.

  His hips jerked forward. His penis, already hard, surged against her belly at its full magnificence, calling her hand to fondle it. Marius groaned. How cool her delicate fingers were riding the hot length of his shaft.

  “You have a light touch, my lady,” he said through gritted teeth. Maybe t
alking was the charm. The centaur was lurking just under the surface of his skin. He could feel it straining against his awkward attempt at resistance. He hadn’t had to resist before. Shapeshifting into the centaur had its own rhythm, had been something that had occurred as a matter of course. He had already transformed once in this exquisite creature’s arms. The last thing he wanted was to do so again now, when he was on the brink of finishing what had begun by the hidden pool. Surely she knew he was struggling. Every muscle in his dynamic body was hard. She didn’t seem overly concerned. Rubbing her groin against the hard, thick root of his penis, she rode the length of his shaft in slow, circular revolutions that brought him just shy of penetration.

  Above, the uppermost branches of the surrounding oaks and whitethorns had knitted together, making a solid canopy that blocked out most of the fractured light from the bonfires. The lower branches had begun to stroke their naked bodies, their leafy boughs and tender shoots seeking every crevice, every orifice and fissure as they explored. All at once, Linnea raised her arms above her head and began to caress the lush foliage. Did the trees sigh? On the verge of carnal abandon just watching the strange ritualistic dance, Marius was caught up in the rapture of the moment. She swayed and undulated against his sex while fondling the branches, guiding the shuddering leaves to her beautiful nipples.