Page 11 of The Zagorath
He peered around the room proudly. Every so often he changed some old and worn feature of it, but he treasured hishome. The massive bed set on a frame made from twenty-year-old saplings from the largest of trees, strong but malleable in their youth and his bed carefully constructed and piled thick with the most luscious of furs from various beasts that he had hunted. The bed sat on one side of the room that was rounded like every part of his den that he had painstakingly carved out of the earth—storeroom, hearthroom, and bedchamber—the walls of which he had paneled with smoothed wood and fitted around the massive roots to confined and protected his home. Every bit of stone had been hauled in by him and chiseled by his hand. Only the ceiling was left open as nothing could cut off the forest completely. It was the one sacrifice that he made and tolerated.
“It has,” he agreed at length. “I enjoy fashioning things with my hands. It was a joy to build it.”
Which was followed by the sorrow of never having anyone to share it with. No one dared to approach the den of the Zagorath. Only the beasts freely wandered—and the fahgor who strangely roosted nearby as if they were the hounds that humans kept, eagerly waiting for his bidding. He often saw them in the trees outside his dwelling, watching and creeping towards him, purring and crooning. But that was ages ago. He did not recall the last time he had stepped into his own woods.
From his vantage point he watched as Liv’s eyes lifted to study the ceiling, her gaze trailing over the gargoyles that he had found and hid away where no one would find them.
“I found them one day, attached to a crumbling building that stood in the way of my fury. I destroyed every human that drew breath but when I turned to leave, I could not abandon them,” he murmured.
They were trapped within their stone bodies but the forest often spoke to him through them when it wanted to whisper information into his ears or deliver a gift to him. Those were the rare occasions where it did not torment him or demand that hefulfil its whim. The gargoyles at least spared him that. He did not know how, but he knew deep in his gut that they protected him in whatever manner they could, just as he protected them. They would never deliver anything to him that might harm him or influence him further. He was certain of it.
“Abandon them?” Her eyes drifted down briefly to meet his and the corner of her mouth curved faintly. “You speak as if you believe that they are alive.”
Dahtao inclined his head. “They are. Do you not feel it? They are trapped within their stone, but they are alive.”
Her eyes snapped back toward them warily and she swallowed. “Do you mean that they can see us? The were watching us… and what came from that big one’s mouth—” her voice trailed off and she visibly shuddered, her face going pale. “What did it do to me?” she whispered fearfully.
He understood her worry. It was only because it was from one of them—the largest and fiercest of them—that he was not automatically suspicious of their interference with his mating. Any gift from the forest had to be treated with some circumspection through normal channels. But coming from one of the gargoyles it was nothing short than something to be valued. He did not understand exactly what the gift was or what it did, but it had ignited and changed something within him, heightening their pleasure and cementing them together. He could practically feel her under his skin where there existed a silent echo of her every heartbeat and breath. Inexplicably, he innately understood that because of that, he felt a sense of wholeness and peace that he had not felt before.
“Nothing that you need to be afraid of,” he assured her as he gently stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “They would not harm me—nor, by extension, you.”
Her eyes flicked back to him, and she gave him a nervous chuckle. “Somehow, I’m not as convinced as you appear to be.I’m just supposed to trust that something spitting up some mega-sex juice into mouth has strictly benevolent intentions toward me?”
He could not quite hold back his chuckle, though it sounded rusty and strained. It had been too long since he laughed. He could see how the situation would appear that way to her. Despite all of the benefits that he knew had come from the gift, the truth was that he also craved her even more now.
“It was a gift,” he explained, “from the woods I dwell within.”
Her eyebrow inched upward. “The murderous woods commanding you to viciously murder people decided to give me a gift?”
He laughed again, the sound coming easier. “The forest can be… temperamental. But it is also beautiful and life-giving as well. It feeds your world, giving life to it, does it not?”
“I suppose it does,” she agreed. “But this homicidal tendency isn’t exactly cute, Dahtao.”
He could not disagree with that. “Like all things in nature, it needs to feed and like all beings, it can be angered. The forest does not think as you do, or even as I do as a much older and crueler being by comparison,” he added. “It just is. But I can show you the beauty, too, if you will allow me?”
Drawing up from the bed, he half-kneeled on it as he extended his hand toward her, hoping that she might take it and seek to truly understand. She stared at it and then at him for what seemed to be an eternity as she struggled to come to some kind of decision. He waited patiently, sympathetic to her plight. He was a destroyer of life as much as the forest was, and some part of her would naturally not be inclined to trust either of them. But he held his breath and continued to wait until at last she slipped her hand in his, permitting him to exhale with relief, and nodded.
“Okay. Show me.”
Chapter
Eleven
Liv followed Dahtao through his home, her hand dwarfed within his hand. Despite his size and how easily his hand could crush hers, he led her gently, rumbling quiet warnings as if she were really anywhere near his size and needed to watch her head when it came to certain fixtures and peculiarities about his home such as a root that suddenly jutted out to twist in the air or some low slope of the ceiling. It was sweet really and before long had her lips inching upward with amusement as she took the opportunity to get a good look at her surroundings.
She hadn’t been lying about her admiration. It bore such exquisite detailing that she could have sworn it was a giant version of a hobbit hole with all of its carefully crafted wood fixtures and moorings—all of which were perfectly polished without a speck of dust which didn’t quite fit with the image she had of him. Unless it somehow magically kept itself perfectly clean. If that was the case, then she wanted that damn spell. Dusting was her bane. Well, any housework really. What witch wanted to toil over chores when toiling over a cauldron or some bit of enchantment was far more interesting?
Aside from the woodwork, there was also plenty of intentionally shaped stones that added a touch more artistry, though it was just as frequently also made into functional load-bearing things. Tables and shelves bore crudely fashioned candles and bookcases were loaded with books that looked nearly ancient. That was saying nothing of the massive hearth that dominated the main room. The fire, she recalled, had sprung to life when they had entered and still cheerfully burned, illuminating the wooden walls and casting shadows on the thick roots, including those that dangled bizarrely from the bare ceiling. The entire abode, the ceiling aside, spoke of luxury and comfort that seemed out of place for—what did he call himself?—a blood guardian of the forest. A Zagorath.
Liv resisted the urge to shiver as unwelcome images sprung to her mind of how she had first seen him. It was so difficult to reconcile that image with the one of the gentle male who was now in front of her, holding her hand. But his words also made sense. Could she say that he was evil or hold it against him for doing what was necessary that was beyond her understanding? He certainly wasn’t some brute bent solely on bloodshed and destruction. The woodwork alone attested to the sort of patience he had to possess.
Aside from the carefully carved furnishings, the wood paneling on the walls was not only smooth as silk and buffed to a luminous shine, but was fitted around the massive roots with such exquisite care and precision that she would have sworn that it couldn’t have been accomplished by anyone but a master carver. Surely not by such brutish hands. And yet the pride on his face had told the tale. She had no doubt that he had fashioned every bit of his home. And without help if she didn’t miss her guess. The fond way he looked up at the ever-silent gargoyles was enough to make her believe that they were his only friends.
The door gave her a pause, however. It was stained a dark red in contrast to the softer hues in the rest of his home and the back of her neck prickled with forewarning. Dahtao put his free hand on it and glanced back at her with a smile as he turned the knob and swung it open to a fantasy world riot with color.
Liv choked back a gasp, her eyes going wide as she stepped outside. It was like a paradise from every seven-year-old girl’s dream. There was nothing ordinary about these woods. Tall sturdy tree trunks of familiar hues of browns and grays towered above her, but the leaves varied like colors of the rainbow. Soft pink, lavender, deeper shades of purple, burgundy, blue and orange. Several trees dripped with flowers in lighter shades than their leaves or in contrasting hues as shimmering lights danced among them the swaying blooms.
Dahtao leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Pixies. They are busy pollinating as they gather nectar—a primary food for them, among other things.”
