by Jeff Wheeler
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The very mention of the Black Druidecht made Annon shudder. As with all creatures, so it was with the spirits of Mirrowen. There were helpful spirits who cooperated with the races or mostly just left them alone. But there were other spirits, the dark and the foul, that frightened and sought to destroy. Beings like the Iddawc. They looked at the world as a plaything. The Druidecht opposed such and had learned from the spirits ways to protect against them. But some Druidecht—only a few—joined forces with them.
Sweat beaded on Annon’s brow. He glanced back at the scarred oak tree, wondering whether the damage caused to the trunk was enough to kill it. His fingers tingled with heat and anticipation from using the fireblood again. He had almost lost himself in it.
Courage, Nizeera whispered to him.
Annon steeled himself, swallowing his fears, and drew deep within himself. This was his charge as a Druidecht—to protect the denizens of Mirrowen who were helpless. And as Reeder had told him the night before, no creature was more helpless than a Dryad.
A sylph flitted to him. You are injured. Let me heal you.
Heal my friend, if he lives, Annon pleaded.
He is dead, Druidecht. He is already dead. The wound was mortal.
A quivering sob threatened to ruin him. Tears stung his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Reeder. His friend. A blinding rage enveloped him. He had always heard that the Druidecht were welcome in any land, even Boeotia. How could they have slain him so mercilessly? The anger gave him strength and helped steal the tears from his eyes. He would mourn Reeder later. He would mourn him the rest of his life.
Glancing over, Annon saw his friend still lying where he had fallen. Reeder’s face was waxy and pale.
Annon turned away, breathed deeply, trying to calm his pounding heart, to focus on the task at hand. He could not face Reeder’s death yet. It would undo him. He felt the healing touch of the sylph as it restored him, binding the wound at his shoulder and restoring his strength. Other spirits came and blessed him as well, kissing his forehead to give him clear thoughts. One touched his heart to bolster courage. They swarmed him with magic, and he realized that once the other Boeotians arrived with their sticks and smoke, he would be on his own.
It did not take them long to arrive.
Annon heard them before he saw them. Battle screams filled the air, a strange singsong mesh of voices set at discordant rhythms that made his courage shrivel. How many were there? A hundred? The wails grew louder, and soon the first of the Boeotians appeared, rushing through the woods with spears and axes, holding smoking sticks in their hands, the vapors warding off the spirits.
As soon as he was visible to them, their fervor and pitch increased even more, and he saw the wild look of rage in their eyes as they converged on him. His hands went cold with terror and his stomach lurched. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to run. He struggled to master himself. One spear thrust was all it would take to end his life. Annon realized he was going to die. He would never see Hettie again. Her face flashed in his mind, spurring pangs of sadness.
The spirits of the woods seemed to recognize his faltering feelings. They surged into the midst of the Boeotians, exploding with puffs of magic as they tried to stall the advance, to protect the ancient Dryad tree at all costs. He watched them vanish out of existence, popping with dazzling colors. Why was his own life any more significant than theirs? Should he not also give his best, even if it meant his life?
Reeder had.
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
Annon fed his anger as his hands turned blue, wreathed in flames. He saw a Boeotian rear back with a spear and hurl it straight at him. Everything seemed to slow around him. He could sense every breath, every flash of his eyelids, the prickle of gooseflesh on his arms. The blessing of the spirits heightened every sense. He twisted sideways and leaned, feeling the spear streak by him. Annon countered, raising his hands. Fire swirled from his palms in spheres and struck the Boeotian, slamming into him and engulfing him only, not the trees near him.
Nizeera screamed and launched herself at the oncoming mass of men. She was all teeth and claws, ripping and savaging into their midst like some whirlwind. Annon let loose a curtain of flames to try and block the advance. The trees around the area caught fire, mixing gold with the blue. Branches shattered. A windstorm swept into the woods, fanning the flames and causing smoke to billow and blind them. He made it far enough back, hopefully creating a break between the trees to preserve the Dryad’s oak.
Annon saw them flanking him on both sides, trying to get near him and the tree. Gritting his teeth, he lashed out at them with the fireblood, drawing a circle of fire around his position. Spears whistled at him, but he felt them coming and ducked. Several struck the massive oak, burying into her craggy bark. Each one caused a spurt of anger and hatred inside him. He unleashed fire in return, blasting away the intruders one by one.
Giddiness. The overwhelming feeling of giddiness made him nearly start laughing. Was he in control of himself? Had he loosed the madness his uncle had warned him of? Pain struck his leg as a spear glanced him. He felt the skin rip and blood begin flowing down his leg. A hulking Boeotian charged him with an ax. Annon joined his hands together and sent a mass of fire into him, turning him into ash.
He could not see Nizeera through all the smoke, but he could hear her screams and the sound of dying. There was a chunking sound as an ax bit into the tree again. A Boeotian had managed to breach the circle of fire and had struck again at the tree. Annon turned abruptly and destroyed him. How many were there? How long would he last before exhaustion consumed him?
Smoke and fire flooded the woods. He could see shimmering streaks of spirits through the gloom, coming to aid in the battle. The cries of the Boeotians did not fade. More were coming. An impossible number. Annon staggered back into the tree, gasping for breath, trying to keep the fire in his hands burning. As soon as he touched the bark, he felt a presence. It was like a sigh, a breath in his ear.
Nizeera padded to his side, tail lashing restlessly. He saw the cuts and singed fur.
Courage, she whispered to him again.
Annon nodded, unable to speak. He was so thirsty, desperate for a drink of water. A shape moved in the smoke and Nizeera growled.
Pushing himself from the trunk, Annon advanced, bringing up his hands. Blue flame rippled across his fingertips.
He noticed the same effect from the man approaching him. Blue flames danced from his as well.
His Boeotian name was Tasvir Virk. He no longer remembered the name he was given as a boy in Stonehollow. After earning his talisman, he had chosen to enter the Boeotian lands and be a Druidecht among them. The Boeotians respected and feared the fireblood in his veins and he found himself almost revered as a deity. He lacked the physical size of their race, but he was strong and hard and had learned to survive. He would be strong enough to survive the Scourgelands, they told him. His power was truly greater than any who had come before.
Only later did he realize they were using him.
Tasvir Virk had entered the Scourgelands alone, believing he was strong enough to survive the horrors there. He was wrong. The woods destroyed him. But not before he learned one of its secrets. There were Dryad trees in the woods. Ancient trees. Older than the world. They befuddled intruders, turning them back again to face the horrors inside when they tried to flee. The horrors that had caused his madness.
Tasvir Virk stumbled out of the woods and vowed to destroy the trees. He consorted with the evil spirits of the hinterlands to learn about the Dryad trees and they taught him to see patterns and how to discern which trees contained them. They taught him how smoke from a rowan tree was lethal to lesser spirits. The fact that he had survived the Scourgelands cowed the tribe to his authority. If anyone crossed him, he had them sacrificed on a stone altar. His anger needed to be appeased. He had survived the Scourgelands.
His authority and power slowly spread
into the other tribes until it happened. There were rumors that one from Kenatos had also survived the Scourgelands. Perhaps he was now the greatest man of all. Word of his legend spread through the Boeotians. He was Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. A man loyal to Silvandom and its rulers.
Tasvir knew that he was possibly the only man who might be able to unite all the tribes against the Empress and against him. He needed to die.
Now that all the Dryad trees in Boeotia were destroyed, he turned next to Silvandom. He would conquer the lands one by one, razing the trees until they were extinct.
Now one of his hunting parties had encountered a bearded man in Silvandom with the fireblood protecting a Dryad tree. It was time for Tyrus of Kenatos to die.
The man was older than Annon, maybe three times his age. A shock of gray hair tinted with red was equally telling. His face was mottled with blood veins, the same as he had seen among the Boeotians. His skin was hard and leathery. He had been a handsome man once, but the livid scars and purplish veins gave him a frightening look. The man was dressed in black robes with a talisman around his neck. He was tall and gaunt, his lips pallid.
“Druidecht,” the man whispered in a raspy voice. He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “You have fought well and bravely. It will be a pity to kill you.”
“Who are you?” Annon said warily as the two began circling each other.
“I am the reaper of life. I am the bane of the Plague. I am the heart of the Scourgelands. I am Tasvir Virk.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
I will kill him, Nizeera growled.
No, he will destroy you!
He saw her bunch her muscles to leap at him, but the man’s eyes went black and he raised his hands, unleashing a plume of blue fire at Nizeera. He jumped in front of her, colliding with it. Annon felt it wash over him, warm as bathwater, but not burning.
I will fight him. You take the others.
“Ah! So you too have the fireblood! Excellent! Excellent!” He started to cackle deliciously. “Atu! Atu vast! Atu vast!”
The gaunt man rushed forward and grabbed Annon’s wrists.
Though he was bone-thin, his grip was like iron. Boeotians rushed through the smoke, closing in around them, around the tree. Nizeera screamed and launched herself at the foremost, claws raking. The gaunt man laughed with madness, his eyes blazing. A horrible stench came from his lips. He wrestled Annon, keeping him from defending the tree. Annon struggled against him, trying to break free. He was amazed at the Black Druidecht’s strength.
The sound of an ax chopping into the trunk. Another blow and then another. Annon struggled to free himself, but his captor was maddened. He howled with laughter.
“Atu vast! Atu vast! Tolx Enas! We will destroy her, Druidecht. This tree and each and every one like her. Including the tree in the Paracelsus Towers. The last tree. The last one! They will all die! That is how the Scourgelands will fail. They must all be killed!”
Annon shoved and pushed, trying to free himself. The gaunt man would not let go. Another blow against the tree. Then another.
“The fireblood brings madness,” Annon shouted. “You were a Druidecht once, sworn to protect beings like her!”
“I am a Druidecht!” he shouted, wrenching Annon around. “I am of the Black. They steal our memories, boy. She subverts you. Let me destroy her!”
Annon’s mind raced frantically. Nizeera was attacking as many as she could. The ax blows continued. Annon whirled around, trying to throw the gaunt man off balance. He was bigger than the other man, weighed more. His wrists throbbed with pain at the clenching fingers. The Boeotian faced him, ax chopping furiously at the bark, exposing the depths of the gash. It was a huge scar on the tree, growing like a stain.
Annon waited until the man pulled back to start another swing. Then with all his strength, he shoved the Black Druidecht backward into the path of the blade.
There was a gush of blood, the spray blinding Annon momentarily. The grip on his wrists went slack as the Black Druid suddenly fled, screaming in agony. Annon saw the severed arm on the ground at his feet. He raised his hands again. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
The blast of fire consumed the Boeotian with the ax.
Whirling, Annon found himself surrounded. He unleashed a controlled firestorm in the grove, sending it out in wave after wave. His heart pounded. His ears rang. He was losing himself in the magic. He was vanishing. A blow struck his side. Another against his leg.
A sharp spasm of pain brought him down on one knee. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He was going to die. He had failed. Uttering a groan, he drew from his depths once again, sending another sheet of flames fanning out in front of the tree. Crookedly, he tried to rise, but his leg would not permit it and he fell backward, striking the base of the ancient oak. He felt his life draining away. The flames in his fingers dissipated. He was defenseless. A single blow would finish him.
His vision was speckled with tiny fireflies. Nizeera screamed in rage and pain. His chin began to dip against his chest. He had tried his best. He had done what he could, fulfilling his Druidecht vows to preserve and defend.
Forcing his eyelids open, he saw the Boeotians advancing on him, spear tips pointed. Several had huge axes.
And that was when the Bhikhu began to fall from the sky.
They were all Vaettir-born, like Paedrin. Over a dozen slammed into the earth, crashing through the smoke and haze of fire. They held swords and staves, whips and javelins. The Boeotians charged them in a clash of bodies. Annon felt a sliver of hope. Just a shard. The weapons whirled and clacked, fists and feet and skin smacking and shoving.
Annon closed his eyes, feeling himself floating. It was a peaceful feeling. It was dying. He knew it. Somehow, it was familiar.
Heal him, whispered a voice. A woman’s voice. The most beautiful voice he had ever heard. Just a whisper. Just a breath of air. But it was the most lovely sound he had ever heard.
It came from the tree.
“We do not understand the Boeotians’ hatred of us. We do not understand why they invade our lands. With gratitude, we thank the brave ones of Silvandom who form the primary defense against their intrusions. Such opposite philosophies. One race kills. The other preserves. Even the combined might of all the kingdoms could not destroy Boeotia. Yet the combined strength holds the Empress at bay.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Paedrin crouched so near to Hettie that he could smell her skin. She definitely needed a bath. He nearly commented on that fact when Kiranrao appeared on the other side of her, turning from smoke to solid in an instant. The air tingled with magic every time he did that, and it was starting to annoy the Bhikhu.
Hettie smoothed the hair away from her ear so she could hear him better.
“They are not far,” he whispered. “Be silent and wait. They have a Finder with them.”
“We have a Finder with us as well,” Paedrin reminded him.
“Well and good, Bhikhu. But if you have a clear shot, Hettie, kill him.”
Paedrin planted his hand on her arm as they skulked on the low, sparsely wooded hill.
She shook off his hand. “The Bhikhu is squeamish about such things.” She gave him a scolding look. “I can hobble him, though.”
Kiranrao sighed, shaking his head. “There’s a fool born every moment, and every one of them lives! If you had been raised in a decent orphanage, lad, you would have learned to outgrow this conscience of yours.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I might consent to see you strangled and not intervene,” Paedrin said.
“Quiet. Here they come!”
All three flattened themselves against the slope of the hill, carefully wrapped in the dark side of the bluff. The night had fallen already, but there was a broad moon in the sky giving off ample light.
There was the sound of marching and the snuffling of hounds. A swinging lantern caused a bobbing plume of light to crest the hill. They were low enough that it could not find
them. For a moment all three quit breathing. Paedrin was aware of how close Hettie was to him, and it made him scowl for being distracted. There was something musky in her scent, an earthy smell like grass, sweat, and trampled wildflowers. He swallowed, trying to master his thoughts again, to count the various sounds and try to imagine how many soldiers from Kenatos were hunting them.
They passed the hillock, heading east. Soon the hounds were barking and the men began to jog. Around the far side of the hill, the one with the lantern became visible. Only one lantern. How foolish they were. In the dark they would not find anyone, even with those hounds.
Paedrin began counting the soldiers as they appeared.
“How many?” Kiranrao whispered.
“Thirty men,” Hettie answered, slowly rising. “No horses. I’m surprised.”
“There are thirty-two,” Kiranrao said, smiling at her condescendingly. “The Rikes walk more quietly. There they are. Do you see them?” The black robes made them difficult to see.
“Thirty-two,” Hettie answered calmly. “Why the Rikes?”
Kiranrao touched his lips with a finger. “To communicate back to Kenatos. This is not the only group that hunts us, I imagine. They are only following our trail to Havenrook.”
“Which is why we double-backed and now head west,” Paedrin said, bristling with impatience. “They may miss our trail in the dark, thinking us bound east. When they realize it, we are already gone. It is the Uddhava.”
Kiranrao nodded as if it were an accomplishment. “It is. The Bhikhu are not the only ones who use it.”
“You flatter us.”