Son Of Skye

by Thérèse Pilon

  Scurrying out of her path was indeed a task, as the staff she carried reached far into the darkened corners, and those who cowered there would feel the bruises for many days to come.

  “Well?” A-Sharoon said no more. Her black eyes glowed with an unnatural intensity as she stood, tall and proud before the hunched form.

  Lord Nhon straightened slowly, his hooded cloak concealing the features beneath. A-Sharoon could feel the suppressed rage of the being before her but chose to ignore it. In fact, it didn’t bother her in the least. Lord Nhon pulled back his hood, revealing red-rimmed eyes in a skeletal face ravaged by the evil that consumed him. Like many of those who practiced the arts of darkness, he appeared savage, his facial expression terrifying and unreadable. His eyes, narrow lidded and nearly closed against even the dim light in the cave, were mere pinpricks of black within the redness that surrounded them. In the dancing shadows, he looked almost feral as he smirked at the black-haired woman who paced angrily in front of him. “They are nearly to the gate. Your ‘best’ have obviously failed their tasks they were set to do!”

  The words were spat with a vehemence that even A-Sharoon could not miss. She glared at Lord Nhon as she swallowed the retort that threatened to burst forth.

  ‘What. You have nothing to say?” The long bony fingers pointed accusingly at A-Sharoon as she glared defiantly back at Lord Nhon.

  “Woman, what have you to say? You have failed. Your minions, although they are legion, are apparently impotent against even the weakest of the wood clans, while a boy not yet a man strikes the changelings down like the wind breaks trees before its wrath. Speak!” The voice barked as A-Sharoon remained motionless, her black eyes blazing.

  “The fault lies not with me,” A-Sharoon replied, her dark eyes flashing. “You were supposed to prevent them from entering through the veil.” Her voice rose accusingly.

  “Yes, but it was you who entered their world to take the woman. By your own folly, it was you who left the door open!” Lord Nhon hissed as he turned his back on her. He was angry with himself as well for not having seen this coming. The old teachings with their hidden meanings were sometimes difficult to translate, the ancient script known only to a few. And even then, who knew what had been lost in the translation? Lord Nhon turned around to face A-Sharoon, his expression unreadable as he calmed himself. It was pointless to argue with her. He shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “What’s done is done.”

  “What do you mean, what’s done is done?”

  “I mean exactly that.” Lord Nhon removed a powdery substance from a leather pouch tied to his belted waist. “Let’s see.” He held the stuff in front of his mouth and blew gently. A sickly-sweet aroma filled the air as the shadows cast by the flickering fire danced and grew upon themselves until there was just one writhing form.

  A-Sharoon watched in silence as the thing swirled and darted about the dimly lit cavern as if seeking entrance to the outside world, all the while drawing on the power that emanated from the being that had formed it. She turned away in disgust. “Child’s play!” The words were drowned in the sudden roaring that filled her ears as she was flung unceremoniously to the floor.

  “Child’s play? I think not.” Lord Nhon’s voice held a hint of smug satisfaction as he watched A-Sharoon hastily rise, her expression as dark as her robes.

  “So, you think to frighten the Clans with a shadowy being that has no substance?” A-Sharoon’s black eyes glittered even in the dim light, her breathing shallow. “Pah!” She spat the words in disgust, no longer trying to hide her anger. “You.” She pointed a long slim finger at Lord Nhon. “Are nothing more than a novice, if that is your best.” She pulled herself up regally and smoothed her rumpled cloak. Removing a crystal vial from within its depths, she removed the stopper and, stepping to the dying embers, poured the contents into their smoldering depths.

  § § § § § §

  “By all that is sacred!” Timothy exclaimed, grabbing the nearest tree for support as the earth shuddered and trembled beneath him. He looked wildly around, trying to locate the others. The ground beneath his feet rolled and heaved as spasm after spasm wracked it, while a low moaning rippled through the trees as he twisted anxiously about, searching for the others.

  Nickolous found himself face first on the ground, the backpack he carried thrown some feet away, the contents scattered carelessly about. The Old One was beside him, her leathery paws grasping his arm tightly as Sarah crouched nearby, her heart thudding in fear. Only Jerome remained standing, his great bulk keeping him upright as the earth heaved around him.

  “Are you all right?” Nickolous asked as he helped the Old One up. Sarah scrambled to her feet, shaken but unhurt, her large brown eyes searching the clearing for her brother, Timothy. She was relieved to see him a few yards away, brushing the debris off himself.

  Grimacing, he pulled something sticky from his fur and wiped it on the dried grass at his feet as Owen glided soundlessly above the little group; watching. Being airborne, he had felt the change in the wind currents and had fought to stay aloft. Now, he remained alert, his keen eyesight seeking out that which was unwanted within the shaded places below.

  The earth tremors had stopped by the time that everyone had found their scattered belongings. Quickly now, they gathered silently together, and, after assuring himself that everyone was okay, Gabriel scouted ahead, only to find nothing amiss. Puzzled, he returned to where the rest waited, and together, the little band hurried toward their destination.

  § § § § § §

  “The moon rises. The time is near.” Although the fire that burned in the center of the cavern was warm and welcoming, the messenger approached no nearer, choosing instead to wait in the shadows.

  “How close?”

  “They are but a short distance from the gate.”

  “Nickolous?”

  “He walks with the companions.” The messenger inclined his head slightly—”They guard him with the strength given to those pure of heart.”

  “Ahh, it is as I had hoped.” Lord Moshat turned to the woman who had risen from her place at the fire. Blue eyes met brown in unspoken understanding.

  The warrior who had delivered the news stepped back in surprise, for he had been unaware of another’s presence.

  Lord Moshat, aware of the other’s discomfort, motioned the warrior closer. “You are a trusted friend,” he said, as he laid a hand on the other’s shoulder. “However,” the grip tightened as he tried to convey the importance of what he was about to say. “However, only myself, and of course, now you, know of the Daughter’s presence here.” Lord Moshat’s piercing blue eyes peered into the warrior’s own.

  It was only for a moment, but the warrior nodded a short, curt nod, nearly indiscernible. Lord Moshat relaxed his grip on the other and then turned toward the woman, visibly relieved.

  “None must know of this. None.” The elder sat down wearily. The news was good; better than he had hoped for, and yet it had not been easy. The battle for the Living Flame had come at a terrible cost to both sides. Lord Moshat rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he stared into the fire. Aware that the warrior waited silently at the fringe of the shadows, he dismissed him for the night; knowing that he would remain close lest he was needed, before turning his attention back toward the woman who stood silently watching him.

  “Will he be safe? Is he strong enough for what is to come?” The woman turned anxiously toward Lord Moshat, her eyes on his face, searching.

  “Aleta.” Lord Moshat spoke softly, his hand on the woman’s shoulder. He had known her since she was born. He had mourned when he had thought her lost and had been overjoyed when she had returned. Now, he knew, her heart was aching for the son she had known such a short time. Sighing deeply, he sought the words that would bring her comfort. Finding none, he drew her close and together they sat, each one silent, lost within their own
thoughts.

  § § § § § §

  The clearing was much as the winged warrior had left it. To the friends, it was a scene of desolation. Sarah wept unashamedly as Jerome, his face somber, spoke in hushed tones to the guardian—he who had guarded the Living Flame since the beginning. The warrior, weakened from his ordeal, was relieved that the others had come to this sacred place of knowing. In pain, but no longer mortally wounded, he noted Nickolous’s presence and wondered if he would remember.

  “Hush now,” the Old One whispered sternly as she grasped Sarah by the shoulder; then hugged her gently.

  Sarah sniffed, trying to stifle the sobs as she brushed the wetness away, but it didn’t help. “I don’t understand how this could have happened,” Sarah sobbed as she tried to stop the tears. Timothy was clearly just as distressed but showed little emotion as he helped the others. There was much to do, and not enough time to do it in.

  “Gabriel?”

  The big wolf turned as Nickolous reached him. “Look.” It took a moment for Gabriel to recognize the small, shimmering object nestled within Nickolous’s partially closed hand. The big wolf drew back his lips in a snarl. The diamond vial, glittering in the sunlight, had a familiarity about it. It was one of A-Sharoon’s.

  “I think we need to summon Chera.”

  Gabriel looked at Nickolous in surprise as he threw the vial down in disgust. Even here, in this sacred place, the evil emanated from it.

  “Don’t worry my friend; my sister is safe.” Nickolous placed his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, kneeling down so that his gaze was level with that of the wolf’s, he gazed into eyes as blue as his own “It’s all right. Leah will be okay. We need Chera here with us.”

  It took only a moment for Gabriel to make up his mind. Ordinarily, he would have hesitated, but his inner sense urged him to listen to Nickolous as his mind flashed back to their first meeting on that clear moonlit night so many turnings ago. Only Nickolous was no longer the young boy he had been that night in the clearing. The journey between the two worlds had accelerated his maturity somehow. And the armband—only it was much more than that, and Gabriel knew it. It was no ordinary piece of worked silver. If the ancient scripts were true, it had been forged by one of the elders of Skye, one of those winged ones who dwelled among the mountains of myth and legend. A new awareness surged through the wolf as he nudged Nickolous affectionately before calling Owen to him.

  § § § § § §

  “It’s past midday. Owen should be back by now.” Gabriel paced anxiously back and forth as Jerome repaired the gate that once had barred the way to outsiders. The big warrior turned from what he was doing, his gaze sweeping the forest’s edge. It was hard to see beyond the outer fringes that guarded the darkness within, even for him, with his acute sense of knowing; finally, exasperated, he turned toward Gabriel.

  “Don’t worry,” Jerome said as he turned back to his task. He wasn’t worried about Owen, but he felt uneasy nonetheless. He paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a large forearm. Yes, it would be a relief when Owen returned, hopefully with Chera not far behind.

  § § § § § §

  Chera followed Owen, her stride almost matching that of his winged flight. She hadn’t argued when he had appeared, startling her, his appearance unexpected but certainly not unwelcome. She knew she couldn’t breach the cavern below, for it welcomed only those who were chosen and she doubted that Leah was close by, for she would have sensed her. The forest about her had grown so silent it was unnerving. So it had been with barely a backward glance that she had left the hidden place where once the guardians of light had held their sacred council.

  The lone watcher, cloaked heavily despite the stifling heat of midday, watched the wolf’s departure from its hidden place among the giant ferns and softly scented flowers. When the great owl had passed from sight, the wolf following steadily in its wake, the figure moved silently, so silently that not even the leaves on the bushes moved to mark its passing.

  Long moments passed as the robed figure stood gazing down at the spot where leaves and twigs had fallen and settled to nestle naturally into the shallow pit. A slender hand appeared from beneath a tattered sleeve, and the oblong crystal stone held within the holder’s palm caught the sun’s light and held the golden beams that traced across its surface, while the wind, warm and inviting, grew.

  Sodden leaves, heavy with dampness, mold, and mildew, slowly began to rise as the breeze, softly blowing, yet silent in its flight, turned the leaves over and over until they spun upward into the canopy of trees overhead. The robed figure raised a hooded head to watch their passage beyond the living trees and then gazed down at the crystal, which now lay cold and silent in the small white hand. Still holding it tightly, the figure descended the crude stairs, which had been cut out of the rocks at the beginning, and carefully felt along the cold gray rock wall with one hand while sliding the crystal over the ancient script, which once had been deeply embedded and was now all but rubbed away by the elements.

  Carefully, so as not to tear away the fragile moss that clung to the crevices of the etched writings and thereby reveal to others what lay deep within, the figure avoided touching the fragile things that guarded the door. For indeed, this was the door to the Beneath, the place of enlightenment and truth.

  Drawing in a deep breath, the figure passed the stone in front of the door, as once again the light caught and held within its fiery depths. A hand shot up to shield a face as the white light burst forth. Whether from the stone itself, or from the rock, or both, it mattered not, for the result achieved was the desired one.

  A smile touched the haggard face as the robed figure disappeared into the black depths that beckoned, while the forest remained silent long after the door had closed and the brown decaying leaves, suspended by the whirring breeze above the trees, had fallen to earth once again, there to nestle softly within the hollow that cradled them so gently.

  § § § § § §

  “Owen.” Gabriel looked past the white owl as he landed gracefully in the ruined courtyard, while Chera’s pace quickened as the forest was left behind, for she saw her mate waiting within the forest’s shadows.

  Although Nickolous was happy to see her, he, along with the rest of the friends, busied themselves with various chores so that Gabriel and Chera could be alone for a while. Everyone knew how much the big wolf had missed his mate, and the day had lengthened into early afternoon before Gabriel and Chera turned from their private conversation and joined the others.

  Sarah, pleased that everyone was together again, prepared tea and made flatbread to go with the wild honeycomb she had brought. She had cheese but was saving that for supper. They had chanced a small fire for cooking, certain that, for now, they were safe. Even so, Jerome kept his heavy war club beside him, reaching out every so often to heft it, bouncing it slightly off the hard earth as if to test its strength, so that if there were any unseen eyes watching, they would know he was prepared.

  “So, what is our next move?” Nickolous asked as he absently turned the drinking gourd over and over in his hands. “Do we wait for

  A-Sharoon to find us, or do we find her? And how do we go about locating this Living Flame? Doesn’t anyone know if it still burns?”

  “It burns, my young friend. It lives, as it must,” Gabriel replied.

  “How do you know? How can you be so certain?” The gourd broke as it hit the ground, shattering in half as Nickolous stood up; the prickling that ran the length of his spine warning him; they were being watched.

  “It lives,” Gabriel replied, his voice low and throaty. As he turned, the air above him exploded into shrieks as Owen, talons tearing, brought the spy to earth.

  10

  Jerome sighed deeply as he prodded the thing with his war club. It was a lone scout, its duty to follow and listen. Fortunately for them, it wouldn’t be missed for a
while.

  “These things stink with a foulness that deepens even after they are dispatched,” Timothy snorted disdainfully as he balanced the inert form on his sword, careful not to touch it, for it reeked of untold darkness.

  Gabriel watched as he went through the gate to the forest’s edge, before turning his attention back to Owen. “Was that the only one?”

  “As far as I could see,” Owen replied as he stretched his snowy wings wide before folding them back, close to his sides. He was tired, and even though he had scanned the garden with eyes that missed little, he feared that there were others close behind the first. He turned to Jerome. “How close are your warriors?”

  The big warrior stroked his chin thoughtfully as he gazed into the distance to a place only he could see. “They should have been here by now; that they are not means something has happened.” He turned to Gabriel. “I will pass the night with you, and by lights dawning, the guardian should be strong enough to take my place. If I cannot reach my warriors in our old way of communication before the sun rises, I will go and search for them.”

  “Then I will go with you.”

  Jerome turned, startled, for he had thought Gabriel, Owen, and he were the only ones in the clearing.

  Nickolous’s resolve did not falter under Gabriel and Jerome’s intense gaze. Indeed, it seemed that his eyes were even bluer, and even as Jerome was about to say no, he changed his mind. As his gaze met that of the Nickolous’s, he glimpsed a little of what lay in the hidden places behind those blue eyes. It was a birthright to those chosen for something good—Jerome stood for long moments, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  “I’m going with you.” With that, Nickolous turned away, for he had seen the Old One, hunched over, carrying a heavy bundle of wood. Gabriel and Jerome stared after his retreating form, and as he reached the Old One to take her burden from her, Gabriel turned back to his friend of battles past. There was laughter behind the fringes of his blue eyes; that and something more. “The boy swiftly becomes a man.”