Son Of Skye

by Thérèse Pilon

  “Nickolous,” Jerome began, and then paused, his expression thoughtful. The big warrior laid his war club across his legs, caressing it as he spoke. Somehow it helped him to find the words that were there; deep within. Not the best orator at times when he felt stressed, he found that it helped to touch something that had saved him more than once, because he was skilled in its use. His gaze fell on it as he spoke, aware that Nickolous was studying him with those eyes that were so much like the others.

  The winged warriors of Skye.

  “I don’t know a lot about your world; the world you grew up in, but I think time flows differently, depending on where you are. Coming here somehow accelerated your growth, making you mature beyond your years then if you had remained there—in that other place—” Jerome rubbed his hands together; sparing a glance toward the Old One. She smiled at him, her look one of amusement. The big warrior sighed resignedly. It was obvious he was on his own on this one. Silently he hoped that the answers he drew forth from within himself were the right ones.

  “And?”

  Jerome swung his gaze back to that of Nickolous, who was watching him, waiting, gauging what he heard and comparing it with what he felt.

  “You feel you have always been here. In a sense you have.” Nicko-lous raised a brow, his look questioning. “Is it possible to be in two places at once then?”

  “That, I cannot answer. In my own thoughts, if I were to be in a place where I felt familiarity with everything I saw, then I would assume there was a connection that drew me there.”

  “What of the warriors of Skye? What of the winged guardian? How many places can a being walk?” Nickolous stirred the dying embers and put more wood on; watching as the flames flickered, caught, licking their way upward. Holding his hands up to the warmth now offered he stretched, and then leaned back, waiting.

  “Anything is possible. The Old Ones believed that all living things were born with a knowing. Some ignore what they have been given; doing nothing with it, while others nourish it and let it grow. Some use their gifts for good, while others.” Jerome’s voice trailed off as he stared thoughtfully into the fires flickering depths.

  “While others become what they become.” Nickolous finished, clasping his hands in front of him as he studied Jerome intently.

  “Exactly.” The big warrior bowed his head, lost in his own thoughts.

  § § § § § §

  “How long?” A-Sharoon had turned to face the lone messenger, her tone merely curious. The creature let out a deep breath as it moved further into the dimly lit room, the soft breeze that wended its way through the tunnel was cool, bringing with it the pungent odors of things best left unknown.

  “Lord Nhon prepares. His sentries guard the gate.”

  “The others, what about them?”

  “They are at the sacred place, waiting.”

  A-Sharoon nodded; she was not surprised that the wolves and the forest warriors would find the cave of the Old One’s and use it as sanctuary. They would remain there until morning’s dawning and then? With a sharp intake of breath she dismissed the creature before returning to her work.

  § § § § § §

  Lord Nhon moved his hands carefully, almost lovingly, over the runes that were embedded deeply in the rock face. He had once thought to spend most of his existence here; his turnings spent in learning and growing. A still small part of him longed to enter the secret chamber that lay beneath his fingertips and stand within the circle of the seven. His fingers curled into fists as he suddenly turned aside. Sighing deeply, he drew himself up, his red eyes glinting strangely as he moved a short distance away, undecided.

  § § § § § §

  The woman stood, her back to a fire that offered little warmth. The chill had passed through her. It had come out of nowhere, taking her by surprise. She had sensed the Fallen One; even through the many feet of rock, his touch upon the sacred writings an insult to the Old Ones who had painstakingly carved them there in the time before time. Her heart thudded wildly within her chest as she waited, not knowing what she would do if that “One” tried to enter. She pushed down the sensation of panic that threatened to overwhelm her; then sighed in relief as the cold chill passed.

  The ground upon which she stood was sacred. The rock that surrounded her was the living essence of all that was—had ever been—from the beginning. She turned as the slight fluttering sound reached her. Moving carefully, she peered into the darkness that shrouded the long corridor that stretched before her in whirling shadow. The movements ceased as she breathed shallowly lest she disturb those who slept beyond her in their sacred chamber. Drawing her woolen cloak tightly to her, she slipped into its welcomed warmth and returned to the fire. Kneeling down, she held her hands over the flickering flames that lapped slowly against the nearly consumed wood, which had begun to turn into blackened coal.

  § § § § § §

  For long moments, the Fallen One remained where he was, watching; waiting. In the distance he could hear the sounds of battle. Still, he did not turn aside from his thoughts as he tried to penetrate the chambers below, his gift of perceiving without physically being there coming to the fore as he concentrated. So much energy was being spent on this one task that he wasn’t aware of the one who observed him moving with a stealth that would have impressed even Chera;

  until the being was upon him and he was turned, suddenly, sharply, his arms pinioned behind him in a vice-like grip that made him gasp.

  § § § § § §

  “Gabriel!”

  Even before the shouted words died to a whispering sigh, the big wolf was there. Leaping over the fire, barely missing the flames that flicked upward as the chill draft snaked its way through the room, he settled on the young man that stood upright, one hand clenched tightly against a forearm that felt as if it were on fire.

  Gabriel’s roar filled the cavernous room as the wind shrieked about Nickolous, leaving in its wake an overpowering sensation of the unknown.

  Fighting against an invisible force that nearly threw her backward, the Old One rose to her feet, gripping the staff that had been hers from the beginning. Raising her head slowly, she looked up into Orith’s eyes even as he drew her to him, his gaze protective as he threw his hood back, at the same time revealing his staff. With a gesture that was unmistakable to the others huddled about, he stood, once again straight and proud, the years rolling away as he gazed into the Old One’s eyes.

  Sarah and the others watched in awe as the two staffs came together with a thundering sound that caused the roaring to cease until only the silence enveloped them within its embrace.

  Through a haze of numbing pain, Nickolous, bent nearly double, fought to maintain control as the staffs twined about one another as if they had a life of their own. And indeed, they did. For to those who were close enough to witness it, the low sighing was the joining of something that had a power of its own.

  From the time of the dreamers—

  The Seven.

  Nickolous shook his head to clear it; the words familiar, echoing over and over, so that he knew he would carry them with him for the rest of his days.

  Jerome stood close by, the big warrior recognizing the words from his own teachings—they were from the forgotten time—crossing his arms across his broad chest he stood, as solid and as unmoving as the sacred oak tree; his warriors stance warning the others away.

  16

  Time before time

  Time of dreamers

  Time of legends

  Enchantments

  Time of the sacred circle

  The seven

  Grandfathers of Legends

  The seers

  Guardians of the lost race

  The weavers of hope

  In their dreams I walk

  The circle closes…

 
; I dream.

  “What’s happening? Is he all right?” Sarah, her voice trembling, stood beside her brother, her big brown eyes bright as she watched Jerome and Gabriel.

  Jerome waited patiently while Gabriel tried to absorb the whispered words that were not their own. The air about them had returned to normal, but it was obvious that Nickolous was still caught in the throes of something unseen. The Old One stood with Orith, her back straight, still clutching the staff tightly, while Orith stood beside the Old One, not at all surprised at the events which had unfolded. His grip tightened on his own staff, for the two had separated and were no longer entwined. Whatever had drawn the staffs together, once again had returned to its center.

  “Wait.”

  The Old One looked at her companion; Orith nodded slightly, but not before drawing the hood up so that his features were once again concealed. Frowning, the Old One stood with furrowed brow but within herself, silently weeping. Orith, knowing what thoughts were coursing through his companion, held her tightly; darkness enveloping them like a shroud, while a short distance away the Fallen One battled an advisory that was as good as he was dark.

  § § § § § §

  Great heaving breaths shook the warrior’s body as he hurled Lord Nhon from him; the warrior, knowing his strength was nearly spent, restrained himself so that exhaustion would not completely overtake his senses as Lord Nhon, recovering quickly, lunged at the huge shadowy form that towered above him; unmindful of the fact that the warrior was three times his height.

  This one he knew!

  His palms turned outward—fireballs—forming at the tips of fingers that had held the essence of the beginning within their grasp—tilting his head back he looked up, his eyes red, gleaming with an inner darkness that most, seeing, would have feared for their own being. The fireballs, burned with an unnatural heat as they moved of their own accord upward, toward the heart of the forest warrior who had once guarded the Living Flame and now guarded the caverns that lay deep beneath their feet.

  The night remained silent as the exploding balls of light illuminated the sky above the sacred place.

  Seared by the intense heat, the forest warrior turned aside; one gigantic arm shielding his face, while the other reached out to grasp this one who had turned to the darkness. Trying to duck out of his grasp, Lord Nhon turned to flee, tripping on his robes as he did so, the result being the warrior missed him by scant inches. At the same time, swept by a need to avenge the theft of the Living Flame, the warrior leaned down to grab the fleeing form only to himself trip over an unseen boulder and in so doing, wrenched one of his trunklike legs. Still weakened by the damage A-Sharoon had caused, he fell sideways, striking his side on the rocks that protruded from the moss-covered ground.

  Lord Nhon pushed himself up, moving out of reach of the warrior’s grasp. At any other time, he would have stayed to finish the fallen guardian, but his senses had picked up something that he was not prepared to face this night. Bowing slightly, he mockingly saluted the warrior, then he was gone. The darkened places offering him sanctuary as the huge bird of prey plummeted earthward, the keening cries echoing through the night.

  Struggling to his feet, the warrior steadied himself as the sighing sound of something long unseen passed overhead. Unconcerned for himself, he bent to the task of making sure the ancient runes had not been disturbed.

  It mattered little that the Fallen One had escaped, for the warrior knew their paths would cross again, and it did not occur to him to give chase, for he knew his quarry.

  § § § § § §

  Cautiously, the auburn-haired woman removed her hands from the thick slab of rock that guarded the entrance to the caverns beneath her feet. She would not—could not—enter their depths; for it was forbidden. Only a Son of Skye could traverse the places below to unlock the hidden things that could heal the darkest turnings.

  Satisfied that nothing had been disturbed, the woman returned to the rocks that rimmed the fire pit, her thoughts with those who walked above. Carefully placing a piece of wood on the glowing red embers, she stood back and watched—watched as the flames slowly curled their way upward until the whole piece was engulfed in a glowing redness that pulsated with a life of its own. Then, and only then, did she turn aside and, going to the far side of the cavern, withdrew a yellowed parchment from a pile of ancient objects. Returning to the center of the room, she knelt down, spreading the document on the flattened ground, then, lighting a candle, she began to study the writing’s before her.

  § § § § § §

  Nickolous leaned forward into the wind, motioning Jerome to him and at a predetermined signal from Gabriel the two exchanged places; while the warrior drew closer; his green eyes studying the stripling who stood before him.

  Nickolous returned Jerome’s gaze in kind; his blue eyes intent. Even before the words were spoken, they had already been heard.

  “Wait!” Orith gripped the Old One’s arm a little too tightly as his gaze searched the room, making sure there were no intruders—none to see or eavesdrop. Beneath his robes, he clutched the staff to him, knowing the Old One had done the same; finally, assured that only the companions were present, he leaned back, still watchful.

  The Old One drew in her breath sharply, her senses reeling. Turnings without number had passed since this place they were in had been used. Yet something still lingered. She leaned slowly forward, her eyes not quite daring to believe what they saw; but hoping.

  § § § § § §

  Wending its way through crevice and earth, the creature came. Gathering form and substance, the white frothing thing groped its way to the above place; the center of it remembering the before times when it had dwelled amongst those who had made their home in the darkened forest.

  Twisting and turning, it followed the corridor’s path until the passageway ended. Lord Nhon turned slowly, his red eyes glinting strangely.

  ‘ Welcome.”

  The words echoed hollowly throughout the damp cavern.

  § § § § § §

  “Wait.” Jerome rose to his feet; his war club clutched tightly to his side, his warrior’s sense’s warning him. The Old One watched through half closed lids as Orith began to rise from his seated position, his heavy woolen cloak parting slightly to reveal the staff. Still, the Old One did not move from her position, but Orith knew she watched and waited.

  The silence was nearly overwhelming.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?” Sarah started forward but was stopped by her brother. Timothy shook his head warningly as he gently pushed her back, at the same time reaching for his sword.

  The soft sighing sound grew louder.

  Chera rose stiffly from her place beside the fire, aware that something was approaching the sacred place in which they now rested. As her gaze sought that of her mate’s, she paused mid-turn, nostrils flaring, scenting the cavern for the unseen and shuddered in the flickering firelight as the sighing grew louder.

  Nickolous leaned forward, instinctively baring his forearm to the shadows as he faced the cavern’s opening while Jerome brought his club forward to the front of his chest; the wind whipping about them as the companions closed their minds against the onslaught of sound, while the sparks and debris caught within the grasp of the unknown swirled about them. Sarah opened her eyes and then shut them tight. Grey swirling things were taking form within the fire’s shadow, while the soft sighing had become a deafening roar. Orith started forward, only to be flung backward against the Old One. Together they crumpled into a tangled heap upon the cold earthen floor.

  Jerome rushed forward, swinging his club in an arc as soot and sparks flew through the air, making it nearly unbearable to be within the confines of the cavern. Amidst the howling, voices whispering ancient words could be heard. Nickolous raised his arms toward the ceiling, and from deep within, the words poured forth; unbidden,
from a forgotten time as the intricately carved silver armband began to glow; the etchings upon its surface writhing, changing, then returning to their center as the hidden voices stilled and the howling ceased. From deep within the fire’s depths, a blue flame flickered then grew; as the companions watched in awe, a form took shape.

  Kneeling down on one knee, Jerome bowed his head to the apparition that had risen from the flames, suspended between earthen floor and ceiling. Nickolous, lowering his arms, moved slowly forward, his will not his own as the form beckoned him.

  The silver armband glowed blue-white.

  “Rise.” The voice was gentle and soothing to the companions’ senses. Sarah shook herself, the tiredness washing through her like a wave, to be replaced with a feeling of renewed energy.

  “What is it you wish of us?” Jerome asked as he moved slowly forward, into the flames flickering light.

  Timothy blinked, but when he opened his eyes, she was still there.

  Gabriel and Chera moved cautiously, never taking their gaze off Nickolous. As Clans of the forest who felt the world’s presence within their innermost being, they were not as shocked. Still, they were slightly awed to be in the presence of the fabled protectress.

  Woman of the Flame.

  Jerome moved closer. There was no fear within him, for his kind had protected the forest and those who had dwelt there for turnings beyond thought. It was this protectress that they served; his warriors protecting the earth that gave them life and substance; the little ones, the earth diggers being closest to the center, their eyes and ears relaying their thoughts and fears to those of the forest warriors. Jerome and his kind, gifted with the ability to see within the heart of those who were of the knowing clans, protected those who honored the living things around them.

  § § § § § §

  Long hair flowed into the flames but did not burn, while white robes billowed gracefully about the slender form, curling about slender ankles and tiny feet that were partially hidden by the blue-white flames that shot upward. Fanned by an invisible breeze, the woman appeared to be suspended in mid air. Sarah watched in awe as the figure turned slowly around; arms raised, her gaze searching.