Son Of Skye

by Thérèse Pilon

  The words echoed within his mind. He rose from his cramped position as the other clasped his arm in a farewell gesture. The forest around him spun out of focus as he fought to maintain his balance, the words of those others who watched from a distant place ringing in his mind as he fell through the great abyss that reached out to swallow him. Vaguely he wondered where Jerome was, and why the return journey was so hurried, and then for a time there was nothing.

  “Nickolous, wake up.” Jerome shook him gently, glad that they had both came through the gate in one piece; and as he glanced around at his surroundings, close to the sacred place where the others waited.

  Nickolous stirred, his mind groggy as he struggled to sit up, the memories of where he had been and what had been said washing over him in waves as he was helped to his feet.

  “You must not speak of the things you have seen. Not yet. Not even to me.”

  Nickolous stared at the warrior for a moment before nodding. Grasping his war club in one hand, Jerome looked around, cautious, for they were no longer in the sacred place. His senses tingled as he gazed upward at the stars etched against the inky blackness overhead;

  feeling the tremors beneath his feet, he knelt down, his eyes closed as he felt the beat of the earth beneath his fingertips, the sensation spreading upward as he absorbed the vibrations.

  “The dwellers below? The little ones.” Nickolous voice trailed off into the silence. Watching the forest warrior’s expression, he could not feel what the warrior felt; although it was obvious that they were each gifted with certain abilities, and they had shared some experiences as one, this wasn’t one of the times it would be so.

  Jerome turned to look at Nickolous. He had changed yet again. Whatever had happened back there, where the Old Ones dwelt, had matured him further, and he wished Nickolous did not have to bear such a heavy burden alone.

  “The little ones speak of suffering; there is great pain.” Jerome paused as he straightened up from his kneeling position. He peered into the darkness as if seeking out a distant sound. “The Flame seeks to be released from its prison, while others weep.” He did not look at Nickolous as he said this, but gripped his war club, his fingers spanning the breadth of it as he pushed his rising emotions down.

  Nickolous nodded. There was nothing more to say.

  § § § § § §

  Owen inclined his head slightly toward Liege.

  “Well met; and the others?” He turned away from the still form crumpled at his feet, expecting to see more wolves coming over the rise. When there were none forthcoming, he turned back, his gaze questioning. The question went unasked. He lowered his head for a moment then, looking around, noticed the winged warrior was gone. Certain he had not gone far, he turned his attention back to Liege. The big wolf said nothing, for his eyes said it all.

  “How did you know.” Liege growled, the words cut off abruptly as he sensed the approach of something or someone.

  Owen blinked, his huge golden eyes reflecting the Moon’s pale light. There; he could hear it. Soundlessly he flew upward, scanning the ground below.

  “Nickolous. Jerome.” He breathed their names thankfully as he glided toward them, leaving Liege to follow; their scent now strong upon the nights wind.

  § § § § § §

  Jerome watched the silhouette against the backdrop of the starry night. He knew it was Owen and so was not alarmed. He was more surprised to see the long, loping form that followed. Nickolous, too, was glad to see the captain of the guard. The memories of that night in the clearing when Liege had risked his life for him came flooding back with a bitter sweetness as he greeted the big black wolf.

  Liege was amazed at the change in Nickolous. Gone was the young boy. As he allowed a hand to caress him in greeting, calm overtook his senses, and for a moment he leaned against him for support, the need to let his guard down for one moment of peace nearly overwhelming. Then, remembering where he was, just as quickly pulled back, once more on guard, alert for anything untoward.

  “Don’t worry.” Nickolous looked down at the wolf, studying him intently. “The darkness cannot hold them in forever.” The words drifted upon the night wind for him alone to hear

  Liege drew in his breath, letting it out slowly, hardly daring to hope that what he was hearing meant his haunting dreams were correct.

  “Nickolous speaks the truth,” Jerome said as he drew close, for the warrior had just now realized what the little ones, the earth dwellers, had been trying to tell him—

  Somewhere below them, deep within the earth, there was a fierce battle for freedom being waged. Jerome felt powerless to help and wondered how so few could defeat so many alone. He turned away, trying to draw strength from the knowledge of where he had been; cautiously guarding his thoughts.

  Liege nodded in understanding. Had he not been so blinded with emotion, he would have seen what Jerome and Nickolous already knew.

  “Come.” He turned aside, tilting his head to one side, listening intently.

  “Chera calls.”

  The far-off cry carried on the night wind to the rest of them as Nickolous stepped forward to follow Liege. “Wait!”

  Jerome yanked Nickolous backward forcefully as he swung his war club in a wide arc. Whatever it was that the club connected with—it went flying unceremoniously through the air to land somewhere beyond their sight. Jerome grunted in disgust as he wiped his war club against the long, damp grass. Nickolous didn’t ask what it was, for in the split second before the club had made contact, he had glimpsed the narrowed yellow eyes glaring downward. Devoid of any humanity, they were empty of all save the madness that drove them forward to obey their master.

  “Are there any more? Were we overheard?” Owen peered into the darkness, silently berating himself for not having been more vigilant. Liege nudged him gently; the big wolf suddenly impatient now, for there was an overwhelming restlessness growing within him. As Owen took flight, the others followed closely behind, Nickolous being placed in the center, flanked on either side by Jerome and Liege.

  § § § § § §

  Lord Moshat stayed at the edge of the shadows, the air around him was thick, almost suffocating—somewhere behind him, someone followed. He smiled in the semidarkness that cloaked him, for the moon hung full and round in the sky, its pale light casting shadows where the trees bent gently in the night breeze. It had been turnings beyond remembering since he had been here; he had almost forgotten. He turned left toward a grove of trees. He was there. The gate stood open, invisible to most, but not to him. Gripping his staff firmly, Lord Moshat turned to meet his enemy.

  Lord Nhon threw off his heavy cloak as he flung himself through the air to intercept his enemy—too long had he waited for this moment—too long had the hatred festered and grown within. He had become weary over the turnings; the longing for revenge a terrible thing that had burned within him until he had lost all ability to reason when it came to his former mentor.

  Lord Moshat knew this, had been prepared for it; for he had known, had felt the hatred that burned within his former proteges breast these many turnings. He stood in the gateway’s center, the incantation already cast as the dark form hurtled toward him. Lord Nhon spun around at the last moment; his arms raised high, the staff he held sparking blue-white as it collided with that of Lord Moshat’s.

  § § § § § §

  “Wait!” Jerome hissed as the night was filled with unearthly shrieks. Pivoting around he gazed upward into the eastern sky—the shadows dancing against the velvet blackness of the night warning him.

  Nickolous shifted uncomfortably; beneath his jacket the silver armband burned hot against his skin as he peered into the shadows and pulled back; startled. For a split second, the winged warriors gaze burned into his, then the night was filled with the sound of rushing wind and the wailing of something unclean as it passed overhead.
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  “Hurry; to the cavern!” Jerome shouted as he jerked Nickolous forward, half dragging, half carrying him in his panic.

  Liege followed swiftly, for as much as the big wolf would have liked to turn and face whoever, or whatever, was behind him, he knew their safety lay ahead; in the sacred place where the others waited.

  “No.” One word. Nickolous pulled out of Jerome’s grasp, startling the big warrior. Jerome looked down at him in shock.

  “No.” This time the words were breathed out softly as Nickolous reached out to touch the warrior of the forest gently, his gaze seeking understanding. “I cannot go back yet. Tonight is only the beginning of what is to come—I will not run away.” He turned to face Liege as Owen hovered overhead. Jerome gazed upward at Owen, his eyes begging for help.

  Owen said nothing, for he had a feeling that things were about to take an unwanted turn. Sighing deeply, he glided toward them, momentarily unmindful of the prying eyes that watched.

  § § § § § §

  Lord Moshat leapt clear, narrowly avoiding the piercing light that flamed from Lord Nhon’s staff—a staff that he himself had given him. Inwardly, he drew upon the knowledge that although his former student knew much, he did not know all. The thought lent him little comfort as he parried the next thrust that was aimed with deadly accuracy.

  § § § § § §

  Instinct drew Nickolous forward, his unwilling companions following behind. Guided by something he did not quite understand, he plunged forward into the forest, unmindful of the branches that tore at his clothing and scratched his face. He was near; he could sense it. Feeling the silver burning against his skin, he rolled up his sleeve, for once unmindful of who, or what, might see.

  Light, brilliant white and scorching hot, shot upward, nearly blinding those behind him as a wailing rose overhead, causing Jerome to shudder. Not knowing what they faced, he hurried to catch up while Owen glided soundlessly on the wind currents, his eyes peering deep into the darkness for something they could not find; ever mindful that, somewhere behind them, a winged warrior watched. He suddenly found himself being flung backward as the wind became a screaming thing. Not seen—but heard. And as they were soon to find out, a force to be reckoned with.

  § § § § § §

  Lord Nhon somersaulted backward as the staff flew from his grasp, while Lord Moshat stood firm within the center of the gate, his stance defiant, both hands grasping the staff in front of him as he used it as a barrier between the two of them.

  Landing on his feet, Lord Nhon twisted around with incredible agility. Bending down, he retrieved his staff then, turning, faced Lord Moshat. Words, muttered behind clenched lips, tumbled out as Lord Moshat stood, unwavering against the anger. Closing his eyes, he inhaled then exhaled as he turned the staff slowly around, twirling it around and around as Lord Nhon took one step, then another toward him, his breath foul from the darkness that festered within.

  “So, you would think to interfere with that which is not your concern!” Lord Nhon spat the words out as he struck out at the staff that Lord Moshat now used between them as a shield.

  “You have betrayed all that you were, and for what?” Lord Moshat thrust the other’s staff aside. Ignoring the smell, he drew close to Lord Nhon so that they were mere inches from one another. Guarding himself against what he might see within the darkened shell of what was once a being of light, he gazed deep within—and pulled back reeling.

  Lord Nhon struck the staff aside, at the same time grasping Lord Moshat by the throat. Flinging him aside, he drew the two staffs toward each other; nearly touching, the two glowed with an unnatural light. As Lord Moshat struggled to his feet, Lord Nhon turned to face him, his face a twisted mask of incomprehensible evil.

  “I have betrayed nothing.” Lord Nhon’s eyes shone red in the pale gloom that surrounded him. “Look at you. You have grown old and weak over the turnings, while I have remained the same.”

  “No; you have not remained the same. The strength you possess is one of despair and longing for that which you will never find!” Lord Moshat struck at the two staffs as he spoke, breaking their connection. The staffs, freed from each other’s embrace, spewed light skyward, entwining, the colors merging into a brilliance that was a combination of hot and cold.

  Memories of the before time poured forth into the sudden silence that was nearly overwhelming; and then the noise was nearly more than they could bear as the voices screamed within their minds.

  Around them. Over them. All the entities of untold turnings. The Ancients. The Lost Ones.

  Even in the abyss of dark despair into which they had been thrown, the battle still raged as untold voices screamed—seeking the way to freedom while the others, the Ancients, fought to hold them back.

  Each staff possessed its own power, its owner putting much of himself into its center. Those powers now released pulled at each other, each one trying to envelope the other.

  One to put back. The other, to possess.

  “No!” Lord Nhon leaned forward to grab the staff, but it was too late.

  The gate had begun to close in upon itself, while the air above him shrieked with sounds that threatened to drive him mad. Turning, he drew his cloak about him, the incantation already cast; when next Lord Moshat looked, he stood alone while the two staffs smoldered at his feet; their power broken.

  The voices dimmed into nothingness as he knelt down and sifted through the blackened remnants of what had been.

  § § § § § §

  “Nickolous!” Jerome swept the air in a wide arc, his club thudding against something he could not see. The wind shrieked around him as something passed overhead brushing against him, the sensation nearly causing him to lose his balance. He swung wildly, hitting nothing as huge droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead, then dried as the wind assailed him.

  “Run—”

  “No, wait.” Nickolous bent low as the air above them carried the haunting cries of unseen things into the quickening silence. “It’s over.” He turned toward Liege; the big wolf stood by his side, his expression guarded. Owen flew low, alert for anything that might be near, the feeling of unease causing him to shiver.

  “There, beyond those trees.” Liege nodded toward the darkened forest, but Nickolous stepped forward, intending to go around him. The big wolf nudged him gently. “Patience,” Liege cautioned. “There may be others who tread places we are not prepared for.”

  Nickolous stopped where he was, his expression questioning. Jerome nodded to Owen, for with his immense height he could see what the others could not. Light, blue-white, emanated from within the confines of the forest. Owen, too, was alerted to the nuance that had not been there before, for he knew this part of the forest well. Tilting slightly to one side he glided low over the treetops, keeping to the shadows.

  “Someone comes,” Nickolous whispered as Liege crouched beside him, the fur along his back bristling as the scent of unknown things assailed him while Jerome stood in front of them, his war club held loosely at his side, nevertheless, prepared for whatever was approaching.

  “Nickolous.” The words wrapped around him, carried upon the warm wind. The urgency was unmistakable as, unbidden, he moved forward toward whatever beckoned.

  “No.” Liege edged ahead of the big warrior. Placing himself between Nickolous and Jerome, he motioned them back as he approached the forest’s edge, the warm air that blew over him and around him sending shivers through him as he crouched low to the ground, waiting. He peered into the moonlit night as the sounds of someone slowly approaching carried to him upon the night breeze.

  § § § § § §

  Lord Moshat moved cautiously toward the outer edge of the forest. The staffs were destroyed and he grieved for their loss, but the gate to the world below had been closed and that was all that mattered. Lord Nhon, for all his power, would not be abl
e to open it again. The thought gave him little comfort as he threaded his way carefully along the winding path that led away from the gateway; away from the memories.

  § § § § § §

  “No. I must go in there.” Nickolous tried to go around Jerome but the forest warrior blocked his path.

  “You cannot.” The big warrior looked down at his young charge; into blue eyes that held the knowing of the ages deep within their depths. Nickolous reached out to touch him gently.

  “They call,” he whispered softly, moving around the warrior as the way was barred once more.

  Jerome studied him intently from beneath heavy brows, a small part of him acknowledging it was useless to argue in the face of such power. Gazing upward into the night, he inhaled, drawing in deeply of the fresh air, his keen hearing picking up the nuances that drifted upon the nights wind; releasing his breath in resignation he moved aside. Grasping his war club firmly, he followed silently behind his young charge; nodding to Liege as he passed by, the understanding unspoken that the big wolf would stay behind to guard for their return.

  The pathway was littered with fallen debris. Broken limbs, big and small, lay scattered about the forest floor. Jerome gazed at the mess thoughtfully. Whatever had torn through this place had left in its wake total devastation and, as Nickolous followed the warriors gaze, it was obvious that they would have to choose their way carefully. Beneath his feet, the earth dwellers beat out a steady rhythm against the earth. The vibrations reaching upward until the sound resounded like a heartbeat, rushing over him, around him, through him; Jerome shook his head, drawing in a deep breath as he fought the sensation that washed over him. Something dark had passed this way, and it didn’t take much to guess whom.

  “The small ones seek to speak their thoughts.”

  Jerome looked at Nickolous in surprise.

  “They seek to be heard—to be remembered.” Nickolous tilted his head to one side; drawing the emotions seeping upward from the earth to him. When he spoke again, it wasn’t to Jerome; but to himself. “The ancient places have been breached while the darkness treads within sight of the light. The earth weeps this night.” Nicko-lous turned away, the helpless feeling climbing upward, threatening to suffocate him.