Son Of Skye

by Thérèse Pilon

  § § § § § §

  A-Sharoon stood, her back pressed against the cold rock, her hands clenched tightly as she drew the forbidden power to her. From their hidden places, they came to heed the call of an ancient spell cast from before the beginning. Hesitant at first, groggy from their awakening after endless turnings, they came. Countless of them; waiting to do as they were bidden. Unsure, like children taking their first steps into the unknown, they shrank back into the darkness only to be urged forth. Their combined strength was needed for the task ahead.

  Liege watched as the Daughter of Darkness worked her ancient spells. Confusion had quickly given way to understanding as to what needed to be done. The stone could not be moved by the earth dwellers and him alone. The big wolf moved in the half darkness to stand beside the woman who had been his enemy from the beginning, his understanding growing as he sensed something different about her. Green eyes looked into black as the woman met his gaze, and for a moment their minds met in understanding.

  Liege bent his head slightly as he acknowledged their temporary truce. Turning his attention to the wall and those behind it, he lent his strength to the others, ignoring the bits of debris that rained down as the hidden door slowly, reluctantly, gave way.

  § § § § § §

  “The balance is tested yet again.” The Old One shuffled forward to stand beside Nickolous as the wind rushed about them; not touching them—for it was an ancient thing; bidden to protect those who held the staffs and the bearer of the bracelet.

  “It would seem that we have allies in the unseen places,” Lord Moshat commented as he retrieved the staff, for that’s what it now was. Gone were The Three. In their stead a solid staff entwined, the memories of countless turnings combined into one. The power contained within incomprehensible.

  “Here.” He held the staff out to Nickolous who took it without hesitation, his grasp firm as he nodded to the elder. A silent affirmation that he understood.

  Lord Moshat stood; waiting, as the man—for man he now was—held the staff high above his head; the blue-white light that emanated from it surrounding them all. Pulsing gently it enveloped them within its protective embrace; returning to the staff, it surged upward, then back to the wood that was living. The power shared. The three complete

  The Old One sighed softly as she leaned against Orith for support. Jerome stood back with Owen; the great snowy white Owl’s golden eyes blinked and closed as the memories assailed him. His thoughts reaching out to the others so that he was not alone as the wind swirled around them—through them—seeking as it passed over them; the thin wailing as it pressed against the crevices made them shiver in the dampness.

  “She searches the farthest reaches,” Jerome spoke; his voice rising, carrying as the wind rose, shrieking above his head.

  “Something approaches.” Chera, fur bristling, stood with her mate, her senses alerting her to an unseen terror. Gabriel nosed her gently, his own senses reeling. It was everywhere as they stood powerless beneath its wrath.

  The unknown—but not—for it was they who were the ones untaught. It had always been there—from the dawning—back to the beginning—dormant, ‘til now—one more remembering to be learned.

  And it was to this end that the staff would serve its purpose, for the power contained within its living wood had been there from the beginning—waiting to be called and to call—

  The companions suddenly found themselves lifted with the wind; the blue-white light surrounding them, soothing them. Jerome shuddered as even he, weightless against the strength of it, rose, and as if from a great distance saw and the seeing strengthened him and he was not afraid; for his kind had long been guardians of the secret places.

  The light struck the companions, flowing through them as a river flows along the river bed—smoothing the rocks beneath its flow so that eventually they are worn smooth; the learning complete.

  “The Flame,” the Old One whispered as she felt the ebb and flow of the power coursing through her.

  Orith nodded as he grasped her to him tightly, for as sure as he was to what was happening to them, there was still the knowledge that there was much to be understood with the learning. He raised his head, the cowl falling back, heat coursing through him, into the Old One, and back again so that they shared the learning.

  25

  Lord Nhon stood just inside the mouth of the cavern; the rage building within him as he surveyed the carnage. His dark army had been well met; their adversary stronger. Emotions, long buried, rose to the surface as the Fallen stepped into the light; his gaze sweeping the clearing for the one he knew who watched. The silent challenge thrown out—to be grasped—to be met—

  The forest warrior—he who was once the guardian of the sacred flame—watched as Lord Nhon raged. His own ability to become one with the surrounding forest an advantage that did little to comfort him as he fought the urge to reveal himself. Long and long had he waited to draw the Fallen One out—out of the shadows, into the light where there was equality for both combatants.

  Lord Nhon stepped back; further into the shadows as if reading the others thoughts.

  Feeling helpless as the cavern protected the one who had once been a warrior of Skye; the warrior shrugged indifferently, for he knew what they had to do. Already the earth dwellers, the little ones, beat out a steady tattoo from deep within the earth; their message reaching up and out through ancient layers of soil and rock to reverberate through to those above who understood the ancient code. The warrior smiled as the others, like him, drew close together; their thoughts combining to communicate with those below.

  “The wolves have been freed to seek their enemy.” The warrior straightened to his full height; his attention drawn inexplicably back to the cavern where Lord Nhon had been. There was nothing there that he could see and yet—he withdrew from the others as he went to his warriors’ place of knowing. It was there. Concealed within the darkened places; the slight roiling of the shadows near the ceiling.

  His senses reeling, he threw himself toward the vaporous creature that came hurtling toward them. With the element of surprise now gone, the creature that had been so recently called to do the dark one’s bidding threw himself into the waiting warriors midst.

  § § § § § §

  Lord Moshat walked beside the watcher, their thoughts joining as the sounds of battle reached them. It was Lord Moshat who spoke first, his thoughts going up and out to the forest warriors. He sensed their thoughts, saw what they saw, and knew the enemy they battled was formidable.

  “The Fallen seeks to have those occupied who could defeat him.”

  The watcher from the hidden place acknowledged the other’s words; the knowledge of what the warriors faced a concern. The power the creature possessed was formidable and old; a creature drawn through time from the imaginings of the darkness that sheltered the unknown, now brought into the realm of light. The watcher shrugged, his thoughts centered on the one who walked ahead of him. The three staffs combined, their powers melded into unimaginable strength, grasped tightly to him like a shield.

  “The creature will be well met by the forest warriors while the one who bears the staff will awaken the Ancients.”

  Lord Moshat glanced at Nickolous, who now walked ahead of them, flanked on either side by the two wolves—companions from the beginning—Guardians to the hopes and dreams of those long passed into the memory; those who carried the knowledge of their forbears within themselves.

  “The battle will be fierce.”

  “But well met.”

  “Not all of us will survive.”

  Lord Moshat turned a narrowed gaze on the elder. The warriors of Skye, and those that were like, yet unlike them, lived turnings beyond those of the forest clans and others.

  “And Nickolous?”

  “His mother’s blood runs through him. Her legacy to her
son is a powerful one.” The elder’s gaze rested upon the bearer of the staff. Yes, he decided to himself; the women of Skye; the one called Aleta, would be proud of the young warrior who strode fearlessly toward his destiny.

  Liege paused at the top of the precipice, the white ethereal mist swirling about him as he nosed his way carefully to the edge. The others had passed this way but a short time ago; their scent still heavy against the dampness that clung, unmoving, in the air above him. He lifted his head as the sounds of falling rock reached him; they were being followed—Nickolous, and the others. Liege turned to the white wolf that stood behind him, the words whispered as he told him what to do. The second in command nodded curtly before leaving with half of the wolves, the other half to continue on with Liege. They would go around, through the caverns and meet again. By doing this, they would hopefully eliminate those who waited in shadow. Liege turned as another scent came to him. Sickly sweet, cloying, it clung to his senses, nearly suffocating him with its intensity, while the unbidden rose within him. There was fear here, buried deep within the living rock that surrounded them. Terror had walked these caverns long ago; leaving its imprint for those who would follow the same path; a warning to tread carefully. Out of the corner of his eye, Liege caught a shadowy form, tall and lithe, moving to the left of him.

  A-Sharoon stood at the edge of the precipice; watching; her dark ones beside her. She had her army; her power was now restored. Liege acknowledged her presence, his own army behind him, waiting to go forward; fear not an option now, they would do what was necessary.

  “Hurry, the caverns narrow into nothing that way.” A-Sharoon pointed to the right. Her pale skin a contrast to the darkness they were surrounded with. She held up her hand in a gesture of peace.

  “Go now, for you need not fear me or mine while we are here; our battle is now the same. In the hidden place the Flame waits. Go.” She let her hand fall as she pulled her cape about her, using the hooded robe to conceal her features—the dark cloak rendering her invisible so that she now seemed to be a disembodied voice.

  “Until we meet again.” The farewell echoed hollowly in the poignant silence as Liege shifted uneasily; his every instinct warning against complacency. A-Sharoon could not be trusted. True, she had helped him free his warriors; had even spoken the ancient dialect known only to a few and had worked beside the earth dwellers. The little ones, those who were the heart beat of the earth.

  Liege threw off the instinct to send some of his warriors to follow. There was no time, and as much as he hated to admit it, the Daughter to the Night seemed somehow changed.

  Deep down, the big wolf had his own unvoiced thoughts as to how the sacred Flame affected those who touched and were touched by its spirit.

  “Go.” Liege dismissed half of the wolves to do his bidding, then, turning began following another path to seek his own journey.

  A-Sharoon watched the wolves go; her thoughts centered. From this point on, she should no longer interfere in the battle between the Fallen and those of the forest clans, for she could not risk the loss of self. From the beginning of remembering, she had been the darkness that warred with the light. It was as she turned away, her intention to once more go to earth, that she heard it. The Flame; its soft sighing within her—whispers that none could hear but her. She stood still, silencing those who walked behind her. Her thoughts, her memories—she silenced them all.

  There could be no imagining what would be if she did not put things back the way they once were and again become who she was.

  § § § § § §

  Nickolous felt the power of the staff as it coursed through him; sparing a glance for Chera and Gabriel, he wondered if they too felt what he felt. The staff hummed slightly, the vibration sending shivers through his body as the armband responded to its kin.

  Memories.

  Nickolous shook his head to clear it; the whispers of the seven from the sacred place calming him. He inhaled deeply, his senses heightened, his hearing more acute as he turned his head, listening; behind him, Lord Moshat and the guardian from the hidden place also paused; their senses attuned to that of the bearer of the staff.

  “We’re being watched.” Gabriel moved closer, the fur along his back rising.

  “Smell that?” Chera asked, her breathing shallow as the air around them suddenly became thick with the unmistakable odor of a changeling.

  “There’s more than one.” Jerome was suddenly beside them, his war club in his hand, his mind peering into the darkness; locating the hidden enemy.

  “You must continue on. Don’t stop.” The Old One was looking up at the Jerome, her black eyes crinkling at the edges as she too scented the stale air. “They must not know we sense them. We have to prepare ourselves.”

  “There is another passage ahead. There.” Nickolous peered ahead into the darkness that fringed the outer edges of the caverns walls. His grip on the staff tightening as the warmth spread up his arm, into his neck.

  The guardian of the hidden forest touched his shoulder. Words—unspoken—heard.

  Nickolous nodded, his awareness heightened; the staff flared blue-white as the shrieks ebbed into nothingness.

  “Hurry!” The shouted words were nearly drowned out by more shrieks as the changelings, partially concealed within the shadows rushed out. Some were still turning, growing into forms that would have terrified most, but not the bearer of the staff.

  Eyes half closed against the light that was nearly blinding, Nicko-lous pointed the staff at the cold grey rocks in front of them. Beside him, the Old One, her paws clasped in front of her, uttered words unheard beneath her breath while Orith, his hooded robe thrown back over his shoulder, joined her. His scarred features softened by the glow of the light from the staff as it flamed upward and out toward the wall; the shattering sound muffled by the howls of the changelings as they sought their prey.

  Gabriel threw off the creature and met the next one head on as Chera, fangs barred, leapt to intercept the midnight form that had lain in wait amongst the ledges overhead; while Jerome protected Nickolous’s passage through the narrow opening in the cavern’s wall. Quickly, the others slipped through; their thoughts not on what were behind them—but ahead.

  Pushing the Old One and Orith through the opening, Jerome turned to face another changeling; his war club finding its mark with deadly accuracy. Caught midair, the creature somersaulted backward, the need to protect itself, to change, to grow stronger, to defeat. There wasn’t enough time, however, for suddenly Owen was there ahead of Jerome, his sharp talons grasping, tightening, until the creature fell limp and was dropped to the ground.

  The forest warrior breathed in deeply; the air around him suddenly charged with a heavy musky smell. Knowing they had to hurry now and seal the opening behind them, he called the elder and the protector of the hidden place to him as Nickolous held the staff high, the soft blue-white light emanating toward the scarred opening. Creeping upward, its soft tendrils of mist touching the newly opened places, the fissure slowly closed, much to the dismay of the shadowy beings on the other side. Their howls of protest reverberated through the heavy air, for there were places that even they, with their powers, could not traverse once the way was closed against them.

  “We must be close; else the Fallen One would not be calling the forbidden ones to him,” the elder spoke softly; his words for the warrior of the forest.

  Jerome mopped his brow, the sweat beading up as fast as he wiped it away. Darkness, unseen, moved over him, threatening to suffocate his senses. He turned at the elder’s touch. Slowly his senses calmed. He bent down, his craggy face inches from the others, his mind reaching out to touch; to see what the elder had seen.

  Startled, he pulled back—the vision of the Flame struggling against an unseen barrier—the little ones, the earth diggers, futilely pressing against an invisible prison, waiting for those stronger than they t
o intercede.

  “Liege waits on the other side with half of Gabriel’s warriors while the rest approach from the lower caverns.” The elder closed his eyes, concentrating, seeking out the oldest of the earth dwellers. It was some moments before he found him, the ability to communicate with the eldest of the protectors of the earthen realms a gift to be used for the good of them all.

  “They wait for us.” The elder lowered his head as if listening to whispered words. He looked up, startled, his gaze locking with that of Jerome’s.

  “The Flame—the heartbeat that is of all living things begins to weaken.” The elder turned to the protector of the hidden forest, his hand reaching out to grasp the others arm.

  “We must hurry.” The sudden urgency in his voice startled the others as his grip tightened. “The elder of the earth dwellers; those of the clans beneath, speaks of the Elemental powers striking the prison. The wall weakens, but more is needed, and quickly.”

  The air about them resounded with sound as Liege, with half of Gabriel’s best, struggled through a narrow opening in the wall. Looking tattered and worn, Liege acknowledged Gabriel, his head high as he stood proudly before his leader.

  “Well done, my friend.” Nickolous touched Liege gently and the weariness washed out of him. The big wolf was grateful for the strength that had been lent.

  Nickolous leaned down until he was level with Liege, his gaze meeting that of the black wolf.

  “It was your strength and yours alone.” The words were whispered. Liege bowed his head, for he felt the power emanating from the speaker as well as the staff.

  “Nickolous, the cavern opens the way to the Flame. We must hurry.” There was an underlying urgency in the elder’s tone as he moved forward. Nodding, Nickolous rose and followed; leaving Liege to follow.

  “Quickly now, we don’t have much time.” Jerome waited until the others were through. Then, swinging his club in an arc, he struck the wall, causing it to crumble, covering the opening in debris. He stood back. Still.