Crovar decided that it would be better to try and destroy this mancub as ordered to by the Draugens last instructions than to fail and return to Trunarth to face Shum and the witches’ anger at his failure. The hound sprung in a mighty leap towards the boy. Saniel closed his eyes and raised his arm over his head in a protective gesture as the Moonstone in the Talisman continued to illuminate. But the hound did not reach his mark. A large tanned wolf with a black head leapt into the light from out of the shadows beside the boy and crashed into the side of the hound midway through the air. Wolf and hound tumbled off the path into the shadowy undergrowth. They both quickly faced each other and squared off.
'This way quickly’ said a shaky low voice near the boy. Saniel did not know what had happened. He had never seen a wolf before. He did not know what this new shaggy creature was that had suddenly appeared and resembled a village dog only much more prominent. It stood in front of him facing the savage hound and was howling deeply. The dog was showing all his teeth and was growling loudly back. Looking down to discover the source of the voice, Saniel saw the outline of a small red fox nearby in the shadows. The same voice spoke again. ‘Move mancub, quickly!’ This time it appeared that the fox had spoken these words. The fox beckoned with his head for Saniel to follow him into the woods. This entire thing seemed like some incredible dream.
The little Blue Tat appeared and flew out from behind the trunk of a large Elm to land on the fox’s back. That small sense of familiarity filled Saniel with hope, and he nodded his head and followed the fox as it quickly trotted away. The hound and wolf were making an awful howling, growling and barking racket behind him as the stone’s light showed him the fox’s tail disappearing in front of him through the low bushes. Both the hound and the wolf panting heavily backed away from each other. Crovar looked the young wolf up and down. ‘Why are you here wolf scum?’ Jericho replied with a snicker, ‘what I do here does not concern you hound. Return to Trunarth, and I will spare your life. '
The hound gave a quick bark of laughter. ‘I am Lieutenant Crovar of the Wildpack, second only to our Warlord, not some wide-eyed mooncalf to be frighted off with your shallow threats.’ ‘Good’ replied Jericho, ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ Jericho howled and leapt onto the hound. The hound had anticipated this move and readied for a counter-attack. The wolf was taller than the hound, but what Crovar lacked in size he had gained in long years of experience. They fought for several minutes. Howling, barking, growling and biting one another, with the sound of shaking bushes and snapping branches echoing through the woods.
The hound realised after a time that the young wolf’s vitality would likely win through. Crovar seeing an opportunity jumped in from the side and locked his jaws around the back of Jericho’s thick shaggy neck. He latched on hard and shook, but he had only grasped hold of skin and fur. Jericho let out a painful howl but was able to twist slightly inside his loose coat and grabbed the hound’s upper front leg. With teeth sinking into muscle, Crovar yelped, releasing his hold on the young wolf. Jericho bit hard and shook before letting go. The hound leapt into the undergrowth and limped away on three legs as fast as he could go. Jericho catching his breath, began to pursue the fleeing hound, and then stopped. He concluded that the mancub was more important and padded back into the undergrowth to meet Red Whiskers by a fallen Oak on the moor side of a little stream.
Bragus and Princess Eylon sat in a dark chamber of the Aledran combs and gazed into the Soothsayer Chalice. This was the ‘Chamber of Ponds’, an ordinary rocky cavern of sorts deep within the heart of Aledran. The magic pond sat inside a raised rock platform carved into the shape of a simple oval chalice. It contained a silver liquid with properties that could be manipulated by those versed in the rites to see the present, past, and future. Ringed with minor jewels and coloured stones that glowed slightly causing their varied colours to mix in the centre of the oval mimicking a rainbow. Inside the rainbow were images. They saw Crovar limp away, heading south into the moor. They continued watching and saw a white and blue, glowing Moonstone hanging by a silver chain around this mancub’s neck and swaying back and forth as he stumbled along behind Red Whiskers. They saw him reach down and place it inside the front of his coat with a six-fingered hand and continue along a wooded path with the little Blue Tat flying high above them. Bragus drew a deep breath and said in amazement, ‘A Moonstone Talisman! I thought they all vanished in the last Druid wars?’ The Princess added ‘Who is this mancub that carries it? There are none in the mankind species who have had the knowledge or the power for centuries. Why have I not sensed this before?’
‘Now we know what the witches’ were after’ replied Bragus. He continued, ‘Do you think they mean to use it against us to secure our source of power?’ The princess hastily replied. ‘We can never let that happen, and I cannot activate the Arch again for some time until my gem recharges.’ She continued, ‘The only way to get a message through to Jericho is with Ayah’s help. He must send an endurance seeker with a message to escort the boy to the Elvene where he will be safe.’ ‘Agreed’ said Bragus, ‘But it is still a four- or five-day flight for the fastest Falcon and several weeks journey back to the Elvene for Jericho.’ ‘We have no choice’ sighed the Princess, ‘for it would take longer to obtain magic aid from my cousins the Grelen in the far north.’ She added ‘It won’t be long before the witches’ learn of the hound’s failure and then half the Wildpack, witches’ and goblins will be scouring the southern moors looking for this mancub.’ Bragus left the chamber and returned sometime later. He addressed the Princess, ‘Ayah will not send seekers until the morning as he will not risk the nightbirds.’
Several hours later at first sun, an endurance Falcon left Aledran with instructions from the elf princess and the lord of the bears. He flew high, higher than most sky dwellers as he could not afford to fail. He circled up into the lower clouds then headed southwest towards Blackmire Castle. Endurance seekers could stay on the wing for several days at a time, covering great distances.
Saniel sat on the damp grass leaning against the trunk of a fallen Oak that had several large boughs stretching across the narrow stream to the other side. A red fox sat nearby with his bushy tail curled around him. He sat studying this mancub intently. Red Whiskers had never seen a creature from the mankind species before let alone a cub. They walked upright on two legs, were taller than an elf and they were not surrounded by the nasty aura that goblins and witches’ had. This one had had five fingers on one paw and six on the other. That was strange, thought the fox. Are they all like that? The fox circled around the mancub, but could not see a tail of any sort. He couldn’t smell any danger on this animal, which appeared to be rather harmless. The Blue Tat perched above in a nearby tree, letting out the occasional chirrup. Nearby, and in the thick thorny tangle of Gorse bush crouched a brown rabbit with a whitetail.
Without breaking his stare at the mancub, Red Whiskers addressed the rabbit. ‘You did well, Mr Bobbins. I don’t think I will harass you as much after this.’ Moonlight continued to penetrate through the forest canopy, giving Saniel reasonable visibility. He was exhausted and flooded with mixed emotions as he had not understood anything that had happened. He eventually fell asleep, clutching the Talisman inside his coat. It pulsed quietly, strangely keeping time with his heartbeat. Red Whiskers tilted his head slightly to one side and with his ears pricked forward, listened to the pulsing stone. Mr Bobbins didn’t like this at all. It was one thing to risk his hide stealing a bite of the mankind’s cabbages, but to now aid in rescuing a mancub while in the company of a fox and a wolf was too much. If he survived all of this and didn’t get eaten, he would undoubtedly have a good story to tell his twelve children.
Saniel dreamed of many things, but mostly his mother and how he missed her most of all. A soft footfall in the nearby grass and the fox spun around quickly. He was relieved to smell and see the young wolf. Jericho sniffing cautiously crept over the fallen Oak and approached Red Whiskers. They spoke softly and
guarded the mancub until daylight a few hours later. The rabbit wriggled himself deeper into the soft ground. ‘Oh, it was all wonderful when they worked together like this,’ thought the rabbit, ‘but sooner or later the fox and this huge wolf would get hungry and those teeth they displayed all too often were not for chewing apples.’
24.
THE BLOODWOOD COVEN
Lady Strala had ruled the Bloodwood coven ever since she was appointed the position by the combined leaders of the other covens. This came about 150 years ago after she triumphed over the previous lady of the coven, Cedonia. The ‘disagreement’ resulting in Cedonia’s defeat had taken place outside the coven near the Great Southern Marsh in a spectacular battle which was witnessed by other witches’, several goblins and two Daemons. At the time it had been dubbed a ‘Fair fight,’ with the other covens recognising the outcome and Strala as the victor. Cedonia had been destroyed or banished to serve some unholy Daemon in the Dread-Realm or worse the Abysm where nothing existed. Either way, she wasn’t around anymore, and that’s all that mattered. Strala smiled grimly as she recalled her completion of the witch trials at Blackmire. She had returned home soon after and had her head filled with terrible but powerful magic knowledge. She also remembered her origins and that she was born of mankind. Even though Lady Cedonia had taken Strala into the coven, she had treated her like a worthless animal as she grew up. For this, she hated Cedonia, and she hated the hounds that had destroyed mankind's village, even though she felt no kinship to mankind. But in this modern-day, having something to hate certainly did help pass the time.
At fifty-four years of age, Strala had become fully aware of her power. She would often speak to her patron Daemon, Dalgaith the wretched in her private chambers. Every witch had a patron Daemon from the Dread-Realm. A certain Daemon and witch are drawn to each other during the undertaking of the trials at Blackmire and thus form a connection where unbreakable bargains are made and hence termed the Daemon-witch pact. In return for magic power, the witch would sacrifice living things and condemn souls into the maw of her hungry Daemon. The agreement, however, would inevitably end with the witches ‘own soul going to her patron Daemon as his reward. To a Daemon, the soul of a being that had spent time dabbling in the black crafts tasted that much sweeter. This was one of the reasons that many a witch strives to achieve immortality in an attempt to cheat death and rob her Daemon.
For a few years now, Strala had advocated in her coven to expand the power of the witches’ over the moors and the lesser creatures. To do so meant the destruction of the wolves the elves and even the bears. Strala could not understand her purpose in life. The witches’ did nothing these days but plot and scheme, and yet never actually achieved anything. Strala would often comment that it was a great thing to wield the power of black craft, but to not use it to place witches’ in charge of all things was a violation of reality. Her mischievous Daemon Dalgaith would often whisper great promises and encouragements to her. He wanted nothing more than strife and mayhem which in turn would send more souls his way to gratify his thirst, as it was terribly dull in the Dread-Realm. Strala knew that the hounds and goblins did their bidding as they had to adhere to ancient pacts with the witches’. So why not use them to destroy the wolves and elves? If significant numbers of the Wildpack perished, which they most certainly would, good riddance. She was no fan of the greedy little red goblins either, so she saw no harm in them dying for the witches’ cause as well.
Lady Cedonia became increasingly displeased with Strala as she continued with her outspoken views. Furthermore, it was most bothersome to see that several witches’ agreed with Strala. Strala was not a pureblood witch; she was born of mankind and therefore, who was she to question the traditional order of things? The way things ran now was just fine and had no need to be changed. Progress was dangerous, and most witches would rather avoid that whole event riddled with unknown consequences. Smarter witches’ than Strala had tried to conquer the wolves and elves in the past and had failed. What makes this upstart Strala think she could do better? This was the beginning of the end and it began one evening after Strala had insulted and disrespected Lady Cedonia. This incident had taken place in the Alchemist chamber in front of several other witches’, who looked on in apprehension. Lady Cedonia was instructing two initiate witches’ on the making of a particularly powerful potion required for the Changeling enchantment. Strala had heard rumours from other witches’ close to her and from her patron Daemon that Lady Cedonia had planned to engage assassins to rid the coven of Strala once and for all.
Strala rarely lost her composure, but on this night, she strode into the Alchemist chamber in a filthy temper her black cloak sweeping around her reflecting her mood. Her sweep held tightly in her hand as she approached Lady Cedonia from behind. Cedonia standing a foot shorter than her fellow witches’ tilted her head ever so slightly; her waist-length Raven black hair was rippling quickly. The initiate witches’ shrunk away to the far side of the room, sensing an immediate unease. ‘So, you mean to dispose of me imp hybrid’ Strala said flatly. Lady Cedonia, without turning to face Strala, said ‘It’s about time, I was getting impatient.’ She muttered a word and a black snake with yellow fangs dripping venom, leapt out from under a dark bench to strike at Strala’s head. A slight twist of Strala’s sweep and the serpent struck the edge of the pale green mist drifting around Strala. It condensed and quickly engulfed the snake as it fell to the ground, shrivelled into a dry, frozen shape and quickly crumbled into dust and ash. Lady Cedonia sighed and said, ‘I had to try.’
Lady Cedonia muttered a few quiet words and the outline of her body became blurred, difficult to focus on and in an instant became transparent. With a faint smile at the look of astonishment on Strala’s face, Cedonia then morphed into a thin, tall wisp of green and black smoke. The smoke seemed to pause for a moment then rise quickly and pour upwards into a crack visible in the ceiling of the chamber and disappear. Cedonia’s sweep had likewise vanished. Strala knew where she was going. She mounted her sweep and quicker than any witch had ever done, flew through the honeycomb of caves and chambers to reach the moors outside. A moment later and Strala stood on the open grassland inside the circle of Bloodwood trees marking the entrance to the coven. The black clouds boiled around and above in a heavily overcast sky. The upper limbs of the Bloodwood trees swayed back and forth, creaking and groaning in the cold gusty air, and the odd one shook a random branch like an excited dog wagging its tail.
The trees wailed in unison, louder than usual as they loomed over the grove. The trees gave the impression of watching intently as the two witches’ faced off. Lady Cedonia was at the far end of the Wailing Woods and holding her sweep in front of her. Her black hair streamed out to one side of her as if being toyed about in the wind. A serrated silver lightning bolt flashed out from the jewel in her sweep towards Strala. Strala brought her sweep down vertically to strike the ground with a hollowed boom. A crooked thin split in the earth appeared and expanded in an instant to become a six-foot-wide bottomless cavity. Strips of light could be seen drawn down to stream into the fissure. The lightning bolt almost reaching Strala slowed down and seemed to be sucked into the vacuum with the surrounding light. In an instant, it stopped and arced downwards and out of sight with a loud boom.
So, this is where a 233-year-old Cedonia and 57-year-old Strala had met to finalise their affairs. Both knew that only one was returning to the coven alive. Several witches’ from the coven had appeared and stood at a safe distance in the circle of Bloodwood trees within the Wailing Woods rubbing their hands together with glee. Some visiting goblins on an errand for the witches’ were simply horrified and cowered watching from within the entrance of the coven. They covered their ears in an attempt to drown out the excited wailing from the Bloodwoods. Both Cedonia and Strala spoke the divination language to conjure their patron Daemons to this realm. It was an enchantment rarely used as it reduced the witches’ life by at least five years every time it was invoked unless a
sacrifice was offered as a bargain. However, the Daemon once summonsed was obliged to assist his witch during a life-threatening crisis. On top of the enormous rock marking the entrance to the coven, a dark discolouration appeared in the air. Instantaneously two figures appeared side by side.
25.
FICKLE DAEMONS
Ar'geth was a heavy-set black imp with short spiral horns protruding from the top of his head. He wore only a filthy loincloth from which a long black thin tail hung out of the back. He casually sat on the edge of the rock dangling his dirty legs over the side like some child without a care in the world. He stared hard at his lady Cedonia and smiled mischievously, displaying large yellow square horse-like teeth. Dalgaith the Wretched whistled an unknown tune as he strode up next to Ar’geth. He had many forms, but on that night, he resembled an orange sabre tooth tiger with a yellow lion’s mane and a rhinoceros horn protruding from the centre of his head. He sat on his haunches next to Ar’geth, and the two acknowledged each other in a friendly manner as if they were old friends. Ar’geth leaned over and whispered something to Dalgaith. They both burst into laughter and did not move from where they sat perched upon the rock. It became apparent that these Daemons were not going to assist either witch. The witches swiftly realised this and readied themselves again, staring at each other with loathing and resentment.
Lady Cedonia reached into her robe and withdrew a tiny stone figurine in her right hand. She held her hand out in front of her and blew gently on it. She cast it in the air towards Strala. It multiplied in size as it flew forward and then stopped frozen in mid-air. A pale-yellow glowing apparition of a skeletal body covered in flowing rotting rags, the Night Spectre. It had once been a goblin that now lurked in the place between the realms, the shadow plane. The head being a narrow skull within a hollowed thin skin covering. The creature glared from the blackness of empty eye sockets as it floated in the air six feet away from Strala. It turned in the air sharply to face her and roared through a mouth of rotten, broken teeth, a deep, mournful lament. Strala knew the Spectres stole life, and she became dizzy as she felt her essence leaving her. Cedonia shrieked with joy, as she thought a victory looming. Strala dropped to one knee, holding her sweep and reciting a protection charm, but she was too weak to complete the enchantment. The white runes on her black cloak moved through the surface of the fabric to join and part again in numerous changing formations. This defensive enchantment embedded in her cloak was perhaps the only thing preventing the Spectre from taking her essence altogether. Strala’s patron DaemonDalgaith did not wish to see her die just yet and growled a word in a guttural tongue while staring hard at the Spectre. Dalgaith’s eyes widened and the Spectre screamed and broke apart into a thousand pieces to vanish into the black night air. Cedonia’s patron Daemon Ar’geth did nothing to help her and even applauded when Dalgaith destroyed the Night Spectre.
Realm of Druids Page 15