As he passed the opening, he eased the door shut so that no water seeped into the passageway. His lungs filled with the air that pumped deep into the cave through a narrow hole that had been drilled from the top of the mountain.
The pounding thud of multiple footsteps reverberated off the rock face, telling Riagan the enemy was closer than he thought. He stole along the black, smooth wall, ancient instincts telling him the way since he’d not lit the lantern.
It did not take long until the green light of the Cauldron blazed from a pit deep within. He quickened his steps, and moments later relief flooded over him to see the ancient artifact nestled in its groove. Safe. Sound. Secure.
The treasure, pristine black and shiny, sat humbly in a small recess built into the wall. The Cauldron was merely eight inches in height, and in no way portrayed the amount of power housed within its unpretentious bowl.
The sounds of his enemy grew, causing his heartbeat to spike.
Riagan knew not what he was to encounter, but he was ready. It all came down to this: he was a sworn Protector of the Murias Cauldron and by the gods, he would protect it.
He planted his large body in front of the artifact and waited.
A breath later, Caswallen’s men appeared through the blackened walls.
The Arch Druid stopped feet from Riagan and the others fell in behind him, forming a tight-knit semicircle.
Riagan braced himself.
“Riagan Tenman, son of Ragda.” Caswallen’s brows rose in shock then fell in fury. Was he surprised to see Riagan? It was obvious he was. It took only seconds for him to compose himself, though. “You have lost, Riagan. Your Brothers are engaged in combat across the realm and unable to assist you. You have failed in your task. Surrender the artifact or blood will be drawn on this night.” His eyes pierced Riagan’s. “Your blood, your brother’s, and the woman’s.”
Riagan’s muscles pulled tighter than the strings of a bow. He scanned the men. Their swords were not drawn, nor were their daggers.
So he will use magic to obtain the Cauldron—the magic of the wise and learned Arch Druid.
But how did he and his men pass through the water into the cave? He was not a Protector. He was not immortal. He could only pass through if a member of the Brotherhood escorted him.
Who then is the traitor? He scanned the faces. His mind felt foggy, unclear, weighed down by the uncertainty pulsing through him.
There is something I am not seeing.
Riagan rose to his full height and braced himself. For what he was uncertain.
Eyes locked on Caswallen, he did not see the arrow as it came whizzing through the air, lethal in its precision.
A jolt of pain shot through his body as the arrow’s tip, fired from close range in the shadows, pierced his shoulder. He gasped, once, then fell like a stone.
WREN WATCHED RIAGAN burst out of the water, onto the shore, then rise to the soft ground. His legs moved so fast she could not distinguish one from the other, though the bright crimson sheen of blood traveling down from his shoulder, over his bicep, and toward his wrist was as visible as the grandiose moon to her side.
“The Cauldron’s been taken.” Riagan’s voice boomed like a drum. “And the Brotherhood are engaged in battle across the realm. There is no one to help.”
The Cauldron? Taken?
Drake dove over the edge of their hideout and was beside his brother a second later.
A black mass moved in the distance, passing by the moon like a shadow. Wren could not detect individual forms but knew that it was the Arch Druid and his band of black-clothed men. As they neared, she could see a glowing green light coming from within the group. The Cauldron.
She jumped when a cool hand fell on her shoulder from behind, clamping down, taking away her ability to bolt away, or to even turn and look. Whoever the stranger was bent down and spoke into her ear.
She was struck mute by the soft cadence of the foreign tongue he spoke in, and by the distant yet real feeling she’d heard this voice before.
His hand was cold, like ice held within a thin towel. Strength poured from this hand through the skin on her shoulder and began to work its way through her body. With this touch and this voice, something in her began to change, like the uncoiling of a rope.
Destiny. Destiny. Destiny.
His words washed over her—a cleansing, purifying bath. From the top of her head, over her skin, traveling down her torso, legs, and down to her toes, the change seeped inside her body and altered everything about her.
She could feel this transformation, but she wasn’t frightened. She was curious in a detached, pondering sort of way.
Her mind gradually numbed until she could hear nothing except the man’s voice, though she didn’t understand a word he said. Riagan and Drake became distant memories. The rush of the water vanished. She was falling, falling, falling.
Then from somewhere very far away, she felt herself awaken.
Suddenly she could see again, though now everything took on a glittery shimmer and her vision became clear, acute, and precise. She could see every minute detail for as far as the landscape carried.
When she gazed upon the twin brothers standing below her, she realized Riagan glowed. His skin was translucent, more alluring than even the Earth-sized moon nestled against the skyline. Her heart surged with a trillion bursts of energy, encompassing her entire body, making her tremble inside and out. She started to move forward, her skin tingling. She had to get to Riagan. She didn’t question why, or what force was at work inside of her body, mind, and soul. She just knew she had to move to his side.
Before she could, the stranger clamped on her again and this time spoke in her native tongue. “There will be time later. Save the Cauldron now.”
When she turned to identify the person who kept speaking into her ear, no one was there. The words had succeeded in forcing her mind to focus, though, as if she’d finally discovered her one true mission in life, and she narrowed in on the black mass flowing toward the brothers.
She could taste their evil, like a revolting mixture of coppery metallic nestled within rot.
Somehow she flew down the mountainside, whether in air or by foot she did not know, and halted in front of the group. The black band had morphed into individuals again, Caswallen at the helm. They nearly ran into her, she appeared so suddenly.
In the deepest recess of her mind, Wren knew it was she who stood in front of the men, that it was she whom they stared at now. But the part of her that felt like Wren remained a twinkling light buried inside. This other part—bolder, stronger, mightier—was a part of herself she recognized as lying dormant, always there and present but unacknowledged and inactive.
Until now.
Her body expanded, bursting upward into great height until she towered above the men. She took a moment of pleasure in the look of fear in their eyes.
Then a voice, hers but yet not, carried through the air, bouncing off the mountain and obliterating the sound of the nearby waterfall. “Who dares disturb the peace of the Murias Cauldron?”
Fright filled the men’s eyes, and she would have chuckled in her mortal form. She filled the air, nearly suffocating them, and she relished her power. Drake and Riagan stood by the water’s edge—two warriors pulsing with their ancient energy—and she found the beat merged in harmony with her own. They were allies in this fight.
Caswallen’s face glowed green above the Cauldron’s light. Without a word, he lifted his ashen hand and forked his long fingers, the bones visible and veins purple. He thrust his fingers toward her.
Instinctively, she lifted her own hand, which glowed golden in the dim light. Caswallen’s magic stung her palm like the wrong end of a bee, but her own energy turned his efforts into a puff of smoke. She watched, enchanted and accepting, as the power dissipated into the air.
What else is this new body capable of?
As Caswallen gathered his power for another attack, she silenced her mind, putting part of herself
to sleep, allowing her instincts to take control.
The Arch Druid would be a worthy opponent, but she felt no fear. She would fight to the death to protect that which needed protection. Why she suddenly cared so much, she did not question.
Caswallen’s body burst upward, as if trying to mimic her size. The surge in his power pricked her skin like pelts of hard rain as he loomed in front of her. She could feel his power—dark, menacing, threatening.
She gathered her strength inward, pulling from all corners of her spirit, assembling her powers like she was assembling a tower. The power was immense and her body trembled with its force.
Caswallen gathered his strength as well, and though she knew it was not as potent as her own, his power was fresh and alive, whereas hers had been dormant—for how long, she knew not.
Their eyes locked. Her body tensed in preparation, and she fought the urge to cower under his gray stare. His eyes were like deep pits of nothingness, a void of dead matter that reflected all the black, negative, hateful energy of the worlds. How could this man have been the Brotherhood’s leader? Did they not see the menace that lingered within his thin frame?
How many of us will it consume if I do not win? What will happen if I do not retrieve the Cauldron?
Caswallen whipped his hand up and a lightning bolt, flashing with electricity, flew at her so fast she almost missed the chance to protect herself. But her instincts, though long silent, were alive. With her forearm, she covered her chest. The bolt of energy burned the cloak she now wore. Her skin singed but the flash of pain vanished within a second.
The Cauldron’s green light flared in his arms. Drake crouched down, ready to strike. Riagan held his gaze steady on her, ready to defend and protect, and she felt his alliance. The vibrations from his body poured through his stare and added to her strength.
The other men present did not move but watched with guarded yet detached expressions as they were little involved. This was a battle between her and the Arch Druid, and not of their responsibility.
She raised her arm, as if she were not about to kill an ancient but rather to pet a puppy.
But death was her intention.
She forked her fingers and white sizzling light burst forth, slamming into Caswallen’s chest, hurling him backward. Surprised that he’d not defended himself, she felt a quick surge of hope that her powers were indeed greater than his. If she were quicker, more powerful, the odds were in their favor.
And she was determined.
Caswallen slammed into the ground. The glowing Cauldron stayed nestled in the crook of his elbow like a football, flaring with each burst of magic.
He snarled, his gray teeth long and piercing, like lethal daggers hanging in his mouth.
She smiled back at him with her white teeth and ruby red lips. Her smile was hypnotic, she knew, and she held him immobile with its light.
Someone clad in a robe of green stumbled forward, then struggled to stand upright in front of the Arch Druid, shielding the Master’s body with his own. Where he had come from, she could not say.
“You’ll not harm Master!” His voice was frantic, cracked.
She knew this man but was not sure how. His identity lay just outside her reach and she did not have time to pull it forward. “Who are you? Who protects this traitor with his life?” Her voice echoed off the mountains.
The man watched her from eyes as black as the rocks behind the waterfall. Was he one of the Brotherhood? If so, why did he protect Caswallen?
Before she could say more, the elder druid’s hand closed around the younger man’s shoulder, his fingers whitening as he squeezed into the man’s flesh.
“Watch me kill her, my pet,” he said, his voice raspy in pitch.
She raised her hands to fend off oncoming blows as Caswallen hurled a boulder-sized ball of fire at her. The heat of the passing orb burned her cheeks and sent her hair flying around her face. Somewhere to the right she heard one of the men scream in terror or in fury.
She mumbled words her old self didn’t understand, and the fireball burst into a million pieces, dying on the moist rocky ground. A small sigh of relief escaped her, but she forced her mind to refocus. Weakness would not help her now.
Before the Arch Druid could regroup, she flicked her fingers, a simple, inconsequential flip of her digits that would have gone unnoticed save for the power it exerted. The Arch Druid screamed, releasing his captive before falling to the ground in a heap. There he remained, alive, she knew, but stunned and immobile.
She swiveled her gaze to the cowering man with the black eyes.
GWYON’S KNEES SHOOK and his teeth chattered. The magic in the Grove was overwhelming, filling his lungs to where he could not breathe. He gasped for the air that seemed to have been consumed by the fireball.
With his destiny only inches away in Caswallen’s fallen grasp, he tried to stand upright. He had not brought forth his walking sticks from his shelter behind the trees. They were supposed to have had the Cauldron by now, to have drunk from its waters and been healed. Master had not seemed to understand that they needed to drink from its waters before enlisting in battle.
He hoped the elder’s mistake did not prove fatal.
Gwyon could almost taste the cool waters that would grant him all that he’d ever wanted, and his lips twitched in anticipation.
Only this woman stood in his way.
She loomed before him, and somewhere deep within him registered what a beautiful sight she was. He’d never seen hair so black, almost blue. Smooth and the curls long and silky. The strands fell well down her back, almost to her hips, and around her shoulders. She could have worn it as a dress if it were but a few inches longer. Her skin was as white as chalk, and her eyes as blue as the deepest oceans. He had to tear his eyes away and remember all that she represented was all that he hated.
She lifted her hand and motioned him forward. He dared not move, but watched her, trying to decide on his next action. Caswallen had gone silent, and Gwyon didn’t know if he was dead, defeated, or regaining his strength for another attack. He wanted to turn and see but rotating a body such as his was no easy task.
The woman’s eyes were hypnotic, and he found he could not look away even if he wanted to. They swam within her pale face. He was falling, falling, falling and he could not catch himself. A gentle smile tugged at her crimson lips though she did not smirk. Her expression was kind, welcoming, comforting. Somewhere deep inside him, a voice screamed to look away.
But under her stare, he could do nothing. He was tired, more tired than he’d ever been in his life. Resentment floated away like a thread of cotton along the breeze. He felt alien now, like he didn’t know who he was. But he wasn’t angry and that was the strangest feeling of all. He’d carried that anger since the day of his birth and to have it suddenly gone was strange—and liberating.
Suspended in a haze, Gwyon didn’t realize Caswallen had risen until he clamped a bony hand around his neck, slowly crushing his windpipe.
Gwyon fell to his knees, an ear-piercing scream erupting from his pale lips. Riagan watched Caswallen’s fingers tighten around his half brother’s neck, his knuckles whitening with the force. Caswallen thrust Gwyon to the ground, slamming his crippled body into the soft moss. Gwyon lay motionless, but gasping. With his left hand still holding the Cauldron, Caswallen slipped a hand into his cloak.
He removed a sword, the sharp blade glinting in the moonlight, the iron hilt reflecting pure gold overlay. When the weapon caught the gleam of the Cauldron, the blade shone brightly. From its pointed tip dripped lethal poison.
The woman, who looked like Wren but didn’t look like Wren, widened her eyes, though her smile remained. If there was fear within her soul, she didn’t show it and he didn’t sense it as she lifted her arms to fend off another impending attack.
Caswallen lifted the sword high above his head, one long hand clasped around the jeweled hilt. The cloak’s sleeves fell back to reveal a thin, gray arm that appeared too weak
to yield such a heavy object.
But it wasn’t. With one loud gasp and powerful swing, the Arch Druid brought the sword down, aimed right at Wren’s heart. Rage surged through Riagan like the force of a tornado. The man who was Riagan became the warrior who was Protector, and fury shook every cell in his body. Stealing the Cauldron was one thing but trying to murder this woman was another.
He would die before he let that happen.
Riagan sprang forward from his place beside Drake, shaking off his brother’s restraining hand, and threw himself in between the sword’s lethal blade and Wren.
The last thing he remembered was the shining tip hurtling toward his chest and the terrified scream of the female behind him.
THE SWORD LIFTED over the Arch Druid’s head and everything slowed. As the tip came down toward her, she could read the spell of finality and mortality engraved along the side. Riagan jerked forward. Somehow, in the midst of his sudden movement, her body retreated, snapping back to the woman she knew herself to be—pathetic, weak, earthly. What happened to her strength?
She raised her hands, prepared to fend off this attack, praying the blade would slash her and not him, but Riagan was too fast. His mouth opened, like he was yelling at someone, but no sound came out. His smooth muscles rippled with exertion. Every vein in his arms pulsed. His blond hair swung around him like a million silky tentacles, wrapping around his shoulders, flying behind his head.
Her heart constricted as his warrior body continued forward with an agility that defied his size. His feet left the ground, his body lifted, hurtling sideways. His shirt hung in tatters from the sheer breadth of his shoulders.
Before she could blink, he leapt in front of the Arch Druid, his body toppling through the air into the sword’s lethal path. The poisoned tip sliced through his shoulder, piercing that gorgeous unblemished skin, pulled taut with his struggle. Fresh blood oozed over the dried blood from the earlier wound.
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