Awen Rising

by O J Barré

  “Should we try to find them?” Emily asked. “If they’ve been missing for as long as Da says, where would we even start?”

  “It’d be a fool’s errand,” Lugh said, “But Mitch specializes in this stuff. He found Emily. We could ask him to find the jewels.”

  Lugh had a good point. As much as she didn’t want to, Emily agreed.

  “No!” Hamilton growled, shaking his head so that his jowls flapped. The others were flabbergasted. Lugh recovered first.

  “No, we shouldn’t look for the gems? Or no, we shouldn’t ask Mitch? He was the one who found Emily when no one else could. It makes sense to involve him. Plus, it would get him out of our hair.”

  Emily cheered, “Yes! I’m all for that.”

  “No. Not Mitchell,” Hamilton remained adamant. “As you said, it’s a fool’s errand. The stones were probably made into jewelry or ended up in a museum somewhere. With no way to identify them as Awen’s wandstones, it’d be a dead-end and a huge waste of time. But I also don’t trust Mitchell. I didn’t before I fell ill, and even less now.”

  His regal head lifted, and a piercing gaze pinned each of them in turn. “I haven’t said it before, but I believe Mitchell Wainwright to be responsible for my death.”

  Emily gasped. So, it was Mitchell. The others looked as shocked as she felt.

  “So no, I don’t trust Mitchell Wainwright. And the rest of you shouldn’t either.”

  “Sir, that is a serious accusation.” Lugh’s face was ashen. “Do you have proof? I know Mitch is an asshole, but he has never given reason to doubt his loyalty to you or the Order.” The windowpanes rattled on another strong gust.

  “No, no proof, just things that don’t add up. Or rather, that do. Check for yourself. But trust me, Mitchell had opportunity, means, and motive. He covets the title of Grand Druid, Emmy, and would wrest it from you any way he can. He poisoned me and will do worse to you. Let’s not give him that opportunity.”

  Emily’s stomach churned. “That would explain why he has it in for me.” She glanced at a silent Lugh and could tell he was having a hard time assimilating the news. As the uneasy silence spun out, Hamilton settled on Cu’s haunches in front of the fire.

  Lugh capitulated. “If you’re right, goddess help us. But we should put Morgan to work investigating your claim.”

  “And we will,” Emily agreed. “Should I be the one to tell Morgan?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Lugh said. “First thing tomorrow morning. But first, I want to know about the Keepers. Hamilton, do you mean the dragons?”

  “I don’t know,” Hamilton said. “I know nothing of Keepers. Or dragons. That information came from Cu.”

  “And the Elements?” Emily asked.

  “Cu again. But I suspect he meant controlling them. Creating and calming storms, that sort of thing.”

  Hope finally joined the conversation. “Yes, Lughnasadh, the Keepers are dragons whose destinies and lives are bound to that of Earth. They are Earth’s sworn protectors. And ours.”

  To Emily, Hope said, “The Elements are literally just that. Air. Water. Fire. Earth. Awen’s wand focuses the energy of each, allowing Awen—now you—to control and command the dragons and the weather. Plus, the earth and her waters.”

  “Control the dragons and weather,” Emily repeated as the significance hit her. “So even if we find the dragons and miraculously learn ogham to decipher and master Awen’s spells, without her fully-jeweled wand, her handbook is of no use?”

  “What handbook?” chorused Brian and Ham.

  Hope hissed, loud and long. “Foolish girl. Mind your tongue!”

  Emily flushed. Fat good she was at being the Awen. She had already forgotten to keep the manuscript secret.

  To Hamilton, Hope said, “It is a tool that will allow Emily Bridget to access Awen’s spells. You are forbidden to know, much less to speak of this. To anyone. That goes for you both.” Hope glared at Hamilton, then Brian, who promptly changed the subject.

  “So…you and Cu just materialize out of thin air? Doesn’t that bother anyone besides me?” Everyone laughed, Hope included.

  “Something like that,” Hamilton chuckled. “I don’t know if anyone really knows. But from what Cu showed me, both he and Hope are the real deal. Both are capable of wielding magic when by the side of their mistress.”

  “Which is now, Emily,” the priest added.

  “Ya,” Hope meowed. “Emily Bridget, once she accepts and embraces the Awen’s powers.” Emily gulped. The wind howled as Hope’s words sank in. The cat leapt to the back of her chair. “So, Lugh will talk to Morgan in the morning. It’s too late to do anything tonight.

  “But Hamilton, if your suspicions are correct—and you have infallible instincts—Wainwright must be taken out of the equation. And kept away from Emily at all costs. We shall leave that to our security chief. But it sounds like the gems are lost for better or worse.”

  With the details decided, the party went back to the living room. While Lugh stoked and banked the fire, Brian sat on one end of the aubergine sofa and Emily curled on the other.

  Her eyelids drooped, heavy from the effects of the potent cognac, and in no time at all, she fell into a restless sleep. In her dream, Lugh MacBrayer covered her in thick throws and with his nephew Brian in tow, retired to the turquoise bedroom.

  Awen Rising

  A wen blinked the Otherworld from her eyes and struggled awake. It’d been a long, deep slumber, but someone or something, had called. She looked about the dark room. A fire smoldered, providing scant light. The surroundings were familiar. The wind howled and a shutter banged against the structure. Startled, Awen rose and hurried to the window.

  It was the dark of night. A solid wall of blowing snow blotted out all else. Awen watched for a moment, dread growing in the pit of her stomach. Something unnatural and malign was afoot. She dropped the curtain and searched the dim room for Cu, her faithful hound.

  He laid in front of the fire, chin on his paws as if asleep, but open brown eyes followed her every move. She slid cold feet into wool-lined boots and called the hound to her. Cu greeted her exuberantly as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his wiry hair. At a loud meow, Awen greeted another old friend. She opened one arm to circle Hope’s bulk and pulled the cat to them.

  Letting go of her old friends, Awen searched the room for a cloak or a robe. Finding nothing of the sort, she tied a small blanket around her neck and turned it, so the opening faced backwards. Resolved to put an end to the malevolent blizzard, she faced the door.

  Cu’s shaggy forehead bumped Awen’s shoulder. Hope’s bristled back arched and her puffed tail pointed down to the floor.

  “Ready, you two?” Awen asked out loud. She heard their affirmatives in her head, and cautioned, “Stay close. This storm is evil.” Then, wrenching the door open, she stepped outside and braced against the oppressive wind. The porch afforded scant shelter.

  She clung to the door handle, stung by the onslaught of tiny ice crystals that bombarded her in sheets. The weight of the negative pressure bore down upon them as the animals moved into place beside her, snug up against each of her legs. Awen let go of the handle and the door slammed shut.

  She readied herself quickly and spoke the spell. The wind shredded her words, reducing them to nothing. The blanket flapped violently against her back.

  Trusting the animals to anchor her, Awen sent imaginary roots into the earth and threw her arms high to the heavens. The Elders held strong, and when she spoke this time, their combined magic entwined with Awen’s to ripple in waves through the atmosphere.

  The wind calmed perceptibly and within moments, stilled. No longer tormented, the snowflakes meandered to the thickly-blanketed ground, then ceased falling altogether. Victorious, Cu threw back his head and barked three times. Hope’s yowls joined the celebration.

  Shivering, they all piled through the door into the warmth of the house. Awen removed the wet blanket and spread it on the hearth. Add
ing wood to the fire, she huddled between the animals. Cu’s locks sizzled and Hope worked overtime to restore her soaked coat to its normal state. Before long, the fire dried the worst of the dampness.

  Groggy headed and drained from the ordeal, Awen rose from the hearth and settled on the sofa, pulling the soft blankets around her. Hope climbed on top, between her feet. Cu circled the rug, sighed and plopped down, resting his head on Awen’s belly. Before long, his gentle snores lulled her to sleep.

  **

  Emily tried to roll over and realized she wasn’t in the four-poster bed. Smacking super-dry lips, she groaned at the taste of stale cognac. Cu’s head pinned her midsection. One of the cats held her feet in place.

  The last thing Emily remembered after the powwow in the library was returning to the living room with Lugh and Brian. She must have conked out right after that; she didn’t even remember them going to bed. The mantel clock was hidden from view. She had no idea how long she’d slept. Emily groaned. She knew better than to drink.

  Stomach heaving, she wiggled from under the throws, disturbing both animals. She gripped the sofa with one hand and her forehead with the other as she stood cautiously. Sick-saliva pooled in the back of her throat. She ran, barely reaching the red bathroom before hurling her guts.

  When the retching finally subsided, she mopped her face with a damp cloth and pressed her thumbs to her throbbing temples. A vision gathered in Emily’s mind. She was outside the carriage house in the blinding blizzard, arms in the air and a blanket tied around her throat. Cu and Hope pressed against either of her legs in gale-force winds. The words of a spell tumbled from her lips. Unfamiliar and foreign, they rose into the night and calmed the elements.

  Turning the exotic words over her thick tongue, Emily shivered and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. It would wait until tomorrow. No way was she going outside tonight in this frozen mess. No way.

  She stumbled to the bedroom, ignoring the guilt, and climbed into the four-poster bed. Emily brushed a mass of ringlets from her face, barely noticing they were damp. Sleep drew her under, where the lilting words of the simple spell filled her dreams.

  A Deadly Drunk

  N ergal shoved through a nearly invisible door in the sheer rock wall and glanced around the sorry excuse of a saloon. The scum of the UnderEarth drank here and appeared to be engaged in a variety of nefarious deeds and illicit dealings.

  In a corner, Cephalopods played Rumpacajac, rolling three cubes resembling human dice. A pile of paper bills and coins were stacked on the table. On a miniscule platform that passed for a stage, an erotic dancer gyrated to electronic music piped from hidden speakers. A male slug shoved money in the dancer’s booty trap, copping a feel with slimy tentacles.

  Nergal had been in worse places.

  Muscling through the crowd, he delivered a well-placed elbow to a Fomorian’s chest and a forearm to the head of a Zynog, getting a much-needed jolt of satisfaction when the first victim groaned and the second pitched sideways, stunned. The Fomorian scrambled to the other end of the bar and the ruffians cleared a zone around Nergal. The Zynog lay sprawled on the sticky, booze-soaked floor, out for the count.

  “Furroot. Large,” Nergal spat at the barmaid, who resembled a giant weasel.

  Whatever the species, and there was no telling in Irkalla, the barkeep scurried to fill a beaker with the brown, carbonated beverage. The drink of choice for all self-respecting Draconians, furroot was best sipped and consumed in small quantities. It tasted like fermented troglodyte piss and kicked like a Valdesiane Horned Ass.

  The barmaid plopped Nergal’s drink on the counter alongside a handheld register. “Ten quisha.”

  Nergal cringed. The voice was as shrill as he would have expected, had he given it a thought. Tapping his code into the register, he was rewarded with a melodious purr from the device when it accepted Nergal’s payment and opened a tab. The weasel nodded an obsequious thanks and left him to wait on another customer.

  Swirling the bubbling liquid, Nergal stared into his glass and let the misery wash over him. Shibboleth the Draconian Warlord had blocked Nergal at every turn and the meeting he had expected to last two days max had dragged on for over two earth-weeks. He’d made it through the proceedings thus far without being slain, at least. And, though tenuous, Nergal’s honor as a Draco warrior and leader remained somewhat intact.

  Of course, it was only a matter of time. His iron nerves were stretched to the limit, and that rotting commander had dealt Nergal and his plan for overtaking AboveEarth potentially irreparable damage. If Shibboleth had his way, Nergal would be the laughing stock of the entire UnderEarth contingent.

  Still, in spite of Shibboleth’s fearsome opposition, Nergal believed he could prevail in his mission. He had trained all his life for this. But his confidence was shaken, and he was beginning to wonder if his plan was too small and had too many holes.

  Chugging the contents of the glass, Nergal squirmed when fire blazed from his throat to his belly. It occurred to the Draco that he hadn’t eaten since the night before. He’d been late waking and sessions had gone straight through lunch. The burn warmed Nergal’s gut and set his body on fire. The tension stringing him in knots eased and he relaxed for the first time since his arrival in Irkalla.

  Edge smoothed, Nergal searched the dingy room for hostiles. Everyone, or thing, was minding its own business, caught up in whatever despicable acts were being perpetrated in the shady den.

  Breathing easier, Nergal flagged the server and ordered another furroot. The skinny eyebrows went up, but the barmaid wisely chose to keep her mouth shut, scurrying to draw another from the tap. Nergal drank that and ordered a third.

  Extracting his communicator from its thigh sheath, he punched in the coordinates for the reverend’s feed. The Reylian-humanoid appeared to be in a market with the shill. But Nergal could only watch so he ended the feed, frustrated. Shibboleth had yanked Nergal’s mainframe privileges until the proceedings ended, along with that of the rest of his North American contingent.

  Nergal did learn that Shalane and company were enroute to Atlanta. He thought of the abode he maintained near Agartha, beneath the seedier suburbs of that Georgia city. Nergal could use a good mud bath. For that, red Georgia clay had no equal.

  Shoving the device in its holder, Nergal slammed the third glass of furroot. When it hit bottom, his head reeled. He grabbed the counter to keep from falling. The rush passed and Nergal stood, knocking his stool backwards. Stumbling over it, he teetered in mid-air, then crashed toward the still prone Zynog.

  **

  Inanna watched her mark from the relative safety of a corner table, in no hurry to make a move. Over the last nine hundred or so years, she had thought often of Nergal and what had ended up being the single most defining moment of her life. She had often wondered what she would do when she saw him again.

  It wasn’t that he had been Inanna’s first—she had initiated the coupling and enjoyed the sex. But her actions had sealed Inanna’s fate with Shibboleth, the ruler of all.

  Had she known her litter father felt so strongly about the young cadet, a muscle-bound reptilian of the vilest sort, she might have reconsidered. But Inanna was reared in a compound and had no contact with Shibboleth. It was there she met Nergal, on the other side of the world in a much different kind of bar. An upscale cantina that catered only to reptiles.

  Catching a lungful of smoke, Inanna coughed and sputtered. She fought the urge to slap the offending cheroot out of a passing Balthot’s rubbery mouth. It wouldn’t do to make a ruckus and reveal her presence. Not until Inanna was ready.

  Through the smoky haze, she watched the rugged Draco down another drink. He swayed on the barstool and Inanna resisted the urge to step in. It was important she not mess this up.

  She ordered another Piz, a fizzy drink made from fermented mushrooms and gingerroot. As bad as her life had been since bedding the Draco, if Inanna didn’t follow instructions exactly as relayed, her litter father would m
ake it worse.

  “Shibboleth,” Inanna spat under her breath. She had been shocked at his anger all those years ago. She’d thought he would be happy she had chosen such a decorated and virile specimen. Instead, Shibboleth was furious and ordered her to stop seeing the cadet. Or else.

  Angered, Inanna had refused and saw Nergal whenever she damn well pleased, even when Shibboleth threatened to cut her off. Then one day Shibboleth made good on his threats.

  Fingering the scar that bisected one brow, Inanna’s insides churned as she remembered her father’s ire and the thug Shibboleth had sent to deal with her. Locked out of her abode, accounts wiped out, cards nullified, Inanna had taken to the streets, fending for herself in the cesspools of UnderEarth.

  Haunted by roaming bounty hunters carrying holographic images, she had burrowed deeper underground, rubbing shoulders with the scum of the alien world. Or more accurately, the spawn of that scum.

  Her mark slammed his beaker on the counter, drawing Inanna’s attention. Nergal stood and stumbled over his own barstool. In one sinuous motion, a pair of Cerulean guards stepped in to break the general’s fall.

  Electricity shivved through her when Nergal looked Inanna’s way, but the lizard was schnockered, his eyes unseeing. When he tottered toward the latrine, Inanna slid from her seat to follow.

  **

  Nergal came to with a start. He searched his booze addled brain for clues as to his whereabouts. Remembering, he groaned and untangled his legs and tail from those of the female lizard. Gaining his feet, he staggered to the loo. Legs spread wide, he leaned spiked forearms and horned head against the rough clay wall and let go his bladder.

  The torrent gushed into the trough and the pressure eased. Memories of the day streamed through his head. It had ended on a high note, thanks to Inanna. Nergal squeezed out the last drops of foul-smelling urine, grimacing at the razor-sharp pain; the wench had ridden him raw.