“Why’d you stop?” Wyatt said. Grenleck chirped.
Rozen scowled at the pair, turned and walked into the Shadow Forest, and was quickly swallowed by the shadows and dark trunks. Gareck and Mareck flanked him from the rear. Both were laboring, breathing heavily and shifting the bulging packs and hammers they carried. Sweat trickled down both round faces.
“Night is falling, Master. It is not wise to travel at night, not this far from Métra.”
“Just so, Darling,” Gareck agreed with a dry swallow.
Wyatt stiffened. Death and shadows… “Oh, yeah. Of course. I was just thinking the same thing.”
The Children nodded and strode into the forest, trailing Rozen. Wyatt watched them go, looked to Grenleck, and shrugged. The bog imp mimicked the shrug and dropped to the ground and quickly raced after the Children. Wyatt had no choice but to follow his crew.
A dozen paces into the forest he found his party. Rozen was curled up against a particularly wide trunk, braced against its moss covered base and her pack. Her bow rested within reach, as did her quiver of blue feathered arrows. Her cloak covered her long body and a sinewy arm cradled her spear as if it were a stuffed bear. Wyatt had no doubt that her six daggers were still sheathed against her back.
Gareck and Mareck were pressed tightly together, both on their backs. Their diggers and packs left a trail to the snoring creatures. They hadn’t bothered to dig a hole and they were still clothed in their brown habits, much to Wyatt’s relief.
Wyatt surveyed the impromptu camp and settled into the soft moss, tucked at the base of a mighty monolith of the forest. Thick roots provided comforting shelter to his sides and the towering trunk sheltered his head as he laid down. He drew the large rolled map from his belt and placed it gingerly to the side and shut his eyes. Grenleck chirped quietly and clambered over Wyatt’s prostrate form, settling against his chest and wiggling under an arm. Wyatt smiled sleepily and pulled the scaly creature close.
* * *
A loud hiss and excited chirp roused Wyatt abruptly from sleep. He bolted upright, quickly taking stock of his surroundings. He was still amid the thick roots of the shadow tree abed the soft blue moss. He didn’t have time to be thankful for that before another hiss split the night and Grenleck chirped in anxious response. The imp was clinging to a knotted root, peering over the edge.
Wyatt shuffled on his knees to the imp’s side, wiping sleep from his eyes, and cast his gaze in the same direction. His heart froze as his mind spun to decipher what he was seeing. Gareck and Mareck cowered in the spot they had fallen asleep beneath the points of half a dozen spears. The hands that brandished the weapons looked human, but the lighting was dim and everything was painted orange. A seventh and eighth figure had Rozen’s arms and were pressing her tightly against a dark trunk as a ninth held a short sword to her throat. Rozen gnashed her pointed teeth at the blade. Wyatt didn’t think she could bite through steel, but he was certain she’d try. Her eyes blazed with fury and, despite the dull glow of the wisps, Wyatt could see veins bulge through her dark skin as she fought her bonds.
The sword wielder turned to Wyatt and caught him with dull gray eyes and a face masked by a thick and gnarled beard. He was solidly built, with tree trunks for arms and barrels for legs. A worn leather vest clung tight to his wide chest, doing little to obscure a dense mat of hair, and stained linen pants hung in tatters from his waist. His voice was rough and muddled, as if his throat were full of gravel.
“You, boy, where is your main force?”
Rozen snapped and snarled, spraying the dull blade with spittle. Maybe she could bite through it… Wyatt looked to her for guidance, but found none.
“Are you deaf, boy?” The man growled. “How many are you?”
“We are but what is before you,” said Gareck from his knees.
“Aye,” Mareck somberly agreed.
“Silence!” the man bellowed. It was clear he was in charge of the raggedy band. The others looked on dumbly.
“Uh, um,” Wyatt stammered, glancing among his friends, unsure of what to say. Grenleck chirped at his side.
“Spit it out, slave, and I will set you free.”
“Uh, it’s just us,” Wyatt muttered. “And, I’m not a slave.”
The bearded man laughed maliciously. “Don’t lie to me, slave. This is a Draygan warrior,” he said, nodding at Rozen. “You can have either freedom or death.”
Wyatt swallowed, his eyes dancing over the many steel edges that faced his companions. They had bested thirteen Fallen, surely nine mottled bandits would be nothing for a Druid of his caliber, he thought. He slowly stood, drawing up his cudgel and stepping away from the sheltering roots to face the enemy.
The large man laughed again and his companions joined in, a bitter wave of insolence rippling across bearded faces and soiled bodies. Stop laughing at me. Wyatt crouched and readied his weapon. Grenleck chirped and shrieked at his side.
“You mean to challenge me, boy?”
“Yes,” was all Wyatt could manage. His arms trembled and his mouth dried to sand.
“A slave would rise up to defend his bonders?”
“I’m not a slave,” Wyatt forced from his mouth. “I am a Druid and they’re my friends.”
Grenleck shrieked, high pitched and ear splitting, and jumped up and down at Wyatt’s side. The large man’s eyes narrowed and he turned away from Rozen, dropping his sword point, to more directly face Wyatt.
“A Druid you say. Isn’t that something, men?” He turned to his band who returned muffled laughs and grunts. “A human Druid, journeying with a Draygan and a pair of Children. Well, now I’ve seen everything.”
“It’s true!” Wyatt shouted, righteous vigor pulsing through his body.
The man grunted. “If you wish to die for your captors, then so be it, boy, but it is not with gladness that I will take your life.”
Wyatt had heard enough. A primal energy reared deep within him and he charged his foe, bellowing as loudly as he could, a blood curdling screech. He cocked his cudgel back and lunged at the mountain of a man. The bearded ruffian remained still until Wyatt was nearly atop him. Wyatt swung the cudgel with desperate strength, aiming for the head. Like smoke, the man’s head faded to the side and a lone knuckled fist flashed for a moment, filling Wyatt’s field of vision before everything went black.
Chapter Nineteen
WYATT’S EYES FLUTTERED open amid searing pain that radiated out from them, tunneled through his sinuses, and rippled out to fill the entirety of his head. His vision swam and faded in and out for several moments.
At last it settled and came to focus. White sky burned bright overhead and forced Wyatt to squint. Oh, my head. He rubbed his temples with both hands hoping to alleviate the pounding force trapped within his skull. He closed his eyes as he rubbed and when at last he opened them again a face looked down at him. Dark hair rained down from the soft face. It smiled quizzically and brushed the hair aside with heavily ringed fingers. The pink stripe glittered under fluorescent lights.
“Whatcha doin’ on the floor?”
Wyatt slowly sat up, still rubbing his head, forcing his thoughts free. Ms. Abagail took a step back, her worn Converse All-Stars silent on the hardwood. He stared up at her for a moment, but said nothing. Visions of Rozen held at sword point slipped into his consciousness and the realization of what he had left returned in a flourish. He leapt to his feet, swayed uneasily for a moment, but then yanked his eyes about the room.
“Whatcha lookin’ for?”
My mace. Grenleck. The Shadow Forest. Mareck. Gareck. Anything.
“Well, you’re up for a shower, get a move on. You got ten minutes, starting now.”
Wyatt didn’t hear the words or see her leave. He yanked the pendant from under his shirt and stared intently at it. Take me back, he demanded. Take me back to them, he screamed silently at the twinkling crystal, but received no response, no sparks, no blinding light, and no Rozen. He grunted in rage, a deep guttural sound, a
nd kicked his laundry basket, sending the bin careening off his desk and skidding across the room. Hot tears sprang to his eyes, but Wyatt reined them in and directed the emotion at his mattress which he flipped off the frame in a blind flash of strength. It tumbled into the open doorway just as Ms. Abagail returned.
“Whoa. What’s up with you?”
Wyatt stumbled back into the wall and slid slowly down until he sat upon the floor. He pulled his knees tight to his chest. He stared straight ahead, but saw nothing. Ms. Abagail skipped over the mattress and leaned against the bedpost nearest him.
“What’s going on? It’s just a shower.”
They’re going to kill her, he shouted in his mind. His hands twitched and spasmed without his consent. He was losing control.
“Come on, bud,” Ms. Abagail said calmly. “You’ve been calm all night, drawing and stuff. What’s got you all mad now? I’ll have someone else shower before you if you want to wait, not a big deal. You won’t be going up front tonight anyway, not after…”
Wyatt growled. He felt a bead of spit slide down his chin and he hastily wiped at it with the back of his hand. His thoughts had turned to mush. All he could do was scream in his mind and none of it was intelligible.
“You want to talk about what’s buggin’ ya?” Ms. Abagail crouched down in front of Wyatt and tried to lock eyes. Wyatt looked right through her.
“No,” he shouted, much louder than he had intended. The single word reverberated off the concrete walls and set Ms. Abagail aback.
“Oh, come on,” she said with a smile. “Is it Craig? You can’t let him get-”
“No,” Wyatt said again, this time at a whisper through clenched teeth. Another line of drool ran down his chin. He let it drop unbidden.
Ms. Abagail leaned back against the bed frame and kicked out her legs. “Let me help you, kiddo.”
Kiddo? His grandma would occasionally call him that. Or honey, dear, sweetling…
“It can be tough to adjust to a new place, especially like this,” Ms. Abagail continued, a ringed finger twirling a piece of hair. “Give it some-”
“She’s going to die,” Wyatt blurted. “And it’s my-” He let the final word fall to a growl.
Ms. Abagail let the piece of hair fall and stared at Wyatt, her mouth moving silently. Wyatt glanced up and saw the stark expression.
“Never mind,” he said sharply and returned to staring at the floor between his legs, begging it to shift to soft blue moss.
“Uh, no, it’s OK,” she said, shaking her head. “Uh, who’s going to die? Your… uh, your…”
Wyatt looked up, eyes narrowing on the young woman sitting across the floor. Does she know? How could she? His eyes found hers and urged her to finish the thought, daring her.
“Uh, your… grandma… is that what you mean?”
Wyatt growled involuntarily. She knows nothing. “No,” he said, using the word as a dagger. Rozen. And I killed her.
“Oh, OK, well…” Ms. Abagail stood. “You gonna shower or not?”
Wyatt eyed her as if lasers burned from his sockets.
She stiffened. “Cool, pack it in for the night then,” she said sternly and retreated from the room.
Wyatt stared after her and felt the air forced from his lungs as Ms. Abagail turned and he saw her back. More accurately, it was what was on her back that set his spine rigid and curled his hands against the floor in rigid claws.
He forced himself to stand and pressed tightly against the wall, begging it to swallow him. “Ms… Abagail…” he said, unsure the words were audible.
She turned and stepped back into the doorway, wearing a mask of impatience. “What?”
He pushed tighter against the wall as the shadowy shape curled over her shoulder and slid around her neck. It was of smoke and shadows, a curling shade of death. Death and shadows. One moment it appeared rigid and clear, some clawed monster, and another moment it was little more than a swirl and blur of smoke. Ms. Abagail cocked her head to the side and placed her hands on her hips, unaware of the creature slithering around her torso and licking at her ear. Shadows and death.
Wyatt’s jaw was set tight and refused to open, so he pointed instead, silently urging Ms. Abagail to run. She frowned and looked down at her stomach, but as she did the shadow disappeared, vanishing behind her only to reappear along the doorway. It clutched at the metal with long fingers that continued shifting.
Wyatt’s mind spun. Shadows and death. Death and shadows. Shadows and death. He clutched at his hidden pendant and urged it to take him. I need my powers, he thought. I’m just a slave here.
“Go to bed, Wyatt,” Ms. Abagail said.
The shadow reached for her, gnashing teeth black as sin as she spun and swiped at the light switch. Wyatt screamed, but knew it was only in his head. The plea echoed in his skull and pounded at his temples. The light in the room vanished and the shadow creature vanished with it. Or was it merely disguised by a million other shadows now? Death and shadows. Shadows and death.
Wyatt wrenched free of the wall and yanked the top drawer out of his dresser. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Someone shouted from the hallway. His hands rifled through unfolded shirts and underwear until he felt the familiar cylinder of cold metal. He fell to the mattress that remained on the floor and jerked a blanket over his head in the same motion as his other hand fingered the button on his flashlight. Bright light invaded his impromptu cave and he jerked it erratically around the folds of blanket. Satisfied he was alone in his cocoon, he curled into a tight ball, cradling the light, and felt his eyes slide shut with one last thought curling through his mind. Can it hide in the shadows of my eyelids? He would have forced his eyes open had he not already lost consciousness.
Chapter Twenty
WYATT WAS NO horticulturist and could hardly tell the difference between a tulip and a pine tree, but he scrutinized each plant as if he could. They were scattered around the dingy office, transforming it into a small oasis of potted greenery. Wyatt found it hauntingly appropriate. The plants were trapped just as he, held within the confines of their various clay pots and ceramic vases. Whether they could move on their own or not, he couldn’t say, but he knew that if they could they wouldn’t. The clay pots were their bonds, much as the concrete walls and manifesto of stringent rules were his.
Mrs. Heclar cleared her throat and peered at Wyatt over the line of small cacti that bordered the edge of her desk. Wyatt eyed the prickly plants instead. There is literally a desert between us, he thought with a smirk.
“What was the question?” he said at last, but continued to avoid her eyes, instead glancing between the many plants that lined the window, bookshelves, and filing cabinets. He silently urged them to rise up and run.
“How are you doing?” Mrs. Heclar’s voice was soft and pleasant, easy to listen to, but difficult to hear. Wyatt didn’t know if he was capable of smelling fear, but he thought Mrs. Heclar reeked of it.
“Oh,” he said absently. “I’m good. How are you?”
Mrs. Heclar smiled weakly back at him, her face silhouetted by dirty blond curls. Wyatt had heard other residents say that she wasn’t a real social worker, but an art teacher masquerading as one. He never believed anything he heard them say, but seeing her now lent credence to the assertion. She brushed a lock of hair aside and leaned back in her office chair, never breaking her gaze.
“I’m good as well, Wyatt. But, we’re here to discuss how you have been, not me.”
Wyatt gave her a quick glance, a flyby as his eyes sought other items to examine and get lost in. Mrs. Heclar was young, petite, and attractive. Her skin was porcelain, not unlike his grandmother’s doll collection, and everything about her was just as delicate. It would have been easier to take her seriously if she were ugly, Wyatt had thought after their first session.
She was too pretty to be doing such an ugly job. It was no wonder she was always nervous, a delicate flower in a world of angry, repressed, and seriously disturbed… cacti. Had Wyat
t not already had two girls in his life he might have found himself intrigued by her just as the other boys were. But, her deep brown eyes were shrouded in doubt and sadness. It made Wyatt uncomfortable to look into them. Gold was more his desire.
“Discuss away then,” he said, though not with any sarcasm or disrespect. He was hardly listening to her. He rarely did.
“Is there anything you want to talk about today?”
“We could talk about bog imps,” he suggested.
“OK,” she said, her voice hesitant.
Wyatt smiled and stifled a laugh. She always let him direct the conversation, tagging along with her notepad and pen. It made him wonder what sort of training and education she had. Certainly, she was no genius, not like him, but really, who was? His grin grew as he reclined and locked eyes with her. OK, you asked for it, he thought. Counsel this.
“His name is Grenleck, the imp that is. He’s kind of like a lizard monkey, all scales and sharp things. I got him from the Glefans after I summoned a tornado around Zuel. And then Gren- that’s his nickname- Grenleck, not Zuel, that’s short enough- found me a wooden mace. It’s actually a cane I think, but I use it as a mace, though I haven’t actually used it on anyone yet. Well, not really.
“Rozen doesn’t think it’s a good weapon, but what does she know? I’m sure I could beat her in a fight. Oh, but then the bandits came. Or thieves, or rebels. Whoever they were, I don’t know. Humans though, I think. And one, a big bear of a man, had a sword to her neck as they held her down,” he paused for a moment, watching Mrs. Heclar’s brown eyes narrow and her pen burn line after line into her notebook paper. He took a breath, long and deep. His heart was racing. He hadn’t intended that, but a foul emotion had welled within him. “They are going to kill her if I don’t get back, so let’s wrap this up. I have bandits to kill and a Draygan and Children to save.”
The Druid's Guise: The Complete Trilogy (The Druid's Guise Trilogy) Page 15