The Druid's Guise: The Complete Trilogy (The Druid's Guise Trilogy)

by Michael J Sanford

  Wyatt clambered behind a gray trunk and crouched amongst the tall scrub grass, his eyes darting about the calm pool. Something awoke and shifted within him, and he forgot all of what he had come to say. The surface of the pool rippled and a fire clad head broke the surface. Wyatt’s heart pounded against his chest, and he adjusted his increasingly uncomfortable briefs. Rozen slid along the water’s surface toward the far bank and rose dripping from its shelter.

  She glided from the pool on long and slender legs, her braid trailing in the water. Wyatt’s blood thundered through him as his eyes ran over her taut body, but soon the blood retreated and a deep pit formed in his stomach. He suddenly felt sick.

  The moons were bright and their unblemished light reflected off a mass of torn flesh and thick scar tissue on Rozen’s back. He could make out the dark blue and brown of the roots at her shoulder, but it was the rest of her muscled form that made him feel queasy. Deep pink scars ran the length of her back from shoulder to waist. A parallel pair of especially viscous marks lay between her shoulder blades, mottled masses of pink tissue. She turned and Wyatt sunk deeper into the weeds. Her eyes never went to the far bank.

  The sight of her firm breasts should have excited him, but Wyatt could not look away from the host of lengthy and brutal scars that covered her torso in a tapestry of pain. A slender hand went to the braid and squeezed out the water it had soaked up. Her arms were just as torn and disfigured as her torso. A seemingly endless ring of scar tissue twisted from wrist to elbow along both arms, the pink flesh smooth in the moonlight. Rozen strode further from the water and revealed even more scars along both ankles, her ebony skin marred by raised scar tissue.

  Wyatt couldn’t breathe or move as he watched her dress and wrap the long strips of linen about her arms and legs, hiding the twisted flesh. When she was clothed, Rozen knelt at the water’s edge, twisted her long fire braid about her neck and set her hands to either side of her muscled legs, pressed tightly to the damp bank.

  Wyatt returned air to his lungs and looked around him for the quickest escape. I can’t let her see me here, not now. His hands grasped a nearby root and began to slowly and silently pull himself up the steep incline, away from Rozen.

  He was nearly at the top when the root gave way. Spinning, he grabbed for a branch. It stopped his descent for a moment, but when he tried to climb to his feet the soft soil yielded to his foot and he fell to the side. He flailed wildly for a handhold, a root or a branch, anything to stop his fall, but he grasped nothing but cool air and was engulfed by even colder water.

  He hit the pool in a fury of flails and violent kicks. He was never the strongest swimmer and the darkness disguised the bottom. I’m going to drown, he immediately thought and thrashed all the more, sputtering and swallowing water as he did. The gentle current pushed him away from the falls and he felt his foot plunge into the muddy bottom of the stream. He floundered once more, spun, and found he was able to stand. He wiped at his face, freeing water from his eyes and blinking frantically. The first thing he heard was a sharp hiss and the first thing he saw was a drawn bow.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped, gnashing each word with her pointed teeth.

  Wyatt spit out a mouthful of water and had to cough for several moments before he could speak. “I, uh, well, I was just going for a walk, and well, you see, I slipped and fell and, well… here I am.” He shook his thick mop of dark hair and looked at Rozen.

  The dark warrior slowly lowered her bow and unstrung the arrow. Reluctantly, she turned and returned to her prayers. He stumbled out of the stream, wrung as much water as he could from his habit, and sat down next to her. Rozen didn’t move, her eyes remained closed and her palms flat against the soil.

  Wyatt cleared his throat. How do I say this? “I saw you naked,” he blurted before realizing it and quickly looked away, his cheeks burning despite the cold wash of water that dripped from his hair.

  He didn’t hear a reaction or feel the sharp edge of a blade at his throat, so he slowly turned back to her. Maybe she didn’t hear, he thought, but caught her piercing gaze when he looked at her. They stared at each other in shared silence.

  “I, um, I didn’t mean to,” Wyatt stammered. “I, well, I was just looking for you, and well, I… I saw.” He nodded at her hands and tried to smile apologetically, but he wasn’t sure what it should look like.

  Rozen merely nodded and brought her hands together, rubbing one wrist and then the other. “I see,” she said softly.

  “What… uh, what happened?”

  She looked to him a moment, studying his face and then turned to the passing stream. Her voice came at little more than a whisper. “Humans are not the only slaves in the realms,” she said as she rubbed her wrists, first the right, then the left.

  “You were a… a slave?”

  “When a Draygan is of age, the Regency takes them into their service, males become warriors in their army, and females are forced into servitude.” She paused and turned slightly toward Wyatt as if expecting a response, but his throat had swollen shut and he offered none. “When I had seen seven years I was given to the highest house of the Regency, serving the Lord Regent’s own son. I was to replace my own mother who had aged beyond the Prince’s desire and was given to the Fallen.”

  “What about your father?” Wyatt managed to say.

  “Is… was a warrior in the Regency army. I tried to please the Prince, as I knew no other way, but he was without pleasing. He often fell cross with me and when he did enjoy my… comforts… he liked it…” Her voice trailed off as she rubbed her wrists again. “Never was I allowed to speak, and seldom was I allowed to move. He would chain me to the wall in his bedroom, fetter my hands and feet… choke me with my own braid as he…” No tears stained her dark face as spoke, but Wyatt could see the stern frown that nearly obscured her golden eyes as she spoke through clenched teeth. “I never fought. I never screamed or cried. Even when they took my wings, I never batted an eye. It was my duty to serve the royalty and so I did.

  “At night, I was able to steal out of the castle and find my father waiting behind the barracks. We would sneak out past the city and hide amongst a grove of sentinel trees against the curtain wall. He trained me to fight, and we would spar with wooden sticks and dulled blades he had taken from the armory. He never took flight or used his braid. He kept it fair and still he bested me every night. But, every chance we got, we would train and I knew one day I would grow strong enough to best him. I never got the chance…”

  Rozen fell silent and turned away from Wyatt. He could hear her panicked breath. His mouth opened, but no words came out, and so he remained still, waiting for the Draygan to continue.

  “Eventually the captain discovered what we were… and had him… had him executed. The Lord Regent… he made me watch, chained alongside the Prince so that I could not interfere. They staked him in the hot sun and… cut… they cut off his wings. It took all day for him to die… bleeding before the entire city… a warning… but I never took my eyes from him.”

  “I, I’m sorry, Rozen,” Wyatt said, not knowing what else to do.

  “After that, the beatings grew worse. The Prince hungered for blood and pain, but still I did not yell out or shed any tears. It fed his fury. I bled every day and found no reprieve at night. I saw no other creature but the Prince. One night he came to me, drunk and stumbling. He dragged me to the chains, but failed to fully secure my wrists in his stupor. I waited until he had undressed… until his wicked cock grew stiff. I waited until he brought his lips to mine. I tore it off with one hand and seized his throat with the other. I held him close and watched him bleed to death. When he tried to yell out, I snapped at his tongue and tasted his foul flesh.” Rozen turned away and spat.

  “I stole armor and arms from the private quarters of the Royal Guard and ran… I ran and ran… I ran to the harbor and stole aboard a trading vessel. I did not know where we were bound or how long we sailed, but at some point, a storm rose and swall
owed the ship and crew. I had escaped such horror… only to drown at sea…”

  “But, you didn’t,” Wyatt said. “Mareck and Gareck took you in.”

  Rozen nodded. “Yes, and they continue to foolishly follow me. They killed so many Children, knowing I was close. And yet Mareck and Gareck remain, protecting me from what they don’t know. Curse them!” She spat again. “And you,” she looked right into Wyatt’s eyes. “Strange Druid. Why did you come? Why did you save me? They won’t stop until I have been taken again. They will kill you, just as they slew a host of Children and just as they sought to do in the Shadow Forest.”

  Wyatt was taken aback. His mind swam with the violent story Rozen had so freely shared. His tongue felt numb and awkward in his mouth as he tried to speak. “I… I… I’m not a Druid.” If she can share herself with me…

  Rozen frowned. “You are. I have seen your gift. Why do you follow me? The Regency would likely reward you for my capture… or my death.”

  “No, I’m not, Rozen. You don’t understand.” The thoughts were coming fast and furious now and Wyatt fought to gain control of his spinning consciousness. “I’m just a… human. I don’t know how I got here. It just… happened. I didn’t ask for it, but now I don’t want to go back. But, I’m not a Druid. I don’t have any idea how I did those things; the tree or the wind or the roots. I don’t know how I saved you, or if I even did. There’s this… whisper. It’s in my head and I can’t get it out. But, I don’t know what it’s saying or what it wants either. Sometimes, I think Mrs. Heclar is right and that I’m just hallucinating. Maybe none of this is real. I have dreams too, nightmares, every night, whether I am here or there. It’s always the same. A dark bleeding shadow and it scares me, but I don’t know what it is or why it makes me feel the way it does. I hate it, but when I wake up I miss it. I just… I don’t know what this is or what anything is.” He looked to Rozen, not bothering to wipe away the stream of tears that ran down his cheeks. “Are you real?”

  Rozen grasped his hand and pulled it to her shoulder. She pressed it against the twist of roots and moss that had become a part of her. She squeezed his hand. His eyes met hers. She had never touched him in such a way and her eyes were soft, their sharp edge dulled by the solemn mood. She’s broken, he thought. Just as I am.

  She let his hand fall and turned back to the stream. Wyatt continued to stare at her sharp profile. “How do I know?” he said at last.

  “Faith,” she said and pressed her hands to the ground at her sides. “The Mother will guide you. Feel her presence. Is that not your way?”

  Wyatt looked at his hands, wrapped in sodden linen wraps, stained with mud and blood. He placed them at his side, mirroring the Draygan and closed his eyes just as she did. All he could feel was the damp soil under his fingers, but then clawed fingers pressed against his trembling hand, and the sensations of the stream and the forest faded. He didn’t know what he expected to see or experience, and so he let his mind empty and wander as it pleased.

  A sharp sensation burrowed into his hands and traveled up the length of his arms and flowed from his shoulders until his entire body was humming with energy and an ethereal presence. It spoke to him, a hushed stream of encouragement that he could not decipher, yet he understood. It was the Mother. The world is the Mother, he realized at once. The dirt, the stream, the trees, the wind, and the stone; all of it is her.

  Wyatt dug his fingers into the soft soil and gave himself to the Mother’s presence. She spoke not in words or ideas or even thoughts, but in feelings, urges and instinct. It was exhilarating. A feeling of comfort and companionship washed over him and he could feel the tight breath in his lungs dissipate and his whole skeleton relax and seem to melt into her. This is where I belong.

  The presence faded and Wyatt found his eyes open again and his hand under Rozen’s as they stared off into the moonlit pool. An otherworldly calm had descended on the pair. A peaceful tranquility flowed from the soft babble of the falls and neither sought to break it. The tears had evaporated from his cheeks when at last Wyatt chose to speak.

  “I will help you,” he said without turning.

  “Oh?”

  “To kill the Lord Regent. I will help you find your freedom.”

  Rozen turned to face him, but Wyatt did not meet her gaze. “And what of yours, Master?”

  Wyatt laughed uneasily. “Don’t call me Master.”

  “Wyatt… what of your freedom?”

  Wyatt shifted uncomfortably and took his hand from hers to wring within his other. My freedom… What was he fleeing from? “Don’t worry about me.”

  “You do not know what you are running from, do you?”

  The question shocked Wyatt. Is there anything her golden eyes do not see? He shook his head and shrugged. Rozen turned back to the stream and did not respond.

  Silence descended on the pair until Wyatt’s thoughts loosened again. “So… Draygans do have wings?”

  Rozen laughed, picked up a stone and hurled it into the water. The dark surface swallowed it without a sound. “Males are allowed to keep their wings as they terrify the opposing side in battle, but females have theirs removed when they begin their… service.”

  “Can you breathe fire too? Like actual dragons?”

  Rozen laughed again, a genuine display of mirth that Wyatt had not previously witnessed. “Actual dragons, at least those still in existence are land dragons. They neither fly, nor breathe fire. And Draygans cannot breathe fire either. Well, not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?” Wyatt’s eyes lit up and he could feel a juvenile excitement boil within him, the tears long forgotten.

  Rozen uncoiled the long braid from her neck and held it in front of her, studying its myriad of shifting shades. “Warriors are taught the art of conflagration at any early age. They can shift their braids into terrifying whips of fire that burn all but their own flesh.”

  “So, you-”

  “No,” she said suddenly. “Females are not taught the art. I am no closer to our dragon ancestors than you are.”

  “Hmm, well I still like your hair. It’s pretty.”

  Rozen pushed him away with a snarl, but the tone was new. Wyatt rolled upright and saw her smiling at him. Her jagged teeth sparkled in the moonlight and were just as terrifying as they were beautiful and flawless. Her golden eyes flashed color and she seemed to truly see him for the first time.

  “You are a strange creature, Wyatt. I should have known you were not a true Druid.”

  “Hey,” Wyatt cried in feigned protest. “If I weren’t a Druid could I do this?” His hands went to the ground and his mind searched for the thread he wanted. He found it at once and sent a ripple of whispers along the strand in his mind.

  Rozen cried out and recoiled as a torrent of water rose inexplicably from the calm stream and doused the pair of them. Wyatt sputtered and grinned at the drenched Draygan. She scowled back for a moment, but soon fell to laughter. Her laugh was high and shrill, but softer than the most delicate song. They laughed together in the moonlight, drenched in cold water, but warmed by new friendship.

  “Maybe I could teach you,” Wyatt said, shaking water from his ears.

  “To be a Druid?” Rozen raised an eyebrow.

  Wyatt shrugged. “Sure. If a kid like me can learn it, I’m sure I could teach you.”

  It was clear Rozen doubted the assertion. “And why would you do that?”

  “Well, because you don’t have your wings or fire anymore. Maybe you can use the Mother’s power, help you against the Regency. And maybe… well, maybe you could teach me too.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, um. You could teach me to fight. Like with weapons and how to shoot a bow maybe.”

  A slow smile crept across Rozen’s dark face like the rays of the rising sun breaching the horizon. “Yes,” she said at last. “Though I fear I may have a better chance of becoming a Druid than you do of becoming a warrior.”

  She laughed and darted out of the way as another colu
mn of water exploded from the stream. Wyatt served only to catch himself in the errant blast and was sent skidding along the muddy shore. He stared up at the laughing Draygan.

  “Maybe you should teach yourself first,” she said with a wicked grin as she extended a hand and yanked him sharply to his feet.

  Wyatt smirked and shook his head, casting water in all directions. Rozen pushed him playfully and darted around a nearby tree, soon returning with a twisted branch.

  “Your lessons begin now,” she said as she lunged at him, brandishing the crude staff.

  Wyatt yelped and stumbled away, tripping over a stone and spinning away from the arcing branch. He managed to keep his footing and skipped into the forest, searching for his own weapon. He circled back to the stream a moment later, clutching a stick no longer than his own forearm. Rozen faced him and laughed. She continued to laugh until Wyatt shot a short whisper into the stick and it grew into a weighty staff of knotted wood, taller than he. He grinned wickedly and held it in front of him, urging the Draygan on with a terse nod.

  They danced in battle under the twin moons, along the stream, surrounded by gray stone trees and watchful shadows. Rozen’s moves were deliberate and graceful, Wyatt’s plodding and misguided. He thrust and swung his staff, searching for her dark form, but she always spun aside at the last moment, twisting like a column of smoke, and swatting him on the back with her gnarled branch. Wyatt would stumble, turn and pursue again.

  They circled and scrambled over stones and reaching roots. They lunged through short sparse shrubs and slid along the muddy silt. After every errant thrust or unbalanced strike, Rozen would swat and spin away, shouting guidance as she danced elegantly out of range. Wyatt took the advice to heart and tried to comply, but his limbs refused to listen and after she sent him sprawling in the mud for the twelfth time he didn’t get up. He spread out his limbs and stared into the sky, panting hard, swimming in sweat and filth.