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

by Michael J Sanford

  “That’s a lame answer,” he said. It was you. Gareck. Mareck. Grenleck. You killed them. Tug.

  Ms. Abagail laughed. “And that’s why I’m sitting here and not in a fancy office, dressed in a pant suit.”

  Wyatt grimaced. His head was throbbing. “You’re better than Mrs. Heclar,” he managed to say.

  “Well, thanks, but you’ve got to give her a chance. She means well and that counts for something, right?”

  Wyatt didn’t answer. Why didn’t you save him? He was a child. Tug. You killed him. Tug. Tug. Tug.

  “Wyatt, you all right?”

  The words sounded distant even though he was staring right at her. “It wasn’t my fault!” he shouted.

  Ms. Abagail frowned. Her mouth moved again, but no sound came out. Wyatt looked at her a moment and wiggled a finger in his ear. Why, Why? Why? His eyes went wide at the voice. It wasn’t coming from his head. It wasn’t his voice. It was hers. For a moment, he thought he was back in the Temple of Ouranos. No, he told himself. I destroyed that place. And I killed them. Because I wasn’t strong enough. But what the wight has showed him…that woman…it was her voice he heard now.

  Wyatt stood and staggered away from the dining table, into the living room. He only had to look at two corners before he saw it. The shadow. It hung at the edge of the flat screen television, staring. Wyatt glared back, hands clenched into fists. Its form was more human than before. He could see arms and legs. They shimmered and shifted like a fog, but they were there all the same.

  “What do you want?” he shouted.

  The shadowy head tilted, trailing black vapor. Why? Why? Why?

  “Why what? Why WHAT?” he bellowed.

  He knew Ms. Abagail was at his side. He could vaguely distinguish her form and feel her hand on his arm, but she seemed even less solid than the shadow in the corner taunting him. He shook off her touch and stepped closer to the writhing shade.

  “You don’t scare me,” he lied. “I’m Wyatt the Mighty. You’re just a…you’re just…”

  Say it! The voice bellowed, far louder than it had been before. Wyatt nearly fell. Say it! Say it! Say it! Tell me what I am. What you made me.

  He reached into his shirt and withdrew his pendant. The green stone was warm. He held it up like a shield. “I am a Druid. I have the Mother’s voice. I have power. You’re just…” Again, his voice trailed off. He meant to say something, but lost the words.

  Say it! The walls were shaking with each screeching shout. The shade trembled and seethed, appearing to smoke, long tendrils of black trailing from its head.

  “You can’t hurt me,” Wyatt screamed, still holding the pendant toward the shade.

  The room flashed green for a moment, silencing the shadow. It remained there, huddled in the corner, but said nothing more. Wyatt looked at his hand and slowly opened it. A cascade of sparks twirled into the room, pulsing with bright light. The shade flickered, the sparks eating at the darkness. Wyatt smiled wickedly.

  “That’s right,” he shouted. “I’m a Druid. I can banish you.”

  Another ripple of light burst from the green stone. The ethereal roots were taking hold all around him, snaking over of his legs and grabbing at his chest. The room shook and shuddered as the vines coiled about Wyatt, rooting him in place. Only his eyes were left untethered and they bore a hole into the wavering shade. He grinned. That’s right. I’m the Druid here.

  Chapter Seven

  WYATT FOUND OMMAN a few hundred yards from his empty hovel. A large armadillo pulled a small wooden sled at his side, laden with a large wrapped bundle that could only have been one thing. The tsiyyi glass worker didn’t show any surprise when Wyatt jogged up next to him, after having returned on the neighboring dune in his usual flash of magic. Omman merely peered at Wyatt from beneath his hood, nodded, and gave the rope in his hand a gentle tug, urging on the great, shelled beast at his side.

  The violet sun was just dipping below the horizon, bathing the Dunes in a wash of muted color. Wyatt shivered against the biting wind. His feet had fallen numb within the first few steps of his return.

  “There is a thick fur in the sled,” Omman said.

  Wyatt eyed the sled and the tied shape within. “I’m sorry, Omman,” he said.

  Omman nodded. “The blame is not yours to take, Master.”

  “They wanted me. I wasn’t strong enough. But I will be.”

  “You were just the excuse. We should have left long ago.”

  Wyatt said nothing. He merely rubbed his bare arms and tucked his chin to his chest.

  “We once numbered sixty-four, you know,” Omman said, staring straight ahead. “The Sand Shrews, that is. The Dunes was a place of faith, though you’d hardly know it now. After Ouranos, fear spread like wildfire, consuming the weak-minded and disloyal. And after the Lady Rozen escaped, the Regency stationed soldiers in every major town. They used it against us. The other clans shook with fear and turned from the Mother, throwing in with the Regents. It was only my skill with thunder-glass that stayed their hands against my son and I. We should have left. Perhaps I was afraid after all.”

  “You sound brave to me,” Wyatt said. “You protected your son.”

  “Did I? At best, I delayed…”

  They walked in silence, traversing the frozen dunes. It seemed to Wyatt as if they were the only beings in existence. The barrenness of the Dunes was haunting.

  “Where’s Athena?” Wyatt said after a while, feeling ashamed to not have noticed her absence sooner, but something deep inside had already whispered that she would be gone.

  “Your companion was given to the slavers.”

  Wyatt heart thundered, making his chest ache. “What?” he shouted.

  Omman’s voice remained unchanged, ever smooth and steady. “The Sidewinders returned. I told them you had vanished, so they took her.”

  “What slavers? Where are they taking her?”

  Omman removed his hood. His whiskers hung limp and his face seemed to have aged in Wyatt’s absence. He turned and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Master. It was the Gazarians that the Sidewinders sold her to. The Mountain Tribe. I’m sorry.”

  “Where did they take her? Is she alive?”

  “I know not. Perhaps east, back to Gazaria. I don’t deal with their kind. Savages.”

  Wyatt let the conversation fall to silence again. A million questions raced through his mind, but every time he meant to voice one, his eyes drifted to the bundle at the back of the wooden sled and he remained mute. What words could he offer?

  After some time, Omman stopped and let the rope fall from his hand. They were perched high atop a dune, facing the ghostly sun as it completed its nightly vanishing.

  “What now?” Wyatt said. “Do we camp here and go after Athena in the morning?”

  Omman didn’t answer. He lifted the tied bundle from the cart and sat with it draped across his lap. The tsiyyi glass master took a deep breath and shut his eyes, his face awash in cold, violet light. The twilit shadows etched deep lines across his features. He looked to have been chiseled from stone.

  “Chen is a gentle beast. Speak softly to her and she’ll carry you tirelessly.”

  Wyatt didn’t understand. He stared intently at the tsiyyi though he didn’t look back. “Chen?”

  “There are provisions in the sled. Enough for a few days if you ration wisely. I know not where to direct you, but the Mother will guide you. Find your companion and seek out the Lady Rozen. A Druid cannot stand alone. It was never the Mother’s intention. You are a part of something larger than yourself. And, Master?”

  “Yeah?” Wyatt said nervously.

  “Mind the balance. It is an easy thing to fall to decay. It is a far stronger gift, thick with magnificent power. But it will only bring ruin. Be wary and guard your soul.”

  “I don’t understand. What about you?”

  Omman produced a dark stone and small knife, and didn’t answer. It was then that Wyatt noticed the smell. It hung heavy in the air, ear
thy and pungent. And it was then that he noticed the dark, wet stains that blanketed the two remaining Sand Shrews.

  Wyatt could only stand and watch as Omman dragged the blade across the piece of flint, creating a shower of sparks that immediately ignited the oil. The sudden rush of heat sent Wyatt stumbling backward. He fell to his knees and gaped as the flames engulfed the tsiyyi glass sculptor and his fallen son. Omman remained as still as one of his figurines, letting the fire consume him.

  “I’m sorry,” Wyatt whispered to the flames.

  No tears sprang to the Druid’s eyes. The hurt and sorrow was too strong. It hung thick in his throat. Wyatt didn’t know if he could sense his own soul, but he imagined the deep ache in his chest was it calling out in anguish, condemning his actions and vying for retribution. As the flames dwindled, Wyatt rose, sullen and stalwart, vowing just that. Vengeance. He was tired of failing.

  Chapter Eight

  AS NIGHT DESCENDED so did the snow. It came in large buoyant flakes, falling so softly they seemed to hang suspended in the calm air. The scene was spectacular, but the falling temperature and what he had left behind distracted Wyatt’s mind. He had found thick furs, just as Omman had promised, and managed to fashion the pieces into crude boots, tying the strips around his feet and legs with twine. A larger piece he saved to wrap around his torso and arms. He thought it helped, but couldn’t be sure if the lack of feeling was through numbness or warmth.

  Shortly after leaving Omman and Tug, Chen stopped without warning. The giant armadillo was nearly the size of an ox. Bony armor lined the creature’s back and sides, and thick hair covered that, making her look like a furry tank.

  “You’re not cold, are ya, girl?” Wyatt said as he patted Chen’s rough snout.

  The animal gave no answer, ever silent, but Wyatt nodded and rummaged through the sacks and small bundles that were packed into the small wooden sled. Omman knew I was coming, he thought as he found a bag of dried grubs, each the size of his forearm. He hoisted the heavy sack and dragged it toward his silent companion.

  “These must be for you,” he said. “No, don’t thank me, it’s all right.”

  Wyatt tossed a couple of grubs at the armadillo and found a bundle of stale biscuits for himself. As he completed his crude dinner, stars appeared, dull and distant. The view was breath-taking, but Wyatt could hardly distinguish his fingers held at arms-length and he couldn’t stop seeing Omman burn. He could still smell it.

  Without a moon, the night was ominous. He shuddered as much from the darkness as the cold, and huddled against the shallow side of the sled. Soundlessly, Chen shifted, using her thick body to form a corner with the sled. Wyatt patted her appreciatively and curled into the nook. For a moment, it almost felt warm, but as he shut his eyes, chilling thoughts slipped into his mind.

  It was his lost friends that crowded his dreams; Gareck, Mareck, Grenleck, Rozen, Athena, Omman, and Tug. None of them spoke, but Wyatt could feel their stares. He tried to explain. He tried to apologize. He promised retribution for those fallen, and rescue for those lost. They didn’t waver, their eyes piercing and convicting.

  “I’ll save you,” he said. “I can help you. I’m going to get stronger.”

  Dark tendrils of smoke crawled between them, curling and snaking until a pair of shadowy figures stood between Wyatt and those he had lost. He shook his head and stepped back. The shadows mirrored his movement, drawing closer.

  “What do you want?” he screamed. “I said I would help them. I can fix it. I will. I know this isn’t a game anymore.”

  The figures raised shadowy arms and pointed at Wyatt. He shook his head and retreated another step. The figures drew closer, silently convicting him. He looked to his friends for support, but they remained motionless, seeming much further away than they had been before. He could hardly see them in the gloom. He stumbled back another step, then turned and ran.

  He nearly collided with a crowd of colorful, amphibious bodies. “No,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to. I was trying to help.”

  When he turned back around, the shadows were gone. Searing white light and biting cold seized his throat and wrung the air from it.

  He bolted upright and found himself covered in a fine layer of bright snow, breath frosting the morning air. It took several moments before he realized he was awake and what he had seen was just a nightmare of memories. He massaged his temples and pulled the thick fur blanket tighter around his shoulders. It took another series of deep breaths before he calmed enough to realize he wasn’t alone.

  They stood in a loose ring around him. Wyatt rubbed at his eyes and looked at Chen. The giant beast was curled into an armor-plated ball. Oh, that’s not a good sign, he thought.

  “Take human. Butcher tha beast,” said one of the creatures, his speech lisping and fragmented.

  “No. Pull for us now, tha beast. Slave, you make beast pull,” another said.

  Wyatt stared from one to the next, on down the line, counting seven in all. They were tall and thick, heavily muscled beneath fur and leather armor. Their heads were wrapped in lengths of wool, revealing only their eyes. Short, coarse hair covered their clawed hands and the uncovered area around their narrow eyes.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be Gazarians, would you?” Wyatt asked.

  The large creatures looked at one another. One of them stepped forward and uncoiled a whip that looked much like the long, leathery tail that trailed behind the imposing creature. “Gazarians, aye. You not speak, human. We take you. Bleed you. You will feed and make strong. Come.”

  Bleed me? Wyatt didn’t like the sound of that, but if the burly creatures were Gazarian slavers then he would do best to go along with them if he hoped to find Athena. And he did. Besides, something told him the tenuous power of the wind would be of little help to the solid Gazarians and there was little else he could speak to in the middle of a desert. And if the Realms all fear me and want me dead, maybe it’s not so bad to be an enslaved human for a while.

  He popped up with a smile. “Okay, let’s go. Enslave me.”

  The Gazarians looked at each other again. Some grunted. The leader pointed eastward and snarled. “You walk, slave. Make beast follow.

  Wyatt shrugged and placed his hand on Chen’s hairy covered plating. It was warm despite the drifting snow. “It’s all right, Chen. Come on. We’re going to find our friend.”

  The armadillo slowly uncurled and righted herself. The Gazarians grunted in approval as Wyatt grabbed hold of her reins and began walking toward the sun. It chose to rise in the east, he thought, a twinge of nostalgia passing through his heart. It lasted only a moment before his mind went to Athena. I won’t let you down like I did Rozen. I’m coming.

  The snow hung static as they journeyed, neither falling nor rising, stirring only slightly at the wind’s breath. It was a surreal experience, and though he was now a slave, Wyatt had seldom felt better. Perhaps it was the thought that he was going to see Athena again. Or that Rozen had escaped and was wreaking havoc on the Regency.

  The Gazarians marched close behind, speaking in a strange garble of words that Wyatt could not decipher. It did not sound like any language he had heard before. The constant noise gave him further comfort.

  At dusk, the Gazarians made camp, though they did little more than dig a shallow depression in the sand. They had no fire for wood, or tents for shelter. Wyatt did not even see a pack between the seven that could have held food or water. They seemed to carry only their long whips and rusted hatchets fastened to their belts.

  Wyatt had ferreted out some of their names as they had journeyed. Mizog, their leader, commanded Wyatt to prepare food and torches from the sled. He was all too happy to oblige. They were taking him to Athena, after all, and despite his incessant nagging during their sunlit march, none had raised a hand against him.

  He found a trio of short torches and pressed them into the sand, forming a perfect triangle around the group. A piece of flint and rusted dagger was tied with the torches, bu
t the Gazarians quickly confiscated the weapon when he tried to light the first torch. That was all right, as well. He couldn’t stomach the idea of striking a spark after seeing Omman…

  Grazden grunted and waved a hand at the sled. “Get food now, slave.”

  Wyatt frowned, but obeyed. “It wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer. You know, manners go a long way.”

  “Slave talk too much,” Zyben complained for the hundredth time. She was the lone female in the group, he had gathered, and was much taller and leaner than the males. And she was none too shy about sharing how she felt towards Wyatt.

  They sat in a tight ring as Wyatt brought a satchel of hard biscuits for his slavers and more dried grubs for Chen. Wyatt gave the beast a reassuring pat on the snout.

  “Slave, you sit middle. Come.”

  “I told you,” he said, stepping into the middle of the ring. “My name is Wyatt.”

  “Slave has no name,” Mizog said, unwrapping his head.

  The others followed suit, needing to free their mouths to eat. Their heads were round, almost human-like, but were covered in short fur, each with a different color and pattern. Large, pointed, and split ears sprang to attention, the fur tufted tips giving the illusion that the creatures had four ears. Their noses were small, nearly imperceptible, and their mouths were lined with vicious teeth that tore at the biscuits with great fervor.

  “Sit,” Mizog said, tossing a biscuit.

  It bounced off Wyatt’s chest and fell to the sand. The Gazarians laughed roughly, and one of them swiped a handful of sand at him. Wyatt sat and tried his best to remove the sand from the biscuit. It crunched as he bit into it, but he was too hungry to care.

  Wyatt finished his biscuit and tried to brush the sand from his tongue. “Where are we going?” he said.

  The sun had set. The only light came from the trio of torches at the Gazarians’ backs. Each cast an eerie orange glow off narrow eyes and wide, fang-filled mouths.