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

by Michael J Sanford

  “Slave talk too much,” Zyben said again. The fur atop her head was longer than the rest, forming a tall, sand colored fin. Her face was leaner than the males, her eyes more intense. A clawed hand rested on the whip at her belt. She was the only one that made Wyatt uneasy.

  Mizog said something in their language. Arguments went up from the others, each speaking rapidly in the strange tongue. Wyatt spun around on his backside, trying to discern the nature of the argument, but he couldn’t even determine who was arguing with who. Finally, the rapid shouting fell away and Mizog grunted.

  “Vje Gozetv,” Mizog said. “We go to Gozetv. Take what is ours.”

  Wyatt nodded as if it meant something to him. “And why do you need slaves?”

  “Gezwoz,” Mizog said. “Make great hunters.”

  Wyatt nodded again. “I see,” he said. He didn’t, but he enjoyed the conversation. “Where are the rest of the Gazarians? And the slaves?”

  Zyben grunted. She said something too fast for Wyatt to catch.

  Mizog ignored her. “At high sun, we meet. Now you sleep. Talking is done.”

  Tomorrow? Was that what he meant? Wyatt made a show of zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. The Gazarians grumbled in unison and Zyben whispered something to Fomaz, a male with dark spots across his head fur and a long scar that ran shiny and pink between his eyes. He laughed in response and shook his meaty head.

  Wyatt wrapped his thick fur blanket around his body as best he could and made a small mound of snow and sand for a pillow. He could see his breath frost with the easiest sigh and his ears had long ago fallen numb, but the knowledge that he would see Athena again warmed his core. I just need to find her, then Rozen, and then I can fix everything. He drifted off with fantasies of dying Regents flitting through his mind and a smile on his face.

  Chapter Nine

  MIZOG HAD NOT lied. They reached the larger caravan just as the sun reached its zenith. The pack-beasts came into view first, a mottled group of armadillos, yaks, and large hounds, each tied to a sled or wagon of varying designs.

  The slave line came next. Marching in pairs, each slave wore heavy iron manacles about their wrists and a chain around their waists that joined to the slaves behind and in front. Gazarians, armed with whips, walked rank and file to either side of the slave column.

  Mizog produced a small wooden reed and blew a shrill whistle that halted the caravan. A pair of Gazarians took Chen’s reins from Wyatt and led the giant beast to the rear, but he hardly noticed. His eyes were busy raking the seemingly endless line of slaves. Mizog held a short conversation with some of the slave guards and then prodded Wyatt ahead with the butt of his whip handle. He was all too eager to obey.

  “Fresh slave in front,” Mizog said as they walked. “Lead weak. Drag if must.”

  Wyatt nodded dumbly, scanning each battered and worn face they passed. Most were young, human children, but the Gazarians did not seem to discriminate based on age as a couple looked well north of sixty, gray-haired and frail. He felt a momentary twinge of pity, but soon abandoned it for the surge of hope he nurtured in anticipation of finding Athena. He had gotten her into this mess, it was only right that he see her through.

  The euphoric feeling was short lived, as a strange figure in line gave him pause. The lanky man had tall, pointed ears, enormous eyes, and skin that was entirely too pale to be called white. It was nearly translucent, showing a web of veins across his gaunt features.

  Wyatt turned to Mizog. “That’s a Glefan,” he said. “You can’t enslave non-humans against their will.”

  “Take as want, slave. For battle. Make strong.”

  Wyatt scowled at the Gazarian. His broken speech was becoming increasingly difficult to understand and he wondered if it was intentional. Wyatt turned back to watching the line and began noticing more non-humans fettered to the heavy iron links. He remembered seeing some of them passing through Ouranos, but others were foreign. None met his eyes, and he doubted any chose the life they were given.

  “Master Wyatt!” a voice called from the slave line.

  The voice blossomed a memory that fully bloomed when he saw the speaker. Yoked with a hunched and scaled beast of unknown origin, was a slight boy no more than twelve with hair the color of sand and a face plagued with freckles.

  “Henrick?” Wyatt said in disbelief at seeing the boy who had bathed him, discovered the blind priest in Ouranos was a fraud, and seemingly knew Tug and Omman. “Who are you?”

  “It’s a lie, Master Wyatt. It’s not—” Any further words were cut off at the tip of a snapping whip.

  Rough hands shoved Wyatt forward and he soon lost sight of Henrick. He rubbed his head and tried to look for him again, but a Gazarian cuffed him upside the head with a grunt that dared Wyatt to look back again.

  “No talk. Just walk,” his slaver said.

  With no choice, he put aside the boy’s strange appearance and trudged onward. It wasn’t long before the front of the procession came within view. Athena’s bright red hair stood out in the violet twinge of the sun like an inferno, vibrant and inviting. Unable to control the tempest of emotions that flared within, he lunged forward, shouting her name. He couldn’t tell if she heard for he saw only sand. He tasted and smelled it as well. He rolled, coughing and sputtering, and saw Mizog looming over him, a whip handle tight in his hand, the end lashed around Wyatt’s ankle.

  “Slave no run. We tell slave move. Now move.”

  Wyatt shook sand and snow from his hair, gathered up his blanket, and resumed his march, trying to seem less eager. Gazarian guards clasped manacles around his wrists as he reached the front of the line and attached them to the empty chain directly in front of Athena. Wyatt did well to hold his excitement in check. Athena did not.

  “Motherfucker!” she shouted.

  Wyatt didn’t have time to turn before he felt hands at his throat. The force of the attack and the weight of the thick chains drove him to the sand with a yelp. Cries rippled down the line as every slave was pulled sharply forward. Shouts erupted from the Gazarians as well. Whips cracked and whistles sounded.

  “Son of a fuckin’ whore bastard shit hound!”

  Wyatt flailed and rolled. He tried to rise, but Athena was seated squarely on his chest and shoulders, her face awash in rage. A curious creature was chained at Athena’s side and was pulled close as well. Wyatt stared at her.

  “Hey, what are you?” he said, momentarily oblivious to the violent, red-haired tempest atop him.

  Athena growled and leaned harder into her stranglehold, forcing a gasp from his throat before a dozen clawed hands wrenched them apart. Sharp shouts in Gazarian and broken English rang out as the slavers set the line in order again, pulling chains and snapping whips. It only took a moment before order was restored.

  A slaver grabbed Wyatt by the face and held his whip close enough for him to smell the oil on it. The slaver said nothing, but Wyatt understood. He nodded against the meaty hand. The slaver let go and cracked his whip against the sand. Snow fled from the tip as it sped through the air. A shrill whistle came from the rear, echoed by a second from the front. The line began to move at once.

  The guards melted into a loose march a dozen strides from the slave line. The long chain was bookended by the pack beasts and their masters at the rear, and warriors at the front. They were surrounded, yet on an island. No Gazarian seemed to want to get too close to the slaves and few even cast a wayward glance at them once they had had established an appropriate pace.

  “You selfish little bastard,” Athena said. He could feel her frosted breath against the back of his neck.

  “Hey, I came to save you.”

  “Save me?” she roared. “You fuckin’ disappeared. And then these bastards slap chains on me and started marchin’ me across the goddamn desert. And, oh, it’s snowin’ too. In the goddamn desert! And if you think I’m going to forget what you let happen to Tug, you got another thing comin’.”

  She spat a thick ball of sno
t at Wyatt. It struck the back of his head, but he couldn’t get his hands above his chest to wipe it away. Everyone’s so ungrateful, he thought.

  A new voice spoke at his right ear, shrill and melodic. “I’m Maia, by the way. A spriteling. I’ve heard so much about you…Master.”

  Wyatt turned to look at the speaker. She smiled back amid a mask of freckles and fair skin. Her eyes twinkled in the sun, green and gold. She was no taller than Athena’s shoulder, but her hair rose to match her height. A tight spike of greens and browns twisted up from her temples. It looked like…

  “You have grass for hair,” he said, noting her eyebrows were much the same, only finer.

  She giggled. “I’m a spriteling. Athena says you don’t know very much about the Realms. I’m from the green mountains. It’s a scores march from Mesos…I think.”

  “Don’t talk to him,” Athena hissed.

  Wyatt whipped his head around to glare over his other shoulder at her. She glared back.

  “But he’s a Druid,” Maia said. Her voice was enchanting.

  Wyatt spun back around. “I am indeed,” he said. “But I’m trying to keep it a secret, so hush hush.”

  Maia smiled and nodded vigorously. Wyatt knew Athena was rolling her eyes even if he couldn’t see her.

  “So, after a bunch of weird tsiyyi things kill a boy…and after the same monsters give me to these slavers…now you think it’s best to keep your lil secret a secret? Fuck. You.”

  Wyatt craned back around. “I didn’t know,” he said. “A lot has changed. I didn’t mean for any of this. But don’t worry, I’ll fix everything.”

  Athena scowled, her eyes digging like blades. “Of course not,” she said sarcastically. “It’s never your fault. Not you, Wyatt the Mighty.” She spat again; this time to the side. “Did you just forget that you killed a bunch of innocent people and nearly took down a castle?”

  “Ouranos?” Maia said. “That was you?”

  “How many other dumb Druids are there?” Athena said hastily. The spriteling didn’t answer.

  “It wasn’t my—”

  “Save it,” Athena spat. “Just walk.”

  Wyatt did as she asked, crestfallen. It wasn’t my fault, he thought. Not truly. Though, perhaps his grandeur and inflated ego were somewhat responsible for all that had transpired. He sighed. Athena was right, of course. Gareck, Mareck, Grenleck, Tug…they all died because he couldn’t admit he was as clueless as he was. I just had to be a big shot, he thought. And how many have died because of it? I’m just not strong enough yet.

  Chapter Ten

  THE CARAVAN MARCHED along in silence the rest of the day; the only sound coming from the soft, metallic clinking of the heavy chains that joined them. They stopped twice when a slave collapsed and dragged down half the line with them. Wyatt was never close enough to see what happened, but it only took a short moment before the line was moving again.

  Despite the snow, carrying the heavy chain was hot work and his face was repeatedly bathed in warm sweat only to be abruptly chilled by the biting air. He had never been so hot and so cold at the same moment. At least they let me keep my fur, he thought, pulling it as tight around him as his fettered hands would allow. And the crude shoes he had crafted held up surprisingly well. He stared at them as they marched in silence, wondering if perhaps his feet had merely gone numb. It was impossible to tell.

  Gradually the dunes flattened, giving way to a level expanse of hard packed dirt. A rough road formed beneath them, the only patch of ground Wyatt could see that was not covered in fine snow. The snow never fell with any speed, but the air had been constantly thick with the giant flakes since Wyatt had returned to the Dunes. He could remember staring into the row of snow globes his grandmother had kept, wondering what it would be like to live in such a world. Now he knew and was none too pleased with the experience.

  The sun hung just above the horizon as the slave caravan entered a ring of looming stone towers. They were the only structures Wyatt had seen along their journey. Each stood over twenty feet high and spewed hot flames from their peaks and long slits just below.

  “Holy shit,” Athena said softly, her first words since they began their march.

  Wyatt’s eyes followed the blazing towers as they marched further toward the center of the ring, their destination obscured by the large bodies of the Gazarian soldiers. He lost count somewhere past twenty-six, and figured the ring must be the size of a large stadium, but it was difficult to tell in the twilight.

  Maia cooed in wonderment. “This must be the temple of Gizeapfteeg.”

  “Gizeapf—what?” Athena said.

  “Gizeapfteeg. It means fire and seed.”

  Wyatt turned to Maia. “You speak Gazarian?”

  “The Old Tongue, it is called. And no, just bits and pieces I’ve gathered at various taverns and inns I’ve served at.”

  Wyatt scrunched his face. Athena kicked the back of his thigh. “She’s a bard, Wy’, not a whore.”

  “A bard?”

  “Yeah, she sings and shit. Tells stories, that kinda thing.”

  Wyatt scowled at Athena. “I know what a bard is.”

  “I ain’t sure you know shit ‘bout anything.”

  Wyatt thought to respond, but a sharp jab at his chest forced him to face forward. The entire procession halted abruptly. The Gazarian at Wyatt’s chest uncoiled his whip and pointed away from the road. There was nothing but dirt within the ring of towers, the flames forming a dome of clear sky above the large building at the ring’s center. Wyatt led the line as directed, and when they were within a few dozen strides of the towers a sharp whistle cut the night air and the slaves sat. Unaware of the command, Wyatt was dragged down, falling on top of Athena.

  She pushed him away. “Fuck off me.”

  He wiggled upright, tossing off the thick fur. “Heh, sorry ‘bout that…again.”

  Athena did not return the smile. Instead she turned to Maia. “So, what is this place?”

  Wyatt watched as nearly all of the Gazarians walked toward the temple, leaving only a handful of guards to watch over the slave line. Even that was unnecessary, he imagined. There must have been over a hundred slaves tied to the same chain. Escape was impossible.

  “This temple marks the border between Hagion and Gazaria. The Gazarians will stay here for three days, praying to the Mother and preparing for entry into their home realm. There’s a song that tells of the ritual, if you’d like—”

  “Wait a second,” Wyatt interrupted. “They worship the Mother?”

  Maia nodded.

  “So, they don’t follow the Regency?”

  Maia shrugged.

  Athena seemed to grasp what Wyatt was saying. “These Gazarians…they’re good guys?”

  “They worship the Mother, yes,” Maia said. “But things are not the same away from Hagion. Gazaria is…there are tales of wicked perversion in the Gazarian realm. They follow the old ways. Ancient rituals and old superstitions. Constant battles.”

  “Hmmm, well maybe we can convince them to help us against the Regency,” Wyatt mused, staring at the temple, wondering what lay inside.

  “Maybe you should worry ‘bout getting us outta here first,” Athena said.

  Wyatt shrugged. Rozen was out there somewhere and he was certain she could use his help. He grinned, once again feeling confident and supreme.

  “What you smilin’ ‘bout?” Athena said.

  Wyatt ignored her. A small band of Gazarians had returned from the temple and were fast approaching the slave line. Their whips were unwound, dragging behind them as their tails swished agitatedly back and forth.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Athena said, to which Maia quietly agreed.

  Wyatt stared at them. “What doesn’t look good?”

  “You,” called a gruff Gazarian voice. “Snow-skin slave. You come.”

  Wyatt turned in time to greet two large male Gazarians wrenching him to his feet. The iron manacles fell aside a moment later, replaced
by the strong grip of his captors.

  “Well, where to, pals?” Wyatt said, flashing a wide smile.

  A whip cleaved the air swifter than thunder and caught Wyatt across the back. His legs turned to jelly and it was only the strong grip of the slavers on either side of him that prevented Wyatt from tasting the sand. Cold air danced through his torn shirt, kissing the gash that ran from shoulder to waist.

  Maia gasped and Athena swore.

  The pain had stymied Wyatt’s vision, but his ears worked all the same. He could hear the Gazarians dragging Athena and Maia, freeing their bonds, just as they had his. He silently prayed they wouldn’t whip them as well. Strange, he thought, I don’t feel quite as confident as I did a moment ago.

  By the time they reached the temple, the pain along Wyatt’s back had dulled to a distant throb and his vision had cleared as well. He turned and looked weakly at Athena and Maia. Athena scowled and mouthed what looked to be ‘you stupid fucker,’ but Wyatt couldn’t be sure. Maia wept silently, allowing herself to be dragged along. The small spriteling wore rags that hardly covered much of her slim form, but a wide leather belt was wrapped around her torso, under her arms, and fastened with chains.

  The temple contained only one room, but it was massive. Giant pillars ran the length of the rectangular space, a brazier burning brightly at eye level along each. There were no elaborate murals along the walls like the temple in Ouranos, nor was the stone polished marble; only lifeless gray slate stared back at them. The Gazarian warriors filled the length of every wall, foreheads pressed to the cold slate in prayer.

  At the center of the temple, however, was a garden. Wyatt gasped when he saw it. A large, round boulder occupied the space, much like in Ouranos, but this one was ensnared by a hand of dark roots that spread into an expansive tree, craning toward a hole in the vaulted ceiling. He stared at the stone and the tree, and in his mind, stared at the pendant he wore. The dark hand and round stone…

  “The Mother’s Hand,” Maia said with reverence.

  A tall Gazarian female, clad in worn leather armor stood before the Hand. Jeweled dagger handles sprouted from half a dozen sheaths at her belt. She nodded in Maia’s direction. “Very good, young spriteling. You know the Mother’s Hand. You would do well to prepare yourself for the ceremony, true believer. It will prevent…discomfort.”