Fireblood
Page 88
“When Kenatos was founded on the island in the lake, all races and peoples were invited to send representatives of their culture, traditions, and knowledge to dwell in harmony and thus preserve their way of life. Too many races had been decimated. Too many crafts and knowledge had been lost. Of all who remained, only the Boeotians refused. In fact, when they learned of the founding of Kenatos, they vowed to destroy it. For centuries, they attacked the island by boat. Some tried to make an earthen bridge to connect to the city. Each attack was repelled. Each ambassador sent to negotiate with the Boeotians was killed. Only the Druidecht can safely pass into their borders unharmed. They are a wild and savage race. It is said that they are ruled by an Empress, much as a beehive has a single queen. Their savagery and violence know no bounds. Kenatos would have failed if the races had not banded together to protect her infancy. A common danger unites even the bitterest enemies.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The very mention of the Black Druidecht made Annon shudder. As with all creatures, so it was with the spirits of Mirrowen. There were helpful spirits who cooperated with the races or mostly just left them alone. But there were other spirits, the dark and the foul, that frightened and sought to destroy. Beings like the Iddawc. They looked at the world as a plaything. The Druidecht opposed such and had learned from the spirits ways to protect against them. But some Druidecht—only a few—joined forces with them.
Sweat beaded on Annon’s brow. He glanced back at the scarred oak tree, wondering whether the damage caused to the trunk was enough to kill it. His fingers tingled with heat and anticipation from using the fireblood again. He had almost lost himself in it.
Courage, Nizeera whispered to him.
Annon steeled himself, swallowing his fears, and drew deep within himself. This was his charge as a Druidecht—to protect the denizens of Mirrowen who were helpless. And as Reeder had told him the night before, no creature was more helpless than a Dryad.
A sylph flitted to him. You are injured. Let me heal you.
Heal my friend, if he lives, Annon pleaded.
He is dead, Druidecht. He is already dead. The wound was mortal.
A quivering sob threatened to ruin him. Tears stung his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Reeder. His friend. A blinding rage enveloped him. He had always heard that the Druidecht were welcome in any land, even Boeotia. How could they have slain him so mercilessly? The anger gave him strength and helped steal the tears from his eyes. He would mourn Reeder later. He would mourn him the rest of his life.
Glancing over, Annon saw his friend still lying where he had fallen. Reeder’s face was waxy and pale.
Annon turned away, breathed deeply, trying to calm his pounding heart, to focus on the task at hand. He could not face Reeder’s death yet. It would undo him. He felt the healing touch of the sylph as it restored him, binding the wound at his shoulder and restoring his strength. Other spirits came and blessed him as well, kissing his forehead to give him clear thoughts. One touched his heart to bolster courage. They swarmed him with magic, and he realized that once the other Boeotians arrived with their sticks and smoke, he would be on his own.
It did not take them long to arrive.
Annon heard them before he saw them. Battle screams filled the air, a strange singsong mesh of voices set at discordant rhythms that made his courage shrivel. How many were there? A hundred? The wails grew louder, and soon the first of the Boeotians appeared, rushing through the woods with spears and axes, holding smoking sticks in their hands, the vapors warding off the spirits.
As soon as he was visible to them, their fervor and pitch increased even more, and he saw the wild look of rage in their eyes as they converged on him. His hands went cold with terror and his stomach lurched. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to run. He struggled to master himself. One spear thrust was all it would take to end his life. Annon realized he was going to die. He would never see Hettie again. Her face flashed in his mind, spurring pangs of sadness.
The spirits of the woods seemed to recognize his faltering feelings. They surged into the midst of the Boeotians, exploding with puffs of magic as they tried to stall the advance, to protect the ancient Dryad tree at all costs. He watched them vanish out of existence, popping with dazzling colors. Why was his own life any more significant than theirs? Should he not also give his best, even if it meant his life?
Reeder had.
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
Annon fed his anger as his hands turned blue, wreathed in flames. He saw a Boeotian rear back with a spear and hurl it straight at him. Everything seemed to slow around him. He could sense every breath, every flash of his eyelids, the prickle of gooseflesh on his arms. The blessing of the spirits heightened every sense. He twisted sideways and leaned, feeling the spear streak by him. Annon countered, raising his hands. Fire swirled from his palms in spheres and struck the Boeotian, slamming into him and engulfing him only, not the trees near him.
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The very mention of the Black Druidecht made Annon shudder. As with all creatures, so it was with the spirits of Mirrowen. There were helpful spirits who cooperated with the races or mostly just left them alone. But there were other spirits, the dark and the foul, that frightened and sought to destroy. Beings like the Iddawc. They looked at the world as a plaything. The Druidecht opposed such and had learned from the spirits ways to protect against them. But some Druidecht—only a few—joined forces with them.
Sweat beaded on Annon’s brow. He glanced back at the scarred oak tree, wondering whether the damage caused to the trunk was enough to kill it. His fingers tingled with heat and anticipation from using the fireblood again. He had almost lost himself in it.
Courage, Nizeera whispered to him.
Annon steeled himself, swallowing his fears, and drew deep within himself. This was his charge as a Druidecht—to protect the denizens of Mirrowen who were helpless. And as Reeder had told him the night before, no creature was more helpless than a Dryad.
A sylph flitted to him. You are injured. Let me heal you.
Heal my friend, if he lives, Annon pleaded.
He is dead, Druidecht. He is already dead. The wound was mortal.
A quivering sob threatened to ruin him. Tears stung his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Reeder. His friend. A blinding rage enveloped him. He had always heard that the Druidecht were welcome in any land, even Boeotia. How could they have slain him so mercilessly? The anger gave him strength and helped steal the tears from his eyes. He would mourn Reeder later. He would mourn him the rest of his life.
Glancing over, Annon saw his friend still lying where he had fallen. Reeder’s face was waxy and pale.
Annon turned away, breathed deeply, trying to calm his pounding heart, to focus on the task at hand. He could not face Reeder’s death yet. It would undo him. He felt the healing touch of the sylph as it restored him, binding the wound at his shoulder and restoring his strength. Other spirits came and blessed him as well, kissing his forehead to give him clear thoughts. One touched his heart to bolster courage. They swarmed him with magic, and he realized that once the other Boeotians arrived with their sticks and smoke, he would be on his own.
It did not take them long to arrive.
Annon heard them before he saw them. Battle screams filled the air, a strange singsong mesh of voices set at discordant rhythms that made his courage shrivel. How many were there? A hundred? The wails grew louder, and soon the first of the Boeotians appeared, rushing through the woods with spears and axes, holding smoking sticks in their hands, the vapors warding off the spirits.
As soon as he was visible to them, their fervor and pitch increased even more, and he saw the wild look of rage in their eyes as they converged on him. His hands went cold with terror and his stomach lurched. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to run. He struggled to master himself. One spear thrust was all it would take to end his life. Annon realized he was going to die. He would never see Hettie again. Her face flashed in his mind, spurring pangs of sadness.
The spirits of the woods seemed to recognize his faltering feelings. They surged into the midst of the Boeotians, exploding with puffs of magic as they tried to stall the advance, to protect the ancient Dryad tree at all costs. He watched them vanish out of existence, popping with dazzling colors. Why was his own life any more significant than theirs? Should he not also give his best, even if it meant his life?
Reeder had.
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
Annon fed his anger as his hands turned blue, wreathed in flames. He saw a Boeotian rear back with a spear and hurl it straight at him. Everything seemed to slow around him. He could sense every breath, every flash of his eyelids, the prickle of gooseflesh on his arms. The blessing of the spirits heightened every sense. He twisted sideways and leaned, feeling the spear streak by him. Annon countered, raising his hands. Fire swirled from his palms in spheres and struck the Boeotian, slamming into him and engulfing him only, not the trees near him.
