Fireblood
Page 89
Nizeera screamed and launched herself at the oncoming mass of men. She was all teeth and claws, ripping and savaging into their midst like some whirlwind. Annon let loose a curtain of flames to try and block the advance. The trees around the area caught fire, mixing gold with the blue. Branches shattered. A windstorm swept into the woods, fanning the flames and causing smoke to billow and blind them. He made it far enough back, hopefully creating a break between the trees to preserve the Dryad’s oak.
Annon saw them flanking him on both sides, trying to get near him and the tree. Gritting his teeth, he lashed out at them with the fireblood, drawing a circle of fire around his position. Spears whistled at him, but he felt them coming and ducked. Several struck the massive oak, burying into her craggy bark. Each one caused a spurt of anger and hatred inside him. He unleashed fire in return, blasting away the intruders one by one.
Giddiness. The overwhelming feeling of giddiness made him nearly start laughing. Was he in control of himself? Had he loosed the madness his uncle had warned him of? Pain struck his leg as a spear glanced him. He felt the skin rip and blood begin flowing down his leg. A hulking Boeotian charged him with an ax. Annon joined his hands together and sent a mass of fire into him, turning him into ash.
He could not see Nizeera through all the smoke, but he could hear her screams and the sound of dying. There was a chunking sound as an ax bit into the tree again. A Boeotian had managed to breach the circle of fire and had struck again at the tree. Annon turned abruptly and destroyed him. How many were there? How long would he last before exhaustion consumed him?
Smoke and fire flooded the woods. He could see shimmering streaks of spirits through the gloom, coming to aid in the battle. The cries of the Boeotians did not fade. More were coming. An impossible number. Annon staggered back into the tree, gasping for breath, trying to keep the fire in his hands burning. As soon as he touched the bark, he felt a presence. It was like a sigh, a breath in his ear.
Nizeera padded to his side, tail lashing restlessly. He saw the cuts and singed fur.
Courage, she whispered to him again.
Annon nodded, unable to speak. He was so thirsty, desperate for a drink of water. A shape moved in the smoke and Nizeera growled.
Pushing himself from the trunk, Annon advanced, bringing up his hands. Blue flame rippled across his fingertips.
He noticed the same effect from the man approaching him. Blue flames danced from his as well.
His Boeotian name was Tasvir Virk. He no longer remembered the name he was given as a boy in Stonehollow. After earning his talisman, he had chosen to enter the Boeotian lands and be a Druidecht among them. The Boeotians respected and feared the fireblood in his veins and he found himself almost revered as a deity. He lacked the physical size of their race, but he was strong and hard and had learned to survive. He would be strong enough to survive the Scourgelands, they told him. His power was truly greater than any who had come before.
Only later did he realize they were using him.
Tasvir Virk had entered the Scourgelands alone, believing he was strong enough to survive the horrors there. He was wrong. The woods destroyed him. But not before he learned one of its secrets. There were Dryad trees in the woods. Ancient trees. Older than the world. They befuddled intruders, turning them back again to face the horrors inside when they tried to flee. The horrors that had caused his madness.
Tasvir Virk stumbled out of the woods and vowed to destroy the trees. He consorted with the evil spirits of the hinterlands to learn about the Dryad trees and they taught him to see patterns and how to discern which trees contained them. They taught him how smoke from a rowan tree was lethal to lesser spirits. The fact that he had survived the Scourgelands cowed the tribe to his authority. If anyone crossed him, he had them sacrificed on a stone altar. His anger needed to be appeased. He had survived the Scourgelands.
His authority and power slowly spread into the other tribes until it happened. There were rumors that one from Kenatos had also survived the Scourgelands. Perhaps he was now the greatest man of all. Word of his legend spread through the Boeotians. He was Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. A man loyal to Silvandom and its rulers.
Tasvir knew that he was possibly the only man who might be able to unite all the tribes against the Empress and against him. He needed to die.
Now that all the Dryad trees in Boeotia were destroyed, he turned next to Silvandom. He would conquer the lands one by one, razing the trees until they were extinct.
Now one of his hunting parties had encountered a bearded man in Silvandom with the fireblood protecting a Dryad tree. It was time for Tyrus of Kenatos to die.
The man was older than Annon, maybe three times his age. A shock of gray hair tinted with red was equally telling. His face was mottled with blood veins, the same as he had seen among the Boeotians. His skin was hard and leathery. He had been a handsome man once, but the livid scars and purplish veins gave him a frightening look. The man was dressed in black robes with a talisman around his neck. He was tall and gaunt, his lips pallid.
Annon saw them flanking him on both sides, trying to get near him and the tree. Gritting his teeth, he lashed out at them with the fireblood, drawing a circle of fire around his position. Spears whistled at him, but he felt them coming and ducked. Several struck the massive oak, burying into her craggy bark. Each one caused a spurt of anger and hatred inside him. He unleashed fire in return, blasting away the intruders one by one.
Giddiness. The overwhelming feeling of giddiness made him nearly start laughing. Was he in control of himself? Had he loosed the madness his uncle had warned him of? Pain struck his leg as a spear glanced him. He felt the skin rip and blood begin flowing down his leg. A hulking Boeotian charged him with an ax. Annon joined his hands together and sent a mass of fire into him, turning him into ash.
He could not see Nizeera through all the smoke, but he could hear her screams and the sound of dying. There was a chunking sound as an ax bit into the tree again. A Boeotian had managed to breach the circle of fire and had struck again at the tree. Annon turned abruptly and destroyed him. How many were there? How long would he last before exhaustion consumed him?
Smoke and fire flooded the woods. He could see shimmering streaks of spirits through the gloom, coming to aid in the battle. The cries of the Boeotians did not fade. More were coming. An impossible number. Annon staggered back into the tree, gasping for breath, trying to keep the fire in his hands burning. As soon as he touched the bark, he felt a presence. It was like a sigh, a breath in his ear.
Nizeera padded to his side, tail lashing restlessly. He saw the cuts and singed fur.
Courage, she whispered to him again.
Annon nodded, unable to speak. He was so thirsty, desperate for a drink of water. A shape moved in the smoke and Nizeera growled.
Pushing himself from the trunk, Annon advanced, bringing up his hands. Blue flame rippled across his fingertips.
He noticed the same effect from the man approaching him. Blue flames danced from his as well.
His Boeotian name was Tasvir Virk. He no longer remembered the name he was given as a boy in Stonehollow. After earning his talisman, he had chosen to enter the Boeotian lands and be a Druidecht among them. The Boeotians respected and feared the fireblood in his veins and he found himself almost revered as a deity. He lacked the physical size of their race, but he was strong and hard and had learned to survive. He would be strong enough to survive the Scourgelands, they told him. His power was truly greater than any who had come before.
Only later did he realize they were using him.
Tasvir Virk had entered the Scourgelands alone, believing he was strong enough to survive the horrors there. He was wrong. The woods destroyed him. But not before he learned one of its secrets. There were Dryad trees in the woods. Ancient trees. Older than the world. They befuddled intruders, turning them back again to face the horrors inside when they tried to flee. The horrors that had caused his madness.
Tasvir Virk stumbled out of the woods and vowed to destroy the trees. He consorted with the evil spirits of the hinterlands to learn about the Dryad trees and they taught him to see patterns and how to discern which trees contained them. They taught him how smoke from a rowan tree was lethal to lesser spirits. The fact that he had survived the Scourgelands cowed the tribe to his authority. If anyone crossed him, he had them sacrificed on a stone altar. His anger needed to be appeased. He had survived the Scourgelands.
His authority and power slowly spread into the other tribes until it happened. There were rumors that one from Kenatos had also survived the Scourgelands. Perhaps he was now the greatest man of all. Word of his legend spread through the Boeotians. He was Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. A man loyal to Silvandom and its rulers.
Tasvir knew that he was possibly the only man who might be able to unite all the tribes against the Empress and against him. He needed to die.
Now that all the Dryad trees in Boeotia were destroyed, he turned next to Silvandom. He would conquer the lands one by one, razing the trees until they were extinct.
Now one of his hunting parties had encountered a bearded man in Silvandom with the fireblood protecting a Dryad tree. It was time for Tyrus of Kenatos to die.
The man was older than Annon, maybe three times his age. A shock of gray hair tinted with red was equally telling. His face was mottled with blood veins, the same as he had seen among the Boeotians. His skin was hard and leathery. He had been a handsome man once, but the livid scars and purplish veins gave him a frightening look. The man was dressed in black robes with a talisman around his neck. He was tall and gaunt, his lips pallid.
