by James Peart
Lifting its great hands into the air, it made as if to bring them together in a single, detonating clap that would finally put an end to the Englishmen.
As its hands descended, however, tendrils of yellow flame shot out as if from nowhere, sweeping over its head and coiling and twisting around them, binding them in a fiery knot. The demon pulled against the tangle and the flames tightened, searing its red-veined flesh, and it bellowed in a spasm of pain and surprise. It efforted a single monstrous heave, meaning to break free from the fire’s grip, and fell to its knees, its entire body shrouded in the sweep of flame.
Standing hunched in the broken entryway to the compound, a burst of continuous yellow fire streaming from his fingers, was the tall forbidding form of the Druid Daaynan.
He was more imposing than either Christopher or Simon had ever seen him, towering over the members of the company, his dark robes bound close to his skin, his hood drawn forward over part of his face. From the shadow of it his eyes burned toward the spot where Longfellow and the Tochried stood, a dangerous, volatile regard etched in his expression. He dropped his arms and the flames died in one last burst that covered the Tochried’s face and hands.
Longfellow drew back in alarm, issuing more words to the demon in its foreign tongue. The creature had somehow managed to shrug itself free from the fire. It rose to its feet once more, turning toward the Druid.
“What’s wrong, Steward?” Daaynan hissed. “Do you lack the courage to face me directly?”
“Ask me that question again when the Tochried is through with you,” came the answer. “By that time, you will beg me to put an end to what passes for your life.”
“You will only be remembered as a coward. Is that what you want?”
“You won’t be remembered at all, Druid.”
Turning to the creature, Longfellow pointed at Daaynan. “Fan Dom! Set kraht, dahtess!!”
Brushing aside the loose strands of the Druid’s magic, the Tochried came at Daaynan in a sudden, sidestepping lunge, skirting past Dechs and the other Legionnaires who stood between it and the sorcerer, bringing its hands together, sending waves toward its intended target. Daaynan was already reacting, however, fire lancing from his fingertips to meet the demon’s own peculiar magic, the yellow flames shattering the groundswell of its attack, dispersing the wave, its broken contrails rippling harmlessly to either side of him. The Druid dropped to a crouch, his hands weaving quickly, the strands of his magic threading and interlacing to form an impassable wall between himself and the Tochried. Christopher and the Legionnaires gasped and drew back from the wall of flame. Only Longfellow held his ground, issuing instructions to the Tochried to destroy the barrier. Christopher tended to Simon, who lay still on the ground, apparently unconscious, the Drey torch sticks held in his hands, the image of the temple that had lain between them gone from view.
The demon brought its hands together in an almighty smack...and the wall exploded, sending fantails of yellow flame everywhere. It walked into the core of the breach, searching for the Druid. Demon magic streamed through the rent, catching Daaynan unaware, lifting his tall form high into the air, sweeping him east toward the Steward’s tower. Up into the firmament it carried him, its shrill piercing cry shattering his ears, throwing him off balance. It sent him at speed toward the tower wall, the demon meaning to smash his body against the stone. Yet Daaynan fought back, summoning Druid magic, pink in colour, to surround and protect his form. From his great height, he sent Druid fire- yellow this time- ripping into the monstrous creature below, igniting it in a sudden blazing rush, torching it again and again until smoke traced from its blackened body in smouldering whirls and eddies. An instant later Daaynan crashed against the tower wall, his back and shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. Roaring in pain, his vision suddenly darkening, he dropped to the ground and lay there unmoving. The Tochried, charred and blackened, also lay motionless, weakened by the Druid’s previous attack. Moments passed while the company looked on helpless, wondering which of the two would be the first to stumble to his feet. Then, abruptly deciding it unimportant, the Exile Commander ordered his men to charge at the stricken demon. Pulling together as one, they sprinted forward, swords and axe-blades in hand, striking and cutting at the Tochried. The creature lunged at them with a sweep of its paw, knocking the first few of them right and left like ninepins. Yet wave after wave of them came at it and the demon was soon overwhelmed. Christopher watched them as they swarmed all over the Tochried, understanding and admiring the brave Legionnaires and respecting their Commander beyond measure. They couldn’t hope to subdue the demon with their limited strength and conventional weapons. They were merely trying to buy Daaynan time. The fact that they were willing to give their lives in the attempt showed him what kind of men they were and how the one that led them could act against orders in the name of what was right and just. He stared at the Commander and in that moment Dechs chose to look round and catch the expression of admiration on his face. He smiled at Christopher then, the look on his face suggesting that they were equals in this struggle. The Englishman blushed, thinking of his own, earlier act of bravery, then looked down quickly at Simon and repeated his attempts to revive his friend. As if picking up on his thoughts, in an act of counter-intuitive bravery, a number of the Legionnaires began to surround their Steward, pinning Longfellow to the ground, placing their hands over his mouth to disguise any attempt at further speech. The Steward lashed out with every means available to him but it did no good. Together, they carried him from the battleground.
Daaynan lifted himself off the stone surface of the compound just as the demon swept to its feet, brushing aside the latest onslaught of Legionnaires with an almost careless swipe of its hand, sending them flying like ragdolls. The Druid’s robes were covered in dust and dirt, his upper body sore from its impact against the tower wall. Yet his face was grimly determined, his eyes sinister and menacing, a ferocious rage welling inside him. They approached each other and resumed battle, the demon offering the sorcerer a chilling smile that matched the other’s passionate fury.
The combat wore on, a frightening contest that sent the opponents back and forth across the smouldering surface of the compound, twisting and winding, circling each other, each trying to outdo the other. At times it looked as if the Druid had gained the upper hand, the yellow fire he summoned boring through the attacking waves that sought to lift him off his feet, striking the Tochried’s body a number of times with its burning flames. The Tochried was heavy, cumbersome on its feet and an easy target yet it had strength beyond measure and the Druid fire seemed to cause few lasting injuries. It had more success in warding off the demon’s attack, the Druid’s pink flame rendering him immune to the piercing swell the other sent his way. However, as the moments passed into minutes and still the battle continued, Daaynan began to grow weary again. For weeks now, he had been fighting what the Steward had sent his way, journeying to distant lands before finally travelling here on foot, tiring of the Naveen King’s presence in him, wanting this to be over yet always knowing there was more to be done. Now the moment had arrived when he could confront Longfellow in person and he needed to do battle with yet another of his creatures. He met the Tochried’s gaze and he knew what it was thinking: sooner or later he would falter and when that happened the demon would finally put an end to him.
As if in response to this, a wave of sound thrashed out at him, not at his head or chest this time but at the level of his feet, skirting beneath the pink fire that warded his being, catching him unawares. He felt a sudden tightening around his ankles as if the bones and tendons within them were being swiftly crushed. The feeling travelled upward throughout his body until his entire form felt as if it were held in a vice-like clutch, turning and shortening until he felt the air being pressed from his lungs. He had no time to think, just a simple impulse that flashed through his mind with limbic speed: an impression of how his cousin- Jareth Tox- must have felt when he had employed his magic on him during
his final conscious moments back at the Druid’s keep. Magic. The white fire he had used to kill Jareth. White fire he could draw on now.
He brought it to bear, the Ceylon fire forming a point at the core of his being, tensing, gathering strength, its tendrilled sparks shooting out at the creature, wrapping around its form, closing, attempting to crush it as he himself was being crushed. Nothing happened. the Tochried brushed it aside as easily as it might have a spider’s webbing.
He knew suddenly where he had gone wrong. This creature came not from a place and time but from a realm where place did not exist. Thus, materialisation of any kind did not exist, including that produced by the Druid magic. The Brightsphere, during Daaynan’s training, had told him of such realms, when it had tried to instil in him the message that you needed to fight fire with fire. What had it said, could he now remember? His breathing grew short and laboured as he felt the very life being squeezed out of him. There was little time left, perhaps a few seconds before he lost consciousness altogether. He sank to his knees, dizziness washing over him. The Sphere had suggested the conjoining of his magics to defeat the non-material. Transparent fire! A combination of coloured fires, with one dominant to achieve its suited purpose. But which combination, and which prevailing colour? Which colour was nearest to transparent? White! The Ceylon fire, supported by the others.
Calling on every last reserve of strength, reaching right down to the wellspring of his power, he summoned the Ceylon fire once more, tensing one final time as it coursed through his system and exploded out through his clenched fists. At the same time, he called on all the others: brilliant azure, crimson, vermillion. Together, they coiled out toward the Tochried, the multifarious streams of light twining in disorganised loops, reaching, stretching out, webbing the creature in a glorious shroud, growing in density, becoming something solid. Weaving together as one, they slipped around the creature’s face and head like a death mask. Then the beams tightened and the demon cried out, not knowing what was happening. They tightened further until something of what lay inside the creature’s head ran down his neck and cheeks, sheeting the surface of its plated skin in its own blood. The Tochried released a final, earth shattering scream before the Ceylon netting tore its face to pieces, its bones crunching gruesomely as its skull imploded and the Tochried fell lifeless to the ground.
The Legionnaires who remained in the compound alongside their Commander stared at Daaynan as if waiting to see what he would do next. He watched them back, unsteady on his knees, the force that had carried him here to this place ebbing from him in slow waves. When they realised what he had done, that it was all over, some of them approached the Druid, the look of admiration they gave him dying as it met their eyes when they could see he was utterly spent, perhaps close to death. Incredibly, he rose and walked toward them, moving very slowly. He gave the soldiers a wry twist of a smile. Somehow, he managed not to fall until he was beside the closest of them. Their Commander pushed through them, catching him as he tumbled to the ground. Daaynan’s smile was still there. He looked at the Commander and silently mouthed the words ‘thank you,’ then his vision faded and he went limp in Dechs’ arms.
36.
Simon and the Druid were carried north of Mount Atterpeak to the Wood Sanctuary where they were treated by the shamans who occupied the centre. The Englishman was put in a large suite by himself where he was placed in a comfortable bed. Small tables stood one on either side of the bed on which peaceful icons rested, and simple coloured tapestries hung on the walls. Healers came and went, washing and dressing his injuries, administering herbs and salves to the areas most affected. For the wound on his head they applied externally a potion that was rich in remedial properties and made him drink a strong brew which restored energy.
He was asleep for much of the time and while he slept he dreamed of home, of England and Italy. Italy in particular. He was bathing in a lagoon with Christopher and some girls they had met, the waves lapping at their half-submerged bodies. His friend’s face looked untroubled. Lying in the pool, his head arched back into the water, his eyes meditatively focused on some distant point in the sky, he seemed not to have a care in the world. Smiling, watching him, watching the girls, Simon increasingly became aware of another presence, something foul and malevolent that stalked outside their paradise. Terrified, he came to his feet, standing between his friends and this thing, meaning to protect them. A monstrous shadow descended on the lagoon, and within it a viridescent flame threatened to consume them all. He stood before it, pleading: ‘leave him; take me instead!’ As the light from the fire touched him, he cried out in alarm. Then abruptly his surroundings changed. He was in the temple again, its effulgent beams ranging throughout for as far as he could see, innumerable pillars that hummed and pulsed with the life that bore them. There were shields on the pillars with fine rune carvings. The ones nearest to him carried an image of home. The shields were buttons, he knew. Press them and he could return. He reached out to do so, but in that moment, he felt the monstrous presence again. Blackness washed over him and he began to scream.
He jerked awake, snapping open his eyes. Daaynan was standing over his bed, his tall form draped in plain convalescent robes, smiling down at him.
“Simon,” the Druid said softly. The big man seemed kinder, gentler, the harsh planes and lines of his face less defined, less readily apparent. He stood patiently, without the usual sense of urgency the Englishman had come to expect from him, waiting for him to speak.
Simon blinked rapidly, absorbing all of this.
“Where’s Christopher?” he asked suddenly, filling with panic, rising half out of bed.
The Druid lifted his hand in a soothing gesture. “He’s fine. He’s convalescing in another wing of the sanctuary. As soon as I recovered myself, I went to see him. He’s eating solid food and is talking. Of the four of us, he was the least wounded. He had only scratches. One small scar perhaps, on his forearm where the crystal he wore was unable to fully deflect the Tochried’s attack. Mostly he was tired.”
Simon relaxed slightly. “That Commander visited me some time ago, I don’t know when. He was visiting his second in command. The man was seriously injured in battle but he’ll pull through, I think. I can’t remember much of what he told me, only that it was you who saved us all. That beast would have had us otherwise.”
If the Druid were pleased by his words, he did not give a sign that this was the case. He looked around his chamber. “Where are we anyway?”
“In the mountains, just north of Brinemore. Commander Dechs’ men carried both of us here. He left four days ago for the city to sort out the mess Longfellow made of things. We’ve been here two weeks but I would bet they have only begun to make progress.”
“What happened to the administration? Were they killed before we came to Brinemore?”
Daaynan shook his head. “They fled to the outskirts long before the Naveen King arrived. When they returned they were met by Dechs who handed control of the city over to them. Once they discovered the role he had played in defeating the Tochried, they insisted on his help. They promoted him from the rank and file of common soldier to acting deputy military advisor. The news was related to me by a mountain guide who arrived from Brinemore this afternoon. Now he will help oversee the administration. He’s a good man.”
The Englishman sighed. “So, there’s no one left in Brinemore save for the Legionnaires and what’s left of the governing Council?”
“That’s not true. There were citizens who escaped the influence of the Naveen King. They fled like the administration only to return when the battle was over. And the remainder of the Northern Army returned from the Drague Territories on horseback. The governors can build on those that are left.”
Simon reflected on this. “They’re cowardly, that council.”
“Only because their Steward was too. He’s being held in a barracks’ stronghold, by the way, pending their decision to strip him of his title.”
“Will th
ey do it?”
“I think so. They discovered he had banned sorcery only so his ‘creatures’ could employ it unchallenged and against council members who disagreed with the way he was managing affairs of state. They’ll never forgive him for that.”
“I see, of course.
“Daaynan...you haven’t told me word of Mereka...”
A look of grief stole over the Druid’s face, fleeting yet intense. “She didn’t make it, she...saved my life when I was still in the thrall of Iridis’ sorcery and unable to defend myself.”
The Englishman reached out, not quite touching the other’s arm. “I’m sorry it had to be that way. I know you cared for her despite what I said a while back.”
Daaynan nodded, yet his expression of sorrow had vanished. Simon was once more quietly astonished at how quickly the Druid brushed aside all evidence of feeling, leaving him again with the impression that the other did not care in the same way that he himself would. He knew that this was not true, but did it require the shared experience of a life-threatening conflict for him to see that? The battle was over and he was glad. Now he could turn his thoughts to achieving what he had wanted ever since his coming here.
