by Dan Bilodeau
Deidre said that the target, a bundle of hay tied together with some twine, was only fifty yards away, but Dal was certain it was farther than that. His first few shots had traveled wide, while his fourth effort at least hit the dirt in front of the target.
“Lean back as you draw the string and then come forward.” She pantomimed the motion. He pulled back until he couldn’t stretch the bow any more, then came down and aimed at the target. “Be sure to keep both eyes open, and when you’re ready, let go.” He obeyed, and after a deep breath released the arrow, which went straight for the target and hit the bottom of it.
“I hit it!” Dal was all smiles as Deidre took aim with her bow. In a flash, her arrow was off, striking the bale of hay dead center, which wiped the smile off Dal’s face as fast as it had arrived.
“You did well, Dal, but as you can see, there’s room for improvement. Try it again.” He picked up an arrow and nocked it. He winced. His fingers, unused to firing a bow, were starting to blister. He ignored the pain, both physical and emotional, and took aim.
“It’s only you and the target,” she said. “Let everything else fade away.” Dal stared at the hay until it was all he visualized, seeing and hearing nothing else, in a total void except for himself, the bow and arrow, and the target. He concentrated harder and the stone began pulsing in his pocket. Waves of energy enveloped him.
The arrow flew, striking the makeshift bale directly beneath Deidre’s arrow. She cheered and clapped him on the back. Dal couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Deidre said. They put down their bows and sat under a tree, enjoying the sounds of nature. Dal welcomed the cool breeze that had just started blowing.
“How’s your mother today?” Deidre asked, picking up a twig and tossing it.
“I’m not sure. I don’t know how to explain it, but one minute she’s fine and the next it’s like she’s in another world. She’s been this way since father died, but seemed to be getting better lately. I’m afraid Soren’s death is going to make her worse than ever.” Embarrassed at revealing so much, he couldn’t look at Deidre.
“Roland’s personality shifts like the wind too. Some days he’s in pain and can’t even get out of bed. Other days he can move around, and I’d never know he was sick. I’m very worried about him.” Without realizing it, Dal had put his arm around her. He started to take it away when she leaned against him. If he removed it now, her head would hit the tree. How could she be two such different people? One minute she was the confident hunter, so sure of her prowess. The next she was vulnerable and needed someone’s support. Dal felt something exciting happening that he couldn't understand, and his heart was beating so fast it scared him.
“It’s going be all right, have faith.” He wasn’t sure why he’d said this, but it seemed to be the right thing. She turned to look at him, and he was all too aware of the power of her gaze. A moment of silence passed between the two, then Deidre moved her face toward his until he could smell the sweet scent of her breath. He matched her movement, and their lips locked.
Dal closed his eyes and time seemed to stand still. All he could think about was how she tasted. When she pulled back, both were breathing heavily. He wanted to say a million things, starting with how he had been waiting for this moment for years. Instead, nothing came out. And when he finally tried to speak, Deidre put a finger to his lips.
“Shhh,” she said. “Don’t ruin it.” Dal nodded once.
They sat there, holding each other, the sun peeking through the branches, and the woods alive with its subtle movement and unique beauty. Soren would have loved this setting.
EIGHT
Wulf was enjoying a breakfast he’d had delivered to his office when he heard some commotion coming from down the hall. He pushed away his plate of half-eaten eggs and meat, but listened a moment longer before deciding if he should get up. Wulf tolerated no discord among his subordinates, demanding complete order at all times. Anything less would show him in a poor light, and for this reason could not be allowed under any circumstances. And the Emperor expected the same, which pleased him.
But in many other respects, he didn’t know what to think of the Emperor. Andlar’s poor worshiped him as a god, while the middle class whispered that he had to be Jethru’s vicar to the world. However, a tenet of Jethruism averred that no one was to believe in things that weren’t physically tangible. So how could an intangible god exist? Wulf shook his head. Best leave those thoughts to the Anmar, the high clerics of Jethruism. Their role was to ponder the great mysteries. Wulf wished they would hurry up and ponder, then get to work for the Empire, the same as everyone else.
The Andlar church was mum on the subject of the Emperor’s divinity, ostensibly because there wasn’t really room for him in Andlar theology. Still, the man had lived for hundreds of years, so he must be doing something right. Wulf didn’t quite believe the Emperor to be divine, but he certainly didn’t view him as he did other men. As far as Wulf was concerned, the Emperor was someone to be obeyed, nothing more, nothing less.
Wulf snapped out of his cogitating as the noise increased and a courier came running into his office.
“What is it?” Wulf barked.
“Sir, I have an urgent message from Quork.” He handed Wulf a rolled-up piece of parchment with the Andlar seal, which was a depiction of the Emperor wearing his war helmet. A fearsome image, Wulf had to admit.
He pored over the contents. Then he reread everything and paused. “So,” Wulf said finally, “what am I supposed to make of this? A Fire Angel? What in Jethru’s name is a Fire Angel?” He got up and walked over to his large office window, dismissing the courier but ordering him to find Mulbar and tell him to come to his office immediately.
Wulf didn’t care much for fire, because when he was a boy he’d witnessed firsthand the destruction it could leave in its wake. A crewmember on his father’s ship had fallen asleep and left a candle burning. It had required his father and ten other men to put out the blaze, but not before four people had died. Wulf flexed his right hand, which bore the scars from that fire.
He threw the communiqué in his desk drawer. The Druids had to be behind this. Other than those ancient relics, who else could conjure up fire? The reports of an angel were clearly exaggerated; it must have been some new trick they had devised. Well, he had a few tricks up his sleeve too, starting with a crack squad of 20 heavily armed mounted Weepers.
Unlike the regular army, which was primarily composed of Andal conscripts, the Weepers were bred to be the heart of the Andal war machine. They were raised together, away from their parents, and forbidden the pleasures of ordinary men. They underwent rigorous physical and martial arts training, and were taught that to die in service to the Emperor was the highest possible honor. Whenever the Andals needed to sow mayhem or terrorize the enemy, the Weepers were deployed.
They had turned the tide so the Andals could conquer Espara two centuries earlier. And they had single-handedly determined the outcome of the war with Gaul, a developing nation at the time, to the northeast of Andlar.
“You called for me, my lord?” Mulbar asked. Wulf hadn’t heard him enter, but Mulbar was known for his stealth, so he expected as much.
“How are our mounted soldiers doing who have just finished their advanced training?” Wulf asked.
“They’re tired of sharpening their swords, my lord. They’re chomping at the bit for a fight.”
“Good, I have a mission for them.” Wulf then expressed his belief about the Druids concocting the "Fire Angel," and speculated that they must be assembled en masse somewhere near Quork.
“Excellent, my lord.” Mulbar smiled devilishly.
“I want this done right, no mistakes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They are to annihilate the Druids, but not everyone else they come in contact with as well. And I specifically don’t want them killing a bunch of farmers so that I end up with a full-scale revolt on my hands.
Understood?”
“I won’t let the men get carried away,” Mulbar replied, still holding the evil smile.
“Go, then,” Wulf commanded, “and bring me back a good report.”
An hour later, Wulf looked out the window and watched as 20 riders in masks and armor galloped away, with Mulbar in the lead. It shouldn’t take them long to overtake the Druids. Their magic, the source of their strength, was growing weaker, and they would be easy prey.
Dal opened his eyes when he heard a knock on the door. He was in his bed, which felt strange to him for some reason. The last time he awakened here, his brother was still alive. That’s what was out of place.
He felt a thumping in his head as he got up. Who could that be? His mother must still be sleeping. He answered the door, and standing before him was Hadrian.
"You must come with me, and your mother must leave this house immediately,” the old man said in a quiet but firm tone that left no room for argument.
Dal had planned to give his mother the same advice, but not this soon.
“Are you sure we have to leave right now?” he asked.
“There is no time for questions, do as I say.” Hadrian’s tone was sharper; Dal went to wake his mother without further discussion.
“Ma,” he said, poking his head in her bedroom. “Hadrian is here, and he says you have to leave the house. Take food and an ax, and a blanket for cover, and find a safe place in the woods.” He thought a moment. “Maybe that spot not far from the stream where you used to take Soren and me when we were little.”
“Why, son?” Just then Dal heard Hadrian calling for him to leave.
“I don’t understand all the reasons. Just know that the story about the flaming bird was real.” He paused and ran his hand over his forehead. “Ma, it was me.”
“The old magic could never do that.”
“Its not the old magic. I think Hadrian knows what’s going on, so I have to go with him now. Please, get everything together you can carry, and leave right away.”
She murmured something. Dal walked in and kissed her on the cheek and left with Hadrian. He hated leaving her. However, she wasn’t the type of person to be forced into doing anything she didn’t want to do. She’d pack up and go when she was good and ready. He could only hope it wouldn’t be too late. This thought made him well up, something he’d done a lot of lately.
After walking for just a couple of hours, Dal was exhausted. He came to a log and sat down with a thud. All he wanted to do was sleep. “I can’t believe I’m this tired,” he said to Hadrian. “I slept okay last night, at least I think I did.”
“A Seraph is always tired after he shifts.”
“What are you talking about?”
Hadrian turned, and Dal gasped. He hardly recognized the old man. In place of the drab brown garb he was wearing, he was now adorned in a bright, multicolored robe with intricate runes. Dal had no idea what they meant, but each pulsed and seemed to move of its own accord.
The robe contained five colors: green, blue, white, red and brown. The green on the robe was not just bright, it was at times blinding. It moved fast, like thick grass blowing in the wind. The blue was deep and dark and rolled the same as waves on the ocean. The white was like a cloud scudding by on a lazy day, hiding the sun. The brown was a rich earth tone, as if ready for sprouts to burst forth into the world. The red on Hadrian’s robe was a fiery mass churning and ready to explode.
No longer stooped over in his usual posture, he now stood erect, matching Dal in height. Hadrian also appeared healthier; his ashen skin had been transformed into a pearly hue that glimmered in the sunlight.
“Hade, tell me what’s going on.”
“And now I shall. I’ve seen Druids lose their tempers, but a Seraph’s anger was something way beyond anything I had ever witnessed before. That’s how I knew for certain you were one. But…I am so sorry about your brother, Dalziel. If I only could have reached him right away, I might have been able to save his life.”
Hadrian’s words hit Dal hard. Caught up in the old man, he had forgotten about Soren. He slumped over in anguish, his hands and forehead touching the ground in front of the log. “Soren!” he cried. “If only I--”
“If only you had fought before you shifted, then I would have needed to bury two lads instead of one. Your brother was brave, but he was a child. Unfortunately, the Andals don’t make a distinction, nor do they have any semblance of compassion in them. I am truly sorry, my young friend.” Hadrian came over and effortlessly lifted Dal to his feet.
A flash of anger took hold of Dal. “You did this, Hade. His blood is on your hands too. You filled his head with lies and fairy tales, and he paid for it with his life.” He charged. The old man sighed and pushed out his hand. Dal felt the air go out of his lungs and found himself flying backward. He landed in some grass, picked himself up, and stared at Hadrian, open-mouthed.
“Don’t act so surprised, my young friend, I still have some magic left in these old bones.” His face became grim, as did his tone. “If I had known your brother would act as he did, I would have spared him the stories. One so young can not be held accountable for his actions, but these are harsh times indeed. And what you say may well be true.” Dal watched as a tear slowly made its way down Hadrian’s cheek. “I will have to bear Soren’s death, just as I have countless others. I’m afraid the only way we can stop these wanton murders is to rid Ibernia of the Andals, and that means every last one of them.”
Dal was experiencing a torrent of emotions. However, Hadrian’s single tear was enough to alleviate much of his anger. “What’s this about a Seraph and shifting?”
“I was referring to what you did in Quork.”
“Why do you keep mentioning Seraphs? I’m in no mood for your stories right now.”
“I knew farmers were thick, but you’re taking this to another level. My dear boy, I’m talking about you.”
“I’m, I’m one those things from your stories? That’s crazy. They’re just made up. There’s no way I could be one of those Seraph things.”
“What is ridiculous is denying what is right in front of your eyes. Or do you still think you’re living in a dream? I can throw you again, if you wish.”
Dal rubbed his arm, sore from minutes earlier when the old man had effortlessly tossed him aside. How had he done that? “Wait, I’m one of the five…a Seraph?”
“Yes, unless that was someone else torching those Andals in the town square.”
“I can’t be. I’m just a farmer from Quork. I don’t know how to be whatever a Seraph is.”
“Don’t know how?” The old man chuckled. “Are you sure? That was some pretty advanced magic you used yesterday. Granted, the stone amplified your power substantially, but I haven’t seen a fireball that size in ages. I’d say that’s a pretty good start for a fledgling Seraph.”
“But I don’t know how I did it. It just happened, and I don’t why.”
“You made the stone a conduit for your magic. I had no way of knowing which element would be yours, but sooner or later it would have manifested itself in you.” He chuckled again. “You probably would have set a few fields on fire, even without the stone.”
The stone. He pulled it out of his back pocket. Dal didn’t remember putting it there. He just remembered falling, and the treetops closing in on him.
His perplexed look gave Hadrian a good idea of what was troubling him. “The stones have a mind of their own. As you will remember from my ‘useless stories,’ they were given to us by Dio ages ago. They are infused with Him, and therefore they are alive. I’m sure you’ve stared into that stone and seen that truth for yourself. It reacts to your emotions, which is both a blessing and a curse for those who are chosen.”
Dal felt his stomach churning. “Chosen? Me? It must have the wrong guy. I’m not brave and I’m no hero. I’m just a daydreaming farmer.”
“Daydreams, you say? What about your night dreams, Dalziel? What have you dreamed of?”
&
nbsp; “Nothing, just…wait a minute, how do you know about that?”
“Let’s just say I’ve had a lot of experience with dreams myself.”
Dal thought about his dreams. “A lot of times I dreamed I was flying. I dreamed of the fire pits and of something chasing me.” He looked down at the stone.
“You dreamed of those things because the stone was calling out to you. It presents itself to its intended user and no one else. Young Dalziel, you’ve been given a great honor and an even greater responsibility.”
“You can tell Dio where He can put this stone.” Dal threw the stone as hard as he could. Hadrian raised his arm, and the stone switched directions in midair and landed in the old man's hand.
“You can hate Dio all you want, lad, but He’s not the one who killed your brother. Dio doesn’t do those things, but he allows them to happen. He tests us, but He never gives us more than we can bear. Soren’s time had come lad, that’s the hard truth. Yours is just beginning.” He tossed the stone back to Dal.
Dal caught it and ran his hands over its now vibrant red surface. It thrummed and pulsed, and he felt red waves of power fill his body. “Dio can test me all he wants. I’m not interested in serving some higher purpose.” He turned to Hadrian. “But I am interested in killing Andals. How did you throw me?”
“I used air,” Hadrian said. Dal wasn’t accepting everything Hadrian told him, but he wasn’t discounting all of it either.
“So if I’m a Seraph, what are you?”
“I am what you would have been sooner or later, had the stone not chosen you. I am a Druid, my dear boy.” He bowed with a flourish. “And I am here to help you learn and develop your power. That is my role as Dio has seen fit to bestow it upon me.”
“So, you’re not some crazy old loon after all?”
“Just because I’m a Druid doesn’t mean I can’t be crazy. The two are not mutually exclusive. I’ve known many Druids who were mad as hatters, and many who were wiser than I. In the end, people are people.”
