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

by Michael J Sanford

  Shadows obscured the edge, so he reluctantly fell to his knees and resorted to crawling toward the noise. The edge materialized in front of him suddenly and he nearly slid over the edge. Rozen, Gareck, and Mareck looked up at him from the lower platform covered in a dull orange shroud, as if surrounded by a dozen dying fireflies. Rozen had shed her hood. Even her brilliant braid seemed to rot under the shadows and frosted air. It hung loose, cascading over the front of a shoulder and nearly reached the ground. Her golden eyes shimmered, but held a heavy tone that Wyatt could not discern. They looked at him only a moment before returning to the dark object on the ground in between the trio. Wyatt squinted, but could not get a good look until he scaled down another ladder and knelt in front of it.

  It was one of the Children, stripped of its habit and beheaded. The blood that pooled beneath looked black and bottomless, a shadow of life. Wyatt shuddered and scrambled to his feet and took several steps back, the chill of the cavern forgotten and replaced by the horror of the headless corpse. All he could see was the corpse, the black blood, and the shadows. They pressed in from every side, brushing his skin with icy fingers and breathing death upon his neck.

  “This was Jagornt,” Gareck whispered and placed a clawed hand upon the fallen Child.

  Rozen’s teeth were bared, her own way of whispering her disdain. Mareck twisted her hands around her digger’s shaft, the dark head resting over her shoulder. Her white eyes glowed despite the shadows and did little to disguise her emotions.

  “What…” Wyatt began, but the words caught in his throat, frozen in the cold air.

  Gareck stayed his hands, but turned to fix Wyatt with his white eyes, full of sorrow and anger. “The Regency.”

  “They couldn’t,” Mareck said in disbelief. “They wouldn’t. We had fled.”

  “Their bloodlust has clearly intensified, my Darling.”

  “They wouldn’t… Why now? What’s changed?”

  A pair of white eyes found Wyatt, instantly raising a pit in his stomach, but neither Child addressed him.

  “What do we do, Dear? Surely, some have survived,” Mareck said, turning away from Wyatt to gaze on her fallen comrade.

  Rozen grimaced and turned away. Her hands found her braid and shakily began to coil it around her neck. Gareck rose and crossed to the platform’s edge, the dull orange glow seeming to follow the round man. His pale skin was awash in orange hues.

  “Death has fallen as far as I can see,” he said slowly, as if the words would change and a different scene would present itself.

  Mareck shook her head. “No, Dear. It cannot be.”

  Gareck left the edge and grabbed Mareck by the shoulders, pressing his forehead to hers. The orange glow seemed to pulse. Wyatt rubbed his eyes.

  “Let us hope some were able to retreat to the Sanctum. Not even the Regency can penetrate a room rich with such life.”

  “Let us go and see, Dear, and pray the Mother has kept the brood safe.”

  “What’s the Sanctum?” Wyatt said, finally finding his voice.

  Gareck had already disappeared over the edge, but Mareck turned and addressed him for the first time since he had slain the Fallen in the valley.

  “The Sanctum lies deep under Métra, many furlongs below this cavern. A mystical cavern of the Mother’s design, thick with her gift. It is where…“ She looked down at Jagornt’s lifeless body and hesitated. “It is where our life begins.”

  Mareck nodded sharply at Rozen and descended into the darkness. Rozen crossed to the edge and leapt into the shadows, ignoring the rope ladder. Wyatt was once again left alone, with only the headless corpse of a Child to keep him company. That and the shadows. He hurried to the ladder.

  Wyatt was not used to climbing up or down ladders and his hands were still bruised and worn from the previous descent as they fled for the Torrents. He prayed for a calmer destination.

  Wyatt would have been left behind in a matter of moments if the group had not stopped at every platform to pray over another corpse. Every dead Child was missing its head; some were lacking limbs, rough ribbons of torn flesh clinging to empty joints. Most were found in pairs, desperately clinging to one another, their dark blood intertwining across their battered bodies. Wyatt had to force back a mouthful of bile at each grisly scene. The mystical dull orange glow followed the group like an ominous storm cloud, but Wyatt wished it away more fiercely with each headless corpse they discovered.

  Gareck and Mareck placed their hands on each bloody body and murmured strange incantations and prayers, sometimes little more than strained humming. Rozen stayed near, but never said a word, her hands nervously tugging at the long braid wrapped around her neck. It looked as if she was trying to hide beneath the fiery coil and Wyatt wished he had a braid of his own. Gareck and Mareck would conclude their chants just as Wyatt caught his breath and restored blood flow to his fingers, and then they would descend deeper into Métra, to another corpse, another lost soul, and another chanted prayer.

  The cold air nipped at Wyatt’s fingers and toes as they fell deeper into darkness. Snot froze inside his nostrils, forcing each strained breath into a whistle. But, the smell persisted and grew with each step, each platform, and each corpse. It reminded him of autumn, but not in terms of pumpkin pie, cinnamon, or freshly fallen leaves. The cold air was surprisingly damp, almost wet, the smell of decay heavy in each breath. It smelled earthy, of dirt and stone… and of death. The aroma was pressing. He felt claustrophobic, nearly at the edge of panic. But, he couldn’t. He was a Druid, a mighty spellcaster that could rend enemies with merely a coy thought. He had felt so powerful on the surface with the sun at his back and the sweet honey scent of the valley in his nostrils. Now, deep below, in the bowels of a strange world, he felt trapped, smothered, and alone.

  Blisters broke fresh and wet across the pads of his hands. His feet were sodden blocks of lead. Every platform was the same, the same darkness, the same blood, the same smell, and the same biting cold. After the twelfth dismal scene Wyatt’s mind succumbed to the same numbness his body was entombed in. He pawed anxiously at the chained amulet, wishing for just one spark, one fragment of warmth and energy. The green crystal looked back unseeing and unchanging.

  Eventually the platforms ended, the rope ladders ceased to fall, and they reached the bottom of the cavern, much as they had when they fled. Standing in the same location now could not have been farther from where he had stood then. The darkness was crushing, he couldn’t breathe. Despair crept into Wyatt’s mind and taunted him from a dark corner, teasing at the edges, probing for a weakness. He thought he might be sick.

  He fell into a trance, mindlessly following the shuffling Children and the silent shadow with the fire braid. A large hole opened dark and foreboding at their feet and bled into a twisting length of crude steps. No two were alike, each roughly scored into the dark soil and stone, turning and bending further towards the world’s center. Wyatt had to focus on each numbed footfall to keep from falling. He found solace in having something to distract his mind from the carnage littered above.

  Time had no place there, moments blended together to disorient and betray. They could have walked for several minutes or several hours. Wyatt could not be certain. Neither would have surprised him. The steep tunnel banked in every direction, twisting and turning, ever descending into darkness.

  At last the steps fell away and faded into a room with no discernible walls or ceiling. Darkness crouched ominously at the borders. At the center, a blinding column of light shone in the pitch, radiant and piercing. Wyatt had to shade his eyes and yet the light persisted, beckoning, warming, seeing.

  “Mother, have mercy,” cried Mareck, the first sound Wyatt had heard in… he didn’t know.

  “Blasphemous heathens,” Gareck bellowed.

  Rozen fell away from the group, collapsing to her knees and turning away from the light. Wyatt stared at the hunched warrior for a moment before looking to the glowing pillar. He squinted, staring for several moments befo
re his eyes adjusted. He immediately wished they hadn’t.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE PILLAR OF light pulsed brightly, penetrating deep into the shadows above, limitless. The cavern floor at the base of the light was shrouded, obscured by a large misshapen heap. The now familiar autumn smell seized Wyatt’s senses just as his eyes sharpened on the first blank stare, the first pair of unseeing white eyes. Hundreds stared back, their pained expressions frozen in time. Pale skin blazed bright under the mystical light. Red rivulets trailed down foreheads, noses, and lips, creating a spider web of crimson. It was Mareck’s face and Gareck’s face that looked back, multiplied by the hundreds.

  Wyatt’s stomach twisted and his head swam in an impenetrable fog. His vision flickered and he felt the ground beckoning, whispering his name. He collapsed upon his hands and knees, retching violently. His whole body twitched and convulsed, but nothing escaped past his lips aside from a pained moan. He stared at the ground without seeing it, his mind desperately searching for a thread of sanity. It’s not real, he thought. I’ll look up and it won’t be there, not the heads, or the darkness, or the shadows, or the cold… I’ll look up and it’ll all be gone…

  He forced a breath deep into his lungs, stifled a cough and rocked back on his heels. Gareck and Mareck approached the dismal heap. It rose over their heads, the column of light turning their pale skin a flawless white. Wyatt felt his stomach churn again as the first head was pulled away. They were chanting and praying again, their voices growing louder with each head they displaced. They were clearing the shaft of light, placing the heads in the shadows far to the side. Wyatt dry heaved again, his eyes bulging as he did. He couldn’t look away.

  His legs moved by themselves and before he knew it he was at their side, staring at a hundred blank, lifeless faces. He watched in horror as his hands grasped a head, sticky with blood, and placed it gingerly to the side, mimicking Gareck and Mareck’s care. The smell was thick. He was swimming in it, a dark lake of decay. The beam of light was blinding, but the surrounding shadows were pitch black. The battle between the two auras played on his vision, casting his world into a contrasting scene of dizzying heartache and nausea.

  His mind screamed for him to stop, begged him to turn and run, but his lips hummed along with the chant, embracing the long and soothing notes. His hands were gloved in crimson, fingers stiff and sluggish. The light grew with every head they moved. It swelled and shimmered, casting the laboring trio in warmth unfitting of their task. The light flickered off a hundred barren scalps, unblinking, staring, and convicting.

  Gareck pulled the last head from the light, its pale skin shrouded in a mask of red, its features obscured and disfigured. The energy of the mystical shaft sparked, crackled, and seemed to come alive. They retreated several steps as it widened. The beam surged, forcing a wide ring of heat and light before it. Mareck and Gareck pulled each other close, their hands sticky with blood, their faces stained with tears. Wyatt looked to Rozen who had risen and stood motionless at his side. He thought of grasping for her clawed hand, but a sudden surge stole his breath and arrested his thoughts. The mystical shaft of light pulsed violently once, twice, and on a third pulse, exploded toward and through them. Wyatt’s hair was blown back, the hot blast of air buffeting his face, nearly bowling him over. The sensation was gone in an instant and a new room stood before him.

  Vivid light radiated from every surface, nearly blinding Wyatt. Not a single shadow was to be seen. He squinted against the glare and saw a crowd of Children looking back. There were a thousand or more of the identical creatures packed tightly shoulder to shoulder, their white eyes fixed on the newcomers, their round bodies clad in the same brown robes. Ledges were carved into the walls of the cavern, deep ridges of blindingly white rock, lined with more Children. They spiraled upward further than Wyatt could see. The Children littered every square inch of the vast expanse, aside from a single stretch of wall, perhaps a hundred feet wide. It was occupied by a towering pile of perfectly smooth and spherical gray stones. The Children maintained a wide border around the stones. Wyatt remembered what Rozen had said. They hatch.

  “Elder Kahld,” Gareck said as a lone figure emerged from the masses and approached the group. “I am glad to see you alive.”

  The Elder looked no different than the rest of the Children, certainly no older than Gareck or Mareck, but there was something about his eyes. They were just as white as the rest of his race, but Wyatt could sense a certain wisdom in them, an old wisdom, and at once he knew Elder Kahld was very ancient indeed. Kahld grasped Gareck’s cheek with a clawed and webbed hand and did the same with his other to Mareck’s.

  “Mareck, Gareck,” he said slowly, each word a raspy whisper. “It is good to see you two. The Regency barricaded the Sanctum’s door, trapping us here. How they did it, I cannot say. They have a dark magic with them. I fear their hunger is growing insatiable.”

  “I must apologize, Elder Kahld,” Gareck said as he met Kahld’s hand with his own, his other squeezing tight to Mareck’s. “It is our fault the Regency…” his voiced quivered and broke.

  “Ah, my Child. The fault is not yours to claim.”

  Rozen stiffened and pushed Wyatt roughly to the side as she approached the Children. She had uncoiled her braid, letting it fall over her shoulder and run down the length of her cloak. She stood at attention.

  “It is my fault,” she said firmly. “Elder Kahld, the Regency was searching for me. What they did… I fear it was a warning, or a punishment… for sheltering me in Métra.”

  A hushed murmur rippled through the crowd. Kahld released Gareck and Mareck and motioned for Rozen to kneel. She did so and Kahld placed a hand to her cheek. The dark warrior tried to drop her gaze, but the clawed hand held it firm.

  “No, dear, it is not,” he rasped. “It is evil and death that fuel the Regency and what led to the… to their aggression. The dark gifts corrupt all those that wield them. The Regency hungers for decay and becomes more lost to it with every passing moment. Reason and justice are not found in the dark arts. I fear it was only a matter of time before they…” He shook his head and smiled at Rozen who did not return the expression. “We welcomed you into our midst willingly, knowing the cost of such an action. The Mother called for us to help you, young Draygan and that is what we did. If she should call for this penance then the Children will suffer in peace, knowing we carried out her will. What they did to you...” His forehead wrinkled, a sorrowful shadow cast over his features.

  “But, what they did here…” Rozen said. Her eyes flitted over thousands of watchful blank eyes.

  “A tragedy, yes. But, it is merely a result of our idleness. Many seasons have we hid underground as their corruption spread across Hagion and the other realms, inflicting their ways, their rules, and their wickedness on all manner of peaceful creatures, consuming life wherever it is found. We have been craven where you, young Draygan, have been brave. You should have taken us in, not the other way around.” Elder Kahld smiled, but it looked forced.

  “What do we do now, Elder?” Gareck said softly.

  The ancient creature released Rozen and beckoned her to stand. He turned and slowly walked toward the throng of Children. He stopped just short of their border and turned.

  “We must tend to our deceased brethren, rebuild, and live. We will carry on as we always have. That is the Mother’s will for us.”

  “What of retribution?” shouted Mareck, her face drawn with anguish. The expression startled Wyatt.

  “Retribution is not for the Children to cast, dear Mareck. You know that.”

  “I can’t stay here after what the Regency has done.”

  Kahld let a silence fall for a moment. “And you won’t, Child. But, it is not your place to judge another. We listen to the Mother and heed her laws, bear her guidance, but we do not wield her scorn. We are her Children, not her judges.”

  “No, we aren’t…” Mareck said hesitantly.

  “Who is it that carries out th
e Mother’s will? Who is it that speaks with her love and wields her rage?”

  As Kahld spoke, a thousand unseeing eyes and a singular pair of golden ones shifted and locked on Wyatt. He glanced around anxiously, suddenly aware of how little clothing he was wearing. He tugged at the bottom of his habit and prodded at his nose, searching for glasses that were not there.

  “The Druids,” a thousand mouths whispered in unison.

  “You have your retribution, Mareck,” Kahld said. “And you, Gareck and Rozen. It would seem the Mother has chosen you, called you to act alongside the Master. That is her will for you.”

  Silence descended. How do they know? Wyatt ran his eyes over the crowd and the vast expanse of the brilliant chamber, the mystical radiance, the smooth stones, the thousand bald heads, and the pressing expectation that hung in the air. His pass halted when he met Rozen’s golden eyes. A surge of confidence swelled in his chest and spread to his limbs.

  “I am Wyatt the Mighty,” he shouted, his voice cracking. “I am a Druid… from… another world… far from here. I have come… to, uh… judge the Regency and bring the… heathens to justice!”

  He stood tall and put his hands on his hips, awaiting a raucous cheer. Instead a loud hum pulsed through the masses. It sounded approving, but Wyatt could not be sure. His only reassurance came when he glimpsed a thin smile on Rozen’s flawless face. Her golden eyes flashed and his face flushed in response. He raised a fist and pumped the air.

  Gareck fell to his knees and bowed to Wyatt’s feet. “What is your will? Lead us, Master. What would the Mother have of us?”

  Wyatt grinned lopsidedly, the horrors of a hundred severed heads long forgotten, his mood restored.