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

by Michael J Sanford

  “A quest, Gareck. We shall embark on an epic quest,” he said and stared directly into the golden eyes. “For justice!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  WYATT SCREAMED AND tried to pull his hand away. It felt as if a thousand needles were dancing upon his palm, each choreographed step piercing a nerve. Rozen’s clawed grasp held him fast, so he settled for twisting his head away. Tears sprung to his eyes and he did not want the Draygan to see. He imagined her golden eyes saw anyway. There was little they missed.

  “Hold still,” she hissed and yanked on his wrist, pouring more of the thick brown liquid onto the torn skin.

  “Well, stop pouring acid on my hand and I would,” he bellowed in return.

  “Is the young Druid so soft and frail?”

  “I am not soft, I am-” Another surge of pain blossomed from his hand, tracing up his arm.

  “Wyatt the Mighty, I know. Stop squirming, Master, this will halt the pain.”

  Immediately a cold sensation washed over his blistered and broken hands. The wave took with it his tears and he felt his rigid body relax. He turned to face his physician. His palm was tacky with a cornucopia of strange salves and ointments. The air smelled strongly of flowers and alcohol. Rozen wrapped his hand tightly in pale linen strips, leaving only his fingers open and winding the wrap nearly to his elbow.

  “There,” she said and took a short step backward, surveying her handiwork. “Your softness has been hardened.”

  He returned her smirk and flexed his bandaged hand. The pain had completely evaporated and the tight wrapping felt secure and protective. He glanced at Rozen’s matching wraps and smiled. Rozen nodded astutely and grasped his left hand. Ah, he thought. My other hand…

  He once again turned away as Rozen began scrubbing the wounded palm with a concoction of fragrant fire. He couldn’t bother to ask what it was, the pain forbade it. He gritted his teeth and sucked air in ragged gasps and hisses. He forced his mind away from the searing pain. A dozen wooden crates lined the walls of the small room, matching the one atop which he cowered. He could not make sense of any of the elaborate symbols scrawled in charcoal, but he studied them regardless, imagining what might lie inside. Rozen tugged sharply at his hand, pulling him closer. He winced and pinched his eyes closed. He was a fabled Druid; he couldn’t let her see him cry.

  “If I may ask, Master, what is your plan?” The sarcastic mockery had left her voice, and what remained was steely and serious.

  Plan? What is my plan? His mind was reeling from the pain and had forgotten his previous declaration before Rozen and a thousand expectant Children. The truth was he had no plan. He just couldn’t help himself.

  “A Druid cannot reveal all his secrets,” he managed to say between gasps of pain.

  “The Regency is vast and unyielding. They wield a dark magic, birthed from death and darkness itself.”

  He gritted his teeth and dug his free fingers into the soft wood. “Don’t you want to see them pay for what they did to the Children?” His mind flashed to the corpses, dark and bloodied, the pile of severed heads, and the unseeing white eyes. His stomach lurched. He could still smell it. The pain in his palm dissipated for just a moment as he traded it for the image of slaughtered Children, but it quickly returned as he abandoned the nauseous thought. He thought vomiting would be worse than crying, but he strove to avoid both.

  Rozen hissed. “I want nothing more than to watch them all burn.” She emptied the contents of an iron flask and the pain disappeared, clearing Wyatt’s mind. “But, we are only four,” she continued. “The Children will not help our cause, and Gareck and Mareck are no warriors. They have never ventured further than the Shadow Forest. And you, Master, forgive me for saying so, but you are clearly not of our world, even greener than the Children. What can we hope to do?”

  “Trust me, Rozen. That’s how all good quests begin, a small band setting off to battle a greater foe.”

  It was plain on her flawless face that she was yet unsure. She tugged at the roll of linen and stretched it taut. Her golden eyes dimmed. Was it fear they showed? Or doubt? Wyatt wasn’t sure, but it didn’t seem to be confidence. One thing was clear, she didn’t trust him. She completed the wrapping. Wyatt flexed, it felt good. It felt right.

  “Best wrap your feet as well, Master. Who knows how long we must journey and I will not be carrying you.”

  Wyatt scowled indignantly at the barb, but stuck out his stained feet. The nails were in desperate need of clipping and were caked black with dirt and blood. Wyatt shuddered, knowing it wasn’t his blood that stained his feet.

  “What did the Elder mean when he said ‘what they did to you’?”

  Rozen had knelt, obscuring her expression as she set to wrapping his feet and legs. “It is nothing. The Elder was merely referencing the Children’s loss.”

  Wyatt knew she was lying. He could sense the way she flinched at the question, as if he had struck her. “No, really, Rozen. What did he mean?” She finished the first foot and had moved to the second without answering. “What did he mean? I’m a Druid, Rozen, you have to tell me.”

  Rozen pulled tight on the wrapping, forcing a pained gasp from Wyatt’s lips. She tucked the end in, stood and hastily left the small store room, her long braid trailing behind, the fire whip following the shadow. Wyatt was left alone, rubbing his pinched calf and staring after the mysterious Draygan. What did they do to her?

  “Whatever it was,” he whispered to the dark. “They will pay for it.”

  The courageous boast lifted his spirit and filled his lungs with righteous air. A wide grin cracked his face and he wished someone had been there to hear his promise. He needed an audience. He slid off the crate and skipped out the doorway, another thought creeping into his head. Now, if only I had a plan…

  * * *

  Métra was alive with energy and life as the Children scoured each platform, and tended to their fallen comrades. The air crackled with vibrant orange light, banishing the bitter cold that had stolen over the dead a short while ago. Wyatt could hear the heavy notes of their prayers and chants from the base of the cavern. The rhythmic song was comforting and enchanting, but Wyatt could not shake the knowledge of what lay scattered across the platforms. With the light restored he could see the cavern floor was tarnished with darkened patches of spilled blood, a long trail leading into the crude stairwell cut into the floor. He shuddered and ducked into another tunnel entrance, away from the death chants and blood stains.

  He found his party in the third room he checked, their muffled whispers betraying their location, as well as the mysterious orange glow that emanated from the storage room. The others he had checked had been dark and cold.

  Gareck and Mareck were feeding small bundles of what looked like chunks of salted meat from an open crate into a wide burlap pack. Rozen was perched on another crate, fletching a new quiver of arrows from a pile of wooden shafts and vibrant blue feathers. Their hushed conversation ceased as Wyatt breached the doorway.

  “Ah, Master Wyatt,” called Gareck. “You seem fit for travel. I trust our dear Rozen patched you together alright.”

  Wyatt flexed his hands and dug his toes into the firm soil as he crossed the room. “Right as rain, as my grandma likes to say.”

  “Marvelous, we have nearly finished packing some supplies. We can leave at your whim.”

  Wyatt could feel his face flush, but he stood tall, pulling his shoulders back and holding his head high. He nodded and launched himself at a nearby crate. It took two tries, but he finally found himself perched on the edge.

  “It’s a lot warmer now and brighter too,” he said as his gaze found Rozen. She had a shaft in one hand and a black bladed dagger in the other. She didn’t look up.

  “Aye,” Gareck said, handing another bundle to Mareck who dropped it into the pack. “Life has returned to Métra, Mother protect us.”

  “I don’t get the light in here, or the temperature,” Wyatt said as he searched the room for the mysterious ligh
t source. It seemed to radiate from everything and nothing.

  “Get?”

  “Understand,” Wyatt clarified.

  Gareck brow furrowed. “Your world must be very different than ours. Darling, perhaps you can explain it to the young Master.”

  “Of course, Dear.” She turned to Wyatt and fixed her blank eyes on his, at least he thought she had. It was difficult to say exactly what she was seeing. “It’s simple, really. Life brings the light and warmth, death the cold shadows. How else would it be?”

  “We have light switches and heaters in my world.”

  Mareck scowled and shook her head, earrings rattling loudly. It was clear she didn’t understand, but Wyatt offered no further explanation. Her expression shifted to a soft smile.

  “The light follows life,” she continued, “bringing with it the warmth. The shadows and cold stalk death, and flee from life.”

  “And the Sanctum door…” He didn’t want to mention the pile of heads, but wanted an answer all the same.

  Mareck’s face remained firm. “Only life may pass into the Sanctum, death has no place there, in the presence of such creation.”

  Wyatt remembered the blinding light of that place. Death had closed the door, he realized. The heads had been no different than a lock or a chair shoved beneath a doorknob. And the light that followed us as we descended amongst the headless Children…

  “Why did the Regency trap the others in the Sanctum? Why not kill them like the ones on the platforms?” He winced, bracing for her response, but Mareck continued to stand firm, emotionless.

  “I have already answered that for you, Master.”

  Wyatt wrinkled his brow and thought to protest, but then it hit him. Death has no place there…

  “The Regency is… dead?”

  Gareck chuckled. “Darling, I think he may just have it now.”

  “Almost, Dear. The Regency is not actually dead, but they are of death, much as the Children are a people of life.”

  Wyatt thought on it a moment. It made sense; life and death, dark and light, good and evil, cold and warm, black and white. It was clean and sensible. Absolute.

  “How are you to save us, stranger, when you do not understand our world?” called Rozen, without lifting her eyes from her work.

  “Rozen!” Mareck shouted, casting a stern stare at the dark warrior.

  Rozen muttered an apology.

  “Forgive her, Master,” Mareck continued, turning back to Wyatt. “Her moods change like the seasons. Sometimes she is utterly void of manners.”

  “It’s OK,” Wyatt said. He couldn’t coax himself to feel any animosity toward the golden-eyed Draygan. He found he pitied her, but was unsure of why. “I am a stranger here,” he admitted, feeling the honesty slip through his lips. It felt strange. “But, I want to… I will help you.” For a moment, he thought he heard the soft whisper return, but after a moment it was gone. It filled Wyatt with confidence. Every word he had said was true. I want to help them, he thought, for whatever reason.

  “She will follow your lead, just as Mareck and I will. The Mother has brought you to our world for a reason. She works in strange ways, perhaps even keeping her plan from you.”

  Wyatt frowned. “I am a Druid. I know everything, well except about this world. But, I know a lot of other stuff. I am a genius.”

  He thought he heard Rozen stifle a laugh. Gareck nodded. “Whatever the case, it is high time we fought back. We will go where you go.”

  Wyatt frowned. Something was bothering him. “Why?” he said. “Why do you want to follow me? I mean, I know I’m a Druid and all, but… uh… why?”

  Mareck laughed and cinched the pack shut. “It is the Mother’s will.”

  “Just so,” Gareck said. “Long has Hagion waited for the Druids to reappear and take back the realms. How could we not follow?” He grinned warmly.

  “Well, then how come the rest of the Children won’t help us?” Wyatt said.

  “That is not the Mother’s will for them. It is our calling, not theirs,” Mareck said.

  “That’s a stupid answer,” Wyatt said, unsatisfied. Neither Child responded, so he shifted the conversation. “So, where is the Regency anyway? They got a big castle somewhere?”

  Mareck and Gareck shared a look and shrugged in unison.

  “You don’t know where they are?” Wyatt asked.

  The Children shook their large heads and smiled.

  Wyatt sighed. “Then how are we going to find them?”

  Rozen hissed. “Searching for the Regency will only grant us death… or worse. We should flee.”

  Gareck grunted. “Don’t mind her, Master. We will follow.”

  “Follow?” Wyatt said, bewildered. “Follow where?”

  Mareck shouldered the pack and placed a thick hand on his shoulder. Her empty eyes seemed to stare deep into his very soul. “You must listen, young Master. The Mother has given you her gift, she will not abandon you. Listen.”

  Wyatt frowned at her a moment then yawned loudly, adding volume for dramatic effect and stretched. He was suddenly exhausted and the conversation was making him uneasy. Time had no bearing deep beneath the valley, but he recalled the sun setting just as they had entered Métra. How much time had passed? Two hours? Three? Regardless, he was beat.

  “We can leave in the morning, I think, after a nice breakfast,” he said with a grin. “Then I will lead you to your vengeance.”

  “Very wise,” Gareck said.

  “Aye,” agreed Mareck.

  Rozen hissed softly as she slammed her new arrows into her quiver.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE SMOKE CAME in like a valley fog, drifting from every direction. It was thick and acrid, stinging his eyes and searing his nostrils. The heat came next, an oppressive blast of steam and fire. Wyatt turned and ran, stumbling blindly through the thick veil of smoke. The clouds parted before his headlong charge, but quickly closed behind him. His lungs burned and seized. His arms pumped and his legs churned, but he couldn’t be certain he was moving. Sweat slid over his lip and it tasted earthy, like dirt. He rolled and realized he was on the ground, caked in thick black mud. It filled his mouth, nose, and ears. His head was heavy with the weight. The smoke continued to swirl around him, but he could sense his pursuer, so he forced himself shakily to his feet and ran again. He squinted at the hazy shroud and tore at the clumps of dirt on his face, flinging it aside. He looked over his shoulder, not knowing what he expected to see, but sensing he had to keep running. It’s right behind me. I can feel the hot breath. It burns, oh, it burns.

  The mud covering his body dried as he ran, baked in the heat. Another couple of frantic strides and it dissolved to dust, leaving a trail of black hanging in the smoke behind him. His lungs freed, he gasped and inhaled a large gulp. The torrid air ripped at his chest and turned his tongue to sand. He coughed violently, gagged, heaved, and fell to the ground in spasms. I’m dying, he realized and rolled to his back. It’s coming. I can feel it now. Oh, God, don’t let it take me. I can feel it.

  Desperation crept over him, thicker than the smoke, tendrils of doubt and fear. He was dying and something still came for him. He could sense it, deep in the swirling smoke; it came, stalking his soul. He coughed again and vomited. A thin wash of blood rolled down his chest. It hurts, oh, it hurts. Why does dying hurt so badly? He wiped weakly at his mouth and clutched at his stomach as another spasm took hold of his broken body and shook it. A pulse of cold pressed between his fingers, bathing his hands in ice. The coldness was a welcome relief from the hot air, but his heart froze when he held his hands up. Peering through the smoke, it was clear enough what he was seeing. His hands were coated in thick, dark blood. It ran over his wrists and slowly snaked down his arms as he studied it, knowing what it meant. Another moment and he would die.

  The ground began to vibrate, knocking Wyatt from his trance. He pressed his blood-soaked hands to the ground and the tremors grew. Wyatt looked anxiously into the gray smoke, seeing nothin
g, but feeling everything. It’s coming. Fear pulsed through him and he began to scramble backwards, scuttling like a crippled crab. The ground pitched violently, rolling Wyatt to his side. It took all his strength to roll onto his back again. He managed to lift his head high enough to see the large shadow cut through the smoke and hover over his battered body. He commanded his body to turn, to rise and flee, but it made no movement. The large shadow shifted and as Wyatt stared, the smoke began to fall. It descended like snow, thick and suffocating. The veil faded away just as the large shape lunged. Wyatt wanted to scream, he wanted to yell. I’m already dead, he shouted against the recesses of his mind, but still the giant beast came, wide mouth agape and inviting.

  He lurched upright with a loud cry. Mareck’s wide mouth opened before him. He yelled again and pulled away from her grip, stumbling over Rozen, who awoke with a loud hiss. She shoved him roughly away, sending him sprawling back at Mareck’s feet. His breath was ragged and pained, sweat slick on his face.

  “A bad dream, Master,” Mareck said and patted him on the head. “Nothing to fear. You are safe in Métra yet.”

  Wyatt lay in place for a moment, commanding his breath to slow and his eyes to adjust. After a moment, both obeyed and he rose slowly to a sitting position. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the fire burning heartily in the middle of the platform, and for a moment he could smell the acrid smoke of his dream. He coughed once, twice, but shook off the feeling.

  He was sitting in a pile of soft straw, surrounded by a twist of coarse fabric. Rozen rolled over and fell back asleep next to him, her breath whistling softly. Gareck puttered around the kitchen, a crude knife in one hand and what looked like a giant turnip in the other. Mareck remained over him, a soft smile across her broad face. Wyatt looked up at her and found her strange face reassuring.

  He smiled and set to untangling the blanket from around his legs. Once freed, he stood and stretched, banishing the dream from his mind. Mareck nodded and trundled away. Wyatt straightened his habit and walked to the platform’s edge. He looked over the expanse with nary a flicker of fear or vertigo. Métra was alive with life and energy once again. From his vantage point he could not believe that any evil had befallen the strange community less than a day before. The air was warm and inviting, the vibrant orange glow restored, and a thousand round bodies milled about their separate platforms, preparing meals and shouting heartily to one another. It was if death had never visited. It seemed strange to Wyatt. There was no grieving, no ceremony, and no reminder. Life simply went on in Métra, much as he imagined it did every day. How can they not care? he thought and absently touched his pendant.