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

by Michael J Sanford

  “We’re sitting around waiting for the Regency to attack. What’s more important than that?”

  Henrick pushed open a wrought iron gate at the bottom of the stairs and pushed inside. Wyatt followed and found he was standing in a crypt. Hundreds of stone caskets lined the room, elegant carvings and statues differentiating each resting place. An eerie chill swept over the pair and Wyatt shivered so intensely he nearly fell. Death and shadows. Shadows and death.

  “It’s Brother Mathias,” Henrick said, pulling Wyatt to a corner of the crypt, his torch illuminating a short wooden door. A thick brass ring hung from the center of the pale timber. Wyatt trembled again, though not for the cold.

  “What about him? He’s upstairs.”

  Henrick stooped and pulled open the stunted door, revealing a small space carved into the stone wall. “No, Brother Mathias is right here,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  THE FLAMES FROM Henrick’s torch flickered and orange shadows danced across the decomposing body. The white robe was stained dark crimson, nearly black, and the body was cruelly contorted in the small space, but the severed head staring up at Wyatt was undeniably the Blind Seer.

  Wyatt stared, transfixed. “What? I don’t get it.” He stared a moment longer as horror crept up his spine and seized his throat. “Oh no,” he gasped and bolted for the stairs.

  “Rozen! He’s not really-” Wyatt’s words caught in his throat as he burst into the central chamber.

  “Wyatt!” called a voice, distant and foreign.

  Wyatt slid to a halt and looked to the garden. His companions were just as he had left them, sharing both food and merriment. They gave no indication of his cry, so he yelled again, but no sound came from his throat and they continued to ignore his distress.

  “Wyatt!”

  The mysterious voice echoed off the stone of the temple again, though Wyatt could be certain it came not from his friends. Nor did they seem to hear the call. He spun in a circle, scanning the high walls. Dizzy, he fell to his knees, breathing hard, and mopping sweat from his brow. What’s going on? Who’s calling?

  “Wyatt!”

  His eyes darted to the large carved timber doors. They shook, rattling against their giant hinges, and the call came again.

  “Wyatt! Please, help me!”

  He shook his head. I know her, he thought. But, no. No, I don’t.

  Again, the call came, her voice thick with desperation and agony. Wyatt flicked his gaze to his companions, but they did not stir. Don’t you hear that? he screamed from his mind.

  He stumbled to his feet and lurched toward the door. Panic gripped his chest, forbidding him to take a full breath. He reached the thick wood just as it shook again.

  “Please, Wyatt, help!”

  He pressed his hands to the door. It was warm and inviting, yet he knew what it disguised. Pain lay on the other side, he knew, but it would not be ignored.

  “Please…” called the voice again, much weaker than it had before. She was fading, he knew. She’s dying.

  He couldn’t let that happen. Not again. His hands found the thick metal rings and he pulled. The doors were heavy, reluctant to move, but Wyatt persisted. A throaty groan stirred from deep within and he let it loose in a mighty yell. Voices called at his back, but they were distant and muddled. I have to save her. The doors shifted, slightly at first, but then they exploded open with such energy that Wyatt was tossed backward, landing roughly on his back and skidding along the polished stone floor. His head cracked back and they world shimmered and spun around him, blossoming in a rainbow of colors.

  He wrestled with the pain and brought himself to his feet, only to have the scene before him send him downward again. The stone bit at his knees and the breath vanished from his lungs. Terror set his body rigid soon followed by a sick realization. What have I done?

  The doors hung open, the vivid carvings facing inward. Wind howled past the forest and snowcapped ridges, and echoed off the stone of the temple walls. A chill had fallen and the color seemed to have vanished from the murals.

  “Mighty Wyatt… the Druid,” said the towering Regent. “I thought you a myth, delirious trader tales, but here you are, in the flesh. Well, at least for now.”

  Wyatt’s eyes narrowed and his palms went to the floor, finding the smooth stone and his mind finding the whisper.

  “Oh, I should not think that the best of ideas, Master.”

  The Regent was clad in onyx armored plate inlaid with brilliant silver. The lobstered steel clanked as he held his four arms wide, gesturing to the stunning Draygan warriors at his side. The Regent grinned wickedly as Wyatt let the tension flow from his limbs and sat back on his heels.

  “Master, flee,” Mareck bellowed. A brilliant fire braid was coiled about her thick neck. “Run from here.”

  “Aye,” Gareck agreed, swallowing hard. “Run.”

  Wyatt eyed the Draygans. They were nearly twice as tall as the Children, muscled, and as stoic as statues. But, they were unarmed and unarmored, wearing only loose silk pants of deep crimson. His eyes went to the long braids that ran around their arms and twisted about his friends’ necks. And then he remembered what Rozen had said. The art of conflagration.

  “Wyatt!” Rozen shouted as she struggled against the many hands that held her. He had never heard such anguish in her voice.

  A pair of armored Regents stood behind the onyx leader. Shining blades crossed at her throat and six free hands groped at her thrashing body. Her face was streaked with tears and terror.

  Wyatt made a motion toward her, but the onyx armored Regent held up a hand and shook his head, a brilliant silver band pressed atop his waist length golden hair catching the light.

  “You…” Wyatt said, looking first to Rozen’s terror and then to the onyx gemstone fitted into his crown. “The Lord Regent.”

  The Lord Regent smiled, flashing flawless ivory teeth and bowed. “At your service, Master.”

  “I… I… don’t understand. Brother Mathias…”

  The Lord Regent laughed and stepped aside, his black armor clanging on the stone floor. A new form stepped forward, four-armed, but stunted, shriveled black skin clinging to bone. It crept along, hunched, staring ahead with void eye sockets and a gaping mouth, absent of teeth or tongue.

  “What is it that you fear the most, Master?”

  Wyatt glared at the Lord Regent, his face twisted with hate. “I am a Druid. I fear nothing.”

  Rozen sobbed loudly and hissed, gnashing her teeth beneath a flood of desperate tears. Wyatt’s rage rose. I promised.

  “Only a fool has no fear.”

  “Then I am a-”

  The words vanished from Wyatt’s lips as the black, rotted Regent shimmered and shifted before his eyes. I know her, he thought as a raven-haired woman stepped toward him. She was human, her face gentle, soft, and so… familiar. Wyatt rose to his feet, but couldn’t move. She wore a worn t-shirt and stained jeans. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted pink. She was beautiful.

  “Who are you?” he said. I know you.

  The woman’s face softened, her dark eyes moist and piercing. She had halved the distance between them and continued to walk slowly toward him. “Oh, Honey,” she said and the voice froze Wyatt’s breath and stopped his heart. That voice. You were calling my name.

  “Oh, Honey,” she said again and touched her stomach with both hands. Wyatt’s eyes followed the motion and saw red seep through her pale fingers.

  “No,” he whispered. You can’t.

  She took another step and held her hands out at her side, as if surrendering. They dripped crimson and her stomach retched blood.

  “No, no,” he shouted. He tried to turn, but his eyes couldn’t leave her and his feet had grown to stone.

  “Wyatt!” A voice shouted from the darkness. “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real!” The voice broke off in a howl of pain and fell away like autumn leaves.

  “Oh, Honey.” The woman took another step forwa
rd, this one short and unsteady. The wound at her side had turned her shirt red and glistening. Her pink painted toes left bloody prints on the white marble.

  “No,” he shouted again. “Go away! No! You’re not real! No!”

  “It’s a Wight!” called the distant voice. “Wyatt, you promised!”

  He shook his head, but still she came. His heart was in his throat and hot tears burned his face, but he couldn’t move. The woman was nearly upon him, her eyes unwavering. Her lip trembled and her hands shook as she reached for him.

  He could feel his entire body tremble and shake as if an electric current coursed through it. Her hands were wet and cold. They clawed at his face and her body pressed against his. The blood soaked through and clung to his stomach, sticky and warm. She brought her face to his and leaned her lips to his ear.

  “Why, Wyatt? Why?” she whispered.

  Wyatt’s blood ran cold. “No,” he blubbered, his voice choked with anguish.

  She pulled her face away and looked intently at Wyatt. She knows me. Slowly the face melted away, rotting before his eyes. Flesh and blood ran like water.

  “SHE’S DEAD!”

  Bile and dead flesh washed over Wyatt as the woman vanished. He crumpled to the floor, sobbing and retching.

  “Wyatt!”

  He lifted his head and found her golden eyes. “It wasn’t real,” she said.

  He shook his head. She wasn’t real. He looked to Rozen again. The golden eyes grounded him, granting clarity. And rage. “Let her go!” Wyatt bellowed, spewing spit and bile onto the clean white stone. His fingers raked the floor.

  “You dare command me, Druid?” The Lord Regent took a step forward and narrowed his dark eyes. “We cleansed this world of your kind long ago. I don’t know why you have crawled from your hole, but you have no place here. We are the gods now! And I am Lord Supreme. Your kind are naught but relics of a time long past and dead. I will take all from you. I will take it as only a god can and send you crawling back to your precious Mother with nothing. NOTHING! I command here! Me!”

  He turned and took something from a Regent behind him. When he turned back, Grenleck shrieked and clawed at the plated hand, his tiny claws doing little to the thick onyx steel.

  “I am god!” he shouted. “And I decide who lives and dies! Not the Mother, nor her precious Druids.” He turned and spat, his face contorted and burning red. “I am god. I decide. Life and death is mine to command!”

  With a twitch, the armored hand closed and the Lord Regent tossed the imp with no more remorse than one would toss a stone into a pond. Grenleck’s body hit the floor with a sickening wet noise and slid to Wyatt’s knees, the small head nothing but a mangled mass of red and ivory. He frantically pulled Grenleck to his chest and looked upon the scaly creature. Red ran over his hand and pooled onto the cold stone. Wyatt would never hear the curious chirps of chortles again he knew, and something clawed at his gut. A rumble roared in his throat and he let loose a primal growl, his throat burning raw.

  “Where is your precious Mother now, Druid? Where is your great power?”

  Wyatt laid Grenleck carefully on the floor and stood to face the Lord Regent. “You want power?” he spat through clenched teeth.

  The ground trembled and pitched as Wyatt whispered to the stone. Save her. You have to save her. It was your fault. You did it. Save her. The Lord Regent flinched for a moment, but quickly gathered himself and drew a longsword from his back. He thrust the blade at Rozen’s throat, beneath the two already cutting into her dark skin. A bead of red formed over the tip and ran down the polished steel.

  “Do it,” Rozen shouted. “You promised!”

  “Go on, Druid,” the Lord Regent snapped.

  Wyatt stared into Rozen’s golden eyes as the floor trembled and the air shook. He had never been skilled at reading expressions, especially hers, but now… It was unmistakable. He had promised… He had promised…

  With a guttural howl, he relented and the temple fell still, the air eerily silent. The Lord Regent sheathed his sword and laughed.

  “The Mighty Druid,” he sneered. “Crippled by loyalty and principle. Such a weakness. It is that which separates the Druids from the true gods.” He turned his chin to the Regents holding Rozen. “Take her.”

  The Regents immediately turned to the open door, dragging Rozen between them. The Draygan hissed with fury.

  “Wyatt! You promised! You… Promised! Wyatt!”

  He watched helplessly as they took her from view, dragging her down the pale white steps. He could do nothing without forfeiting her life and those of the Children. I won’t, he thought. I can’t.

  “Wyatt!” she continued to shout, her voice piercing and heart rending. “I… I trusted you. Wyyyyaaaat!”

  “I will find you,” Wyatt shouted at the Lord Regent, his eyes daggers. “I will find her. I will save her. And I will kill you.”

  The Lord Regent laughed again and bowed mockingly. A sneer split his eerily handsome face. “Kill them all,” he said and left the temple with a swirl of his jet and silver cloak. A dozen armored Regents filled his void and drew blades.

  “No,” Wyatt shouted and turned to the Children.

  Mareck and Gareck smiled and nodding knowingly, their white eyes speaking volumes of love and understanding. The long braids burst to life. The flames cut through muscle and bone like a hand through smoke. Even in death they smiled. Wyatt hated them for it.

  Wyatt howled in pain as the round heads rolled toward him, their wide smiles fixed in place. Eternal peace. The world was spinning. The Draygans made a move for Wyatt, their long fire braids blazing in their hands, but Wyatt had already gone to the ground.

  And beneath a wave of tears, he was screaming.

  The emotions poured forth hot and fast as he yelled. He screamed into the stone and bellowed at the air. Energy coursed through his body and bit at the flawless white stone. I will bury us all.

  The temple heaved and cracked. The ceiling exploded with a thunderous clap and rained giant chunks of white stone upon friend and foe alike. His body was alive with energy and shaking with violent tremors. We will all die here. Hate surged and he brought forth timber from the floor, cleaving the stone apart, rising violent and thick to meet the crumbling temple. The sound was deafening.

  He yelled until his voice ran out and his throat burned with righteous fire. He trembled and clawed at the stone until his fingernails ran red. He could no longer feel his body and his mind was quickly fading as well. He cried louder and sought to melt into the crumbling temple. Take me. Take me and end this.

  His shouts turned to sobs and tears carved scars into the dust along his cheeks. The temple lied in ruins. Tendrils of thick roots grasped at the bodies and clouds of dust drifted high into the sky. Great pieces of white stone covered the entire area, a graveyard of destruction and mistakes.

  I promised her. I promised.

  He tried to stand, but collapsed again. He tried to see, but his eyes were clouded.

  Mareck. Gareck. Grenleck. I failed you all. Rozen. I promised. I promised…

  He clawed his way to his hands and knees and let loose one final cry. He shouted with all the hurt, all the anguish, all the guilt. He felt as if he would explode.

  Instead he collapsed amid the rubble and their final resting place. Mareck, Gareck, Grenleck. It was a grave now. A grave of his own creation and fault.

  He could sense bodies crawling toward him over the death and destruction. He could hear their voices and smell their fear.

  But, all he wanted was to sleep.

  To sleep and never wake.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  WYATT’S EYES SLOWLY fluttered open though he commanded them not to. The moss was so soft and enveloping. Let me sleep forever, he thought. It was night, dark and cool. He couldn’t say how long he had slept, but it was not enough. You failed, whispered a new voice in his mind. It was his. You promised.

  He blinked, but made no other movement. What was there to wa
ke for? His friends were either slain or captured. Because he had failed. A mighty Druid resigned to watch his friends slaughtered. My family. His fingers slowly flexed and crept across his chest, finding the small bulge beneath his shirt. Send me away, he thought. Far from here. Far from anywhere.

  Suddenly brilliant white light flashed and filled Wyatt’s vision, forcing him to squint. He bolted upright with a start. Had his eyes been closed all along?

  “What the fuck?”

  Wyatt’s eyes slowly adjusted and his hands fell to his sides. It wasn’t moss he felt. No… it was…

  “What the fuck?”

  Wyatt smiled weakly as he looked at her, noticing the band posters on the whitewashed walls and the pink comforter beneath him.

  Athena closed the door part way and took a step into the room; her room. “How the fuck did you get in here?” She was whispering, but it sounded like yelling.

  Wyatt blinked and rubbed his eyes. For once he was completely without words. His mind was unresponsive and so he stared. Sitting there, on her bed, in her locked dorm, he smiled sheepishly and stared.

  Something in the hallway caught Athena’s attention and she lunged at Wyatt, shoving him roughly off the bed. He hit the hard tile floor without a sound. What was pain now? He pressed his head to the floor and watched as feet stepped into the room.

  “Lights out, Athena.”

  “OK, Ms. Grace. Goodnight,” Athena said, eerily calm.

  “Goodnight.”

  The room plunged back into darkness, only a dull sliver of light coming from the hallway. Athena dove onto the bed, her head poking over the edge, inches from his.

  “Seriously,” she whispered. “What the fuck?”

  “Swear words are used when a more intelligent response can’t be found,” he whispered.

  “Well… fuck, Wy. You’re in my fuckin’ bedroom. Where the fuck have you been? And how the fuck did you get in here? You been creepin’ in here all day?”