Save us, Druidecht! Save the tree!
Annon stared at the intruders in horror. They were a race he had never seen before. Tall and corded with muscles, yet their skin was mottled with protruding veins, giving them an almost purplish cast. They wore only loincloths and high hide boots. Each man carried a weapon in one hand and a cluster of burning sticks in the other. Annon did not know what kind of wood they held, but the smoke was obviously anathema to the spirits of Mirrowen, who fell as soon as they came in contact with the haze.
The giant man had a huge double-sided ax, and he took another powerful swing, spraying the glen with fragments of wooden splinters.
“No!” Reeder roared. “This is forbidden! These are not your woods! You must go!”
Reeder clutched his talisman in one hand and sucked in his breath. Annon felt the strength of his summoning. He could feel it jet past him, a wash of feelings that went into the surrounding woods for leagues. He was summoning the woodland animals to help. Foxes and wolves, bears and serpents. Hawks and falcons. All who felt the summons would be called to the Druidecht’s service. But he needed time. It would take time for the allies to arrive.
“Be gone, Druidecht!” The man with the ax had a hoarse, gravelly voice. “We will burn this tree! Atu! Banvenek!” He brought the ax back for another mighty swing.
Reeder’s face twisted with rage. “You do not know what you do!” he sputtered. There was a frenzy as the spirits redoubled their attacks, plunging at the tight cluster of men with determination, despite their falling numbers. A fierce wind began to rake through the woods. The air was suddenly full of howling and commotion.
“Atu!”
Annon saw the spear too late.
It struck Reeder full in the chest. He was a big man himself. The blow would have toppled another. Reeder stood, staring in shock at the huge shaft protruding from his skin. The jettison of magic imploded. His knees buckled. Reeder collapsed onto the forest floor, toppled like a tree himself. A mesh of scrub cushioned him.
The pain and rage that blasted inside of Annon was nothing he had experienced before. There was no way to describe it, even to himself. Part of him literally exploded. His friend. His mentor. Someone who was more a father to him than anyone else in all the kingdoms lay dead or dying.
There was a smirk on the leader’s face. A ruthless smirk. The death of a man meant nothing to him. It was a face hardened and callused by death. His eyes passed over Annon, barely giving him another look or thought. He hefted the ax back for another swing.
Never in Annon’s life had he been so tempted. His instincts did not tell him to run. That would have been the wise thing to do. Instead, he promised himself he would kill every single one of them or die trying.
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
Flames gushed from his fingertips, racing across the gap of woods until they smashed into the man with the ax. The Boeotian. The murderer. Annon watched his skin blacken but not blister. For a moment it seemed as if he were protected even from fire. He turned in shock and surprise, face wild with pain and panic. The flames suddenly engulfed him and he disappeared in a plume of ash. The heavy ax blade thumped to the forest floor, the handle consumed.
Annon did not wait a single moment. He charged into the grove of oaks, heading straight for the other Boeotians. His rage was insurmountable. He doubted if he would ever be calm for the rest of his life. The injustice and cruelty of these men defied his reason. There were more, and he sent the flames rushing into them, sending it streaking into their midst. Cries of terror sounded in the grove as they struggled to dodge the deadly fire.
Nizeera screamed and charged into the glen, teeth and claws savagely raking the men holding spears and axes. We fight together, Druidecht. We must save the tree.
A spear ripped into his arm, lancing his skin as it went past him. He did not feel the pain. Another one hefted a spear, bringing it back to throw; Annon extended his palm and a spray of flames blasted him into dust. He did not know how many there were.
Movement to his left.
He ducked around a tree and listened as the spear struck the trunk. It would have killed him had he not moved a fraction faster. He emerged from the other side of the tree and sent flames into three men at once. The feelings sapped all sense of will and restraint. The bubbling emotions they caused were euphoric and delightful. He was giddy inside, with his friend dead nearby. How could that be? How was it even possible to be consumed with such happiness when he should be crying?
How many men were left? How many killers?