Smoke and fire flooded the woods. He could see shimmering streaks of spirits through the gloom, coming to aid in the battle. The cries of the Boeotians did not fade. More were coming. An impossible number. Annon staggered back into the tree, gasping for breath, trying to keep the fire in his hands burning. As soon as he touched the bark, he felt a presence. It was like a sigh, a breath in his ear.
Nizeera padded to his side, tail lashing restlessly. He saw the cuts and singed fur.
Courage, she whispered to him again.
Annon nodded, unable to speak. He was so thirsty, desperate for a drink of water. A shape moved in the smoke and Nizeera growled.
Pushing himself from the trunk, Annon advanced, bringing up his hands. Blue flame rippled across his fingertips.
He noticed the same effect from the man approaching him. Blue flames danced from his as well.
His Boeotian name was Tasvir Virk. He no longer remembered the name he was given as a boy in Stonehollow. After earning his talisman, he had chosen to enter the Boeotian lands and be a Druidecht among them. The Boeotians respected and feared the fireblood in his veins and he found himself almost revered as a deity. He lacked the physical size of their race, but he was strong and hard and had learned to survive. He would be strong enough to survive the Scourgelands, they told him. His power was truly greater than any who had come before.
Only later did he realize they were using him.
Tasvir Virk had entered the Scourgelands alone, believing he was strong enough to survive the horrors there. He was wrong. The woods destroyed him. But not before he learned one of its secrets. There were Dryad trees in the woods. Ancient trees. Older than the world. They befuddled intruders, turning them back again to face the horrors inside when they tried to flee. The horrors that had caused his madness.
Tasvir Virk stumbled out of the woods and vowed to destroy the trees. He consorted with the evil spirits of the hinterlands to learn about the Dryad trees and they taught him to see patterns and how to discern which trees contained them. They taught him how smoke from a rowan tree was lethal to lesser spirits. The fact that he had survived the Scourgelands cowed the tribe to his authority. If anyone crossed him, he had them sacrificed on a stone altar. His anger needed to be appeased. He had survived the Scourgelands.
His authority and power slowly spread into the other tribes until it happened. There were rumors that one from Kenatos had also survived the Scourgelands. Perhaps he was now the greatest man of all. Word of his legend spread through the Boeotians. He was Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. A man loyal to Silvandom and its rulers.
Tasvir knew that he was possibly the only man who might be able to unite all the tribes against the Empress and against him. He needed to die.
Now that all the Dryad trees in Boeotia were destroyed, he turned next to Silvandom. He would conquer the lands one by one, razing the trees until they were extinct.
Now one of his hunting parties had encountered a bearded man in Silvandom with the fireblood protecting a Dryad tree. It was time for Tyrus of Kenatos to die.
The man was older than Annon, maybe three times his age. A shock of gray hair tinted with red was equally telling. His face was mottled with blood veins, the same as he had seen among the Boeotians. His skin was hard and leathery. He had been a handsome man once, but the livid scars and purplish veins gave him a frightening look. The man was dressed in black robes with a talisman around his neck. He was tall and gaunt, his lips pallid.
“Druidecht,” the man whispered in a raspy voice. He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “You have fought well and bravely. It will be a pity to kill you.”
“Who are you?” Annon said warily as the two began circling each other.
“I am the reaper of life. I am the bane of the Plague. I am the heart of the Scourgelands. I am Tasvir Virk.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
I will kill him, Nizeera growled.
No, he will destroy you!
He saw her bunch her muscles to leap at him, but the man’s eyes went black and he raised his hands, unleashing a plume of blue fire at Nizeera. He jumped in front of her, colliding with it. Annon felt it wash over him, warm as bathwater, but not burning.
I will fight him. You take the others.
“Ah! So you too have the fireblood! Excellent! Excellent!” He started to cackle deliciously. “Atu! Atu vast! Atu vast!”
The gaunt man rushed forward and grabbed Annon’s wrists.
Though he was bone-thin, his grip was like iron. Boeotians rushed through the smoke, closing in around them, around the tree. Nizeera screamed and launched herself at the foremost, claws raking. The gaunt man laughed with madness, his eyes blazing. A horrible stench came from his lips. He wrestled Annon, keeping him from defending the tree. Annon struggled against him, trying to break free. He was amazed at the Black Druidecht’s strength.
The sound of an ax chopping into the trunk. Another blow and then another. Annon struggled to free himself, but his captor was maddened. He howled with laughter.