“Atu vast! Atu vast! Tolx Enas! We will destroy her, Druidecht. This tree and each and every one like her. Including the tree in the Paracelsus Towers. The last tree. The last one! They will all die! That is how the Scourgelands will fail. They must all be killed!”
Annon shoved and pushed, trying to free himself. The gaunt man would not let go. Another blow against the tree. Then another.
“The fireblood brings madness,” Annon shouted. “You were a Druidecht once, sworn to protect beings like her!”
“I am a Druidecht!” he shouted, wrenching Annon around. “I am of the Black. They steal our memories, boy. She subverts you. Let me destroy her!”
Annon’s mind raced frantically. Nizeera was attacking as many as she could. The ax blows continued. Annon whirled around, trying to throw the gaunt man off balance. He was bigger than the other man, weighed more. His wrists throbbed with pain at the clenching fingers. The Boeotian faced him, ax chopping furiously at the bark, exposing the depths of the gash. It was a huge scar on the tree, growing like a stain.
Annon waited until the man pulled back to start another swing. Then with all his strength, he shoved the Black Druidecht backward into the path of the blade.
There was a gush of blood, the spray blinding Annon momentarily. The grip on his wrists went slack as the Black Druid suddenly fled, screaming in agony. Annon saw the severed arm on the ground at his feet. He raised his hands again. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.
The blast of fire consumed the Boeotian with the ax.
Whirling, Annon found himself surrounded. He unleashed a controlled firestorm in the grove, sending it out in wave after wave. His heart pounded. His ears rang. He was losing himself in the magic. He was vanishing. A blow struck his side. Another against his leg.
A sharp spasm of pain brought him down on one knee. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He was going to die. He had failed. Uttering a groan, he drew from his depths once again, sending another sheet of flames fanning out in front of the tree. Crookedly, he tried to rise, but his leg would not permit it and he fell backward, striking the base of the ancient oak. He felt his life draining away. The flames in his fingers dissipated. He was defenseless. A single blow would finish him.
His vision was speckled with tiny fireflies. Nizeera screamed in rage and pain. His chin began to dip against his chest. He had tried his best. He had done what he could, fulfilling his Druidecht vows to preserve and defend.
Forcing his eyelids open, he saw the Boeotians advancing on him, spear tips pointed. Several had huge axes.
And that was when the Bhikhu began to fall from the sky.
They were all Vaettir-born, like Paedrin. Over a dozen slammed into the earth, crashing through the smoke and haze of fire. They held swords and staves, whips and javelins. The Boeotians charged them in a clash of bodies. Annon felt a sliver of hope. Just a shard. The weapons whirled and clacked, fists and feet and skin smacking and shoving.
Annon closed his eyes, feeling himself floating. It was a peaceful feeling. It was dying. He knew it. Somehow, it was familiar.
Heal him, whispered a voice. A woman’s voice. The most beautiful voice he had ever heard. Just a whisper. Just a breath of air. But it was the most lovely sound he had ever heard.
It came from the tree.
“We do not understand the Boeotians’ hatred of us. We do not understand why they invade our lands. With gratitude, we thank the brave ones of Silvandom who form the primary defense against their intrusions. Such opposite philosophies. One race kills. The other preserves. Even the combined might of all the kingdoms could not destroy Boeotia. Yet the combined strength holds the Empress at bay.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Paedrin crouched so near to Hettie that he could smell her skin. She definitely needed a bath. He nearly commented on that fact when Kiranrao appeared on the other side of her, turning from smoke to solid in an instant. The air tingled with magic every time he did that, and it was starting to annoy the Bhikhu.
Hettie smoothed the hair away from her ear so she could hear him better.
“They are not far,” he whispered. “Be silent and wait. They have a Finder with them.”
“We have a Finder with us as well,” Paedrin reminded him.
“Well and good, Bhikhu. But if you have a clear shot, Hettie, kill him.”
Paedrin planted his hand on her arm as they skulked on the low, sparsely wooded hill.
She shook off his hand. “The Bhikhu is squeamish about such things.” She gave him a scolding look. “I can hobble him, though.”
Kiranrao sighed, shaking his head. “There’s a fool born every moment, and every one of them lives! If you had been raised in a decent orphanage, lad, you would have learned to outgrow this conscience of yours.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I might consent to see you strangled and not intervene,” Paedrin said.
“Quiet. Here they come!”