—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Flee, Druidecht. They are coming.
Annon awoke with a start, hearing the voices in his mind. Nizeera was already pacing the edge of their makeshift camp, her tail lashing back and forth restlessly. Several spirits flitted about her ears, which swatted at them as if they were flies. Annon rolled to his knees and crawled over to Khiara and shook her awake. She roused instantly, her expression tightening with concern.
“Danger?” she whispered.
“Yes. We camped too near Boeotia,” Annon answered. He listened to the trilling whispers from Mirrowen. “Wake Erasmus. I’ll rouse Lukias.”
She nodded and grabbed her blanket, folding it swiftly and plunging it into her pack. Annon scuttled over to Lukias, who slept soundly, his breath coming in and out like short curt breezes. He shook the man’s shoulders firmly.
Lukias’s eyes widened with terror, staring up at Annon for a moment. “What is it?”
“The Boeotians are near,” Annon whispered. “We must go.” Nizeera, can you hear them yet?
Not yet. But I can smell them. They have smoking torches. The same kind as before.
Annon whistled softly, feeling the prickle of gooseflesh run up his arms and make him shiver. He had nearly died protecting Neodesha’s tree from the attack of Boeotians and the Black Druidecht. The thought of ever facing such people again made him sick with fear for the spirit would be unable to help him amidst the deadly smoke. He also remembered that the Black Druidecht had lost his arm and managed to escape.
“Come,” Annon beckoned, pulling his cloak around his neck and starting to the east under a sky full of diamond stars. Erasmus hastily pulled on his boots and managed to catch up quickly.
Lukias fell in beside Annon. “I do not need to remind you that we are all dressed as Rikes of Seithrall, which would mean instant death if the barbarians catch us. We should have made for Brookshier as I told you.”
Annon shook his head and scowled with impatience. “Brookshier is the last outpost north of Kenatos. It’s under the Arch-Rike’s control. We wouldn’t be any safer there.”
“You don’t trust me,” Lukias said with an accusing voice, his look darkening.
“It isn’t a matter of trust, Lukias,” Annon answered. “I’m a Druidecht. My power is here. We were warned in time to flee. If I didn’t trust you, you’d spend each night tied to a tree.”
Erasmus muttered softly under his breath, “A suggestion that I have mentioned more than once along this journey.”
Nizeera padded up next to him. They are closing quickly. Something leads them toward us. Dark spirits.
Annon frowned, feeling his stomach churn with dread. He quickened his pace and noticed the others struggling to keep up. He was used to roaming the wilds, but never with spear-carrying nomads hunting him. Even the night sky could not hide the row of mountains in the northern horizon, the peaks gleaming with crags and ice. They had left Silvandom, skirting around the lake on the northern edge of the woods, and ventured into the grasslands separating the kingdoms from Boeotia. Lukias told them their destination was in the mountains north of the island city. It was unfamiliar country to Annon, who had never ventured farther north than Kenatos in his life. He had heard that Druidecht were welcome in Boeotia, but their disguises as Rikes of Seithrall would negate any friendliness his talisman would provide.
Annon and Lukias had struck an interesting comradeship along the way. The Rike was constantly amazed at Annon’s ability to commune with nature and the evidences of the spirits of Mirrowen that were manifest around them. Lukias had watched Annon summon spirits to guide them, providing insights into the land, the location of wild berries or fresh game or roots. He was fascinated with Druidecht lore and continued to ask questions, though Annon did not do much to satisfy his curiosity. Much of the Druidecht training was verbal, passed on from mentor to student to be memorized and repeated—such as the names of spirits, their powers, and what persuaded them to aid or injure mortals. It was never allowed to be written down and Annon did not trust the Rike with the secret knowledge of how to commune with Mirrowen. It was enough that he could demonstrate the power to achieve Lukias’s admiration.
Annon hoped that another day’s walk would put them in reach of the mountain passes. That would bring them closer to Basilides, where Tyrus had implored him to go. Annon had no idea how he was going to infiltrate the lair of the oracle, especially knowing that the Arch-Rike’s minions would be expecting him. He hoped that having Lukias on their side would help. He prepared himself, though, for betrayal.
Flee, Druidecht. They are coming.
Annon awoke with a start, hearing the voices in his mind. Nizeera was already pacing the edge of their makeshift camp, her tail lashing back and forth restlessly. Several spirits flitted about her ears, which swatted at them as if they were flies. Annon rolled to his knees and crawled over to Khiara and shook her awake. She roused instantly, her expression tightening with concern.
“Danger?” she whispered.
“Yes. We camped too near Boeotia,” Annon answered. He listened to the trilling whispers from Mirrowen. “Wake Erasmus. I’ll rouse Lukias.”
She nodded and grabbed her blanket, folding it swiftly and plunging it into her pack. Annon scuttled over to Lukias, who slept soundly, his breath coming in and out like short curt breezes. He shook the man’s shoulders firmly.
Lukias’s eyes widened with terror, staring up at Annon for a moment. “What is it?”
“The Boeotians are near,” Annon whispered. “We must go.” Nizeera, can you hear them yet?
Not yet. But I can smell them. They have smoking torches. The same kind as before.
Annon whistled softly, feeling the prickle of gooseflesh run up his arms and make him shiver. He had nearly died protecting Neodesha’s tree from the attack of Boeotians and the Black Druidecht. The thought of ever facing such people again made him sick with fear for the spirit would be unable to help him amidst the deadly smoke. He also remembered that the Black Druidecht had lost his arm and managed to escape.
“Come,” Annon beckoned, pulling his cloak around his neck and starting to the east under a sky full of diamond stars. Erasmus hastily pulled on his boots and managed to catch up quickly.
Lukias fell in beside Annon. “I do not need to remind you that we are all dressed as Rikes of Seithrall, which would mean instant death if the barbarians catch us. We should have made for Brookshier as I told you.”
Annon shook his head and scowled with impatience. “Brookshier is the last outpost north of Kenatos. It’s under the Arch-Rike’s control. We wouldn’t be any safer there.”
“You don’t trust me,” Lukias said with an accusing voice, his look darkening.
“It isn’t a matter of trust, Lukias,” Annon answered. “I’m a Druidecht. My power is here. We were warned in time to flee. If I didn’t trust you, you’d spend each night tied to a tree.”
Erasmus muttered softly under his breath, “A suggestion that I have mentioned more than once along this journey.”
Nizeera padded up next to him. They are closing quickly. Something leads them toward us. Dark spirits.
Annon frowned, feeling his stomach churn with dread. He quickened his pace and noticed the others struggling to keep up. He was used to roaming the wilds, but never with spear-carrying nomads hunting him. Even the night sky could not hide the row of mountains in the northern horizon, the peaks gleaming with crags and ice. They had left Silvandom, skirting around the lake on the northern edge of the woods, and ventured into the grasslands separating the kingdoms from Boeotia. Lukias told them their destination was in the mountains north of the island city. It was unfamiliar country to Annon, who had never ventured farther north than Kenatos in his life. He had heard that Druidecht were welcome in Boeotia, but their disguises as Rikes of Seithrall would negate any friendliness his talisman would provide.
Annon and Lukias had struck an interesting comradeship along the way. The Rike was constantly amazed at Annon’s ability to commune with nature and the evidences of the spirits of Mirrowen that were manifest around them. Lukias had watched Annon summon spirits to guide them, providing insights into the land, the location of wild berries or fresh game or roots. He was fascinated with Druidecht lore and continued to ask questions, though Annon did not do much to satisfy his curiosity. Much of the Druidecht training was verbal, passed on from mentor to student to be memorized and repeated—such as the names of spirits, their powers, and what persuaded them to aid or injure mortals. It was never allowed to be written down and Annon did not trust the Rike with the secret knowledge of how to commune with Mirrowen. It was enough that he could demonstrate the power to achieve Lukias’s admiration.
Annon hoped that another day’s walk would put them in reach of the mountain passes. That would bring them closer to Basilides, where Tyrus had implored him to go. Annon had no idea how he was going to infiltrate the lair of the oracle, especially knowing that the Arch-Rike’s minions would be expecting him. He hoped that having Lukias on their side would help. He prepared himself, though, for betrayal.
