Khiara dropped from the trees, landing amidst a group of Boeotians who were coming at Annon from the side. The copse was too dense for her to use her long tapered staff effectively. Annon glanced and saw her drop it and start using her fists and feet to cripple and break her opponents in the Bhikhu way. Lukias rushed up to the nearest Boeotian, dodging a thrust from his spear and threw his knife with deadly aim.
Several of the Boeotians started running for their lives. Annon saw more regrouping to press the attack again. They held smoking sticks in their hands, creating a haze of smoke around them. They were cursing and raging in their language, shaking their spears. If he could douse the flames somehow, he could summon spirit creatures to aid them. Annon focused on the burning brands and felt part of him connect with the smoking embers. He sensed the flickering tongues and fire, experiencing a kinship with it. They would pay homage to him. Muttering the Vaettir words in his mind, Annon tamed the fire in the brands. The smoke stopped.
Now! Annon beckoned to the spirits that were holding back, afraid of the smoke. Nizeera turned her bloody muzzle up, sensing the change in the air. She screamed again, launching herself at another cluster of men, savaging them with her claws. Annon’s elation grew.
The Boeotians crumpled when the spirits began darting amidst them, stinging with magic and exploding in their midst with painful shocks and blinding light. The Boeotians roared with pain and fled the copse, sprinting away from the scene with haste.
Lingering in the air nearby, he sensed the presence of fell spirits.
We see you, Druidecht.
We know you, Druidecht.
Tasvir Virk will come for you. You are hunted still.
The thoughts fluttered against his mind and then they were gone.
The thoughts caused a chill to seep into Annon’s bones, despite the flames dancing on his hands. He looked down and saw that he was standing amidst crackling flames that did not harm him. The woods were ablaze around him. He stared at the yellow licking tongues, hungering for the power contained inside them. He wanted the whole world to burn. He wondered, deep down, if he had the power to make it happen. Thoughts flooded his mind, seductive and yearning. Unleash the flames to their full potential. Let their true nature manifest itself at last.
The beckoning was seductive. It made his insides throb with excitement. What would it be like to experience that? What power would be unleashed?
Annon steeled himself, aware of the danger he was to himself and his companions. He remembered the Black Druidecht he had faced at Neodesha’s tree. The man was already mad. Annon clenched his fists and walked away from the fire, back toward where Erasmus was skulking, examining the tattoos of a Boeotian corpse. Nizeera chased a few of the Boeotians even farther, but even she returned and sauntered up to his side as he emerged from the blaze. He released the control of the fireblood, letting the emotions fade and pass. Sweat trickled down his face. He had come close that time—dangerously close. He could remember the burning hut where his mother had died, lost in the furnace of flames. Tears threatened to choke him. He stood still, trembling. It took long moments to master his emotions.
Lukias approached and gripped Annon’s shoulder, his face expressive with admiration. His eyes glittered and a wolfish smile appeared. “You are powerful, Druidecht. I can see why they hunt those with the fireblood. Truly, you frighten me.”
Annon swallowed, glancing at the Rike with unease. The mixture of awe and fear in his voice was significant. Lukias was a man not easily impressed.
“I do not think they will hunt us now,” he said huskily.
Lukias nodded in agreement. “I see why the Arch-Rike fears you as well. You see, he has the fireblood too. He fears you will usurp his place.”
Annon stared at him coldly. “I do not seek his throne. But I do seek his downfall.”
“The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The sprawling mountain range north of Kenatos was jagged, brooding, and capped with dazzling white snow at the upper peaks. Below lay cracked foothills littered with boulders, as if some colossus with a hammer had repeatedly struck the mountains. There were no trees in the upper peaks, only slabs of blue-gray rock that provided a barrier to the twisted lands beyond—the place known as the Scourgelands. Passes led in and out of the maze-like range, but there were no trails or roads.
Annon and Lukias walked side by side, heads bent low against strong winds blowing down from the mountains. Erasmus and Khiara followed behind, and Annon heard the Preachán struggling to maintain his footing on the loose gravel. The vegetation was sparse, the prairie grass stiff and crackled as they trampled it. Nizeera padded a distance ahead, hunting for signs of spirit life.
Several of the Boeotians started running for their lives. Annon saw more regrouping to press the attack again. They held smoking sticks in their hands, creating a haze of smoke around them. They were cursing and raging in their language, shaking their spears. If he could douse the flames somehow, he could summon spirit creatures to aid them. Annon focused on the burning brands and felt part of him connect with the smoking embers. He sensed the flickering tongues and fire, experiencing a kinship with it. They would pay homage to him. Muttering the Vaettir words in his mind, Annon tamed the fire in the brands. The smoke stopped.
Now! Annon beckoned to the spirits that were holding back, afraid of the smoke. Nizeera turned her bloody muzzle up, sensing the change in the air. She screamed again, launching herself at another cluster of men, savaging them with her claws. Annon’s elation grew.
The Boeotians crumpled when the spirits began darting amidst them, stinging with magic and exploding in their midst with painful shocks and blinding light. The Boeotians roared with pain and fled the copse, sprinting away from the scene with haste.
Lingering in the air nearby, he sensed the presence of fell spirits.
We see you, Druidecht.
We know you, Druidecht.
Tasvir Virk will come for you. You are hunted still.
The thoughts fluttered against his mind and then they were gone.
The thoughts caused a chill to seep into Annon’s bones, despite the flames dancing on his hands. He looked down and saw that he was standing amidst crackling flames that did not harm him. The woods were ablaze around him. He stared at the yellow licking tongues, hungering for the power contained inside them. He wanted the whole world to burn. He wondered, deep down, if he had the power to make it happen. Thoughts flooded his mind, seductive and yearning. Unleash the flames to their full potential. Let their true nature manifest itself at last.
The beckoning was seductive. It made his insides throb with excitement. What would it be like to experience that? What power would be unleashed?
Annon steeled himself, aware of the danger he was to himself and his companions. He remembered the Black Druidecht he had faced at Neodesha’s tree. The man was already mad. Annon clenched his fists and walked away from the fire, back toward where Erasmus was skulking, examining the tattoos of a Boeotian corpse. Nizeera chased a few of the Boeotians even farther, but even she returned and sauntered up to his side as he emerged from the blaze. He released the control of the fireblood, letting the emotions fade and pass. Sweat trickled down his face. He had come close that time—dangerously close. He could remember the burning hut where his mother had died, lost in the furnace of flames. Tears threatened to choke him. He stood still, trembling. It took long moments to master his emotions.
Lukias approached and gripped Annon’s shoulder, his face expressive with admiration. His eyes glittered and a wolfish smile appeared. “You are powerful, Druidecht. I can see why they hunt those with the fireblood. Truly, you frighten me.”
Annon swallowed, glancing at the Rike with unease. The mixture of awe and fear in his voice was significant. Lukias was a man not easily impressed.
“I do not think they will hunt us now,” he said huskily.
Lukias nodded in agreement. “I see why the Arch-Rike fears you as well. You see, he has the fireblood too. He fears you will usurp his place.”
Annon stared at him coldly. “I do not seek his throne. But I do seek his downfall.”
“The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The sprawling mountain range north of Kenatos was jagged, brooding, and capped with dazzling white snow at the upper peaks. Below lay cracked foothills littered with boulders, as if some colossus with a hammer had repeatedly struck the mountains. There were no trees in the upper peaks, only slabs of blue-gray rock that provided a barrier to the twisted lands beyond—the place known as the Scourgelands. Passes led in and out of the maze-like range, but there were no trails or roads.
Annon and Lukias walked side by side, heads bent low against strong winds blowing down from the mountains. Erasmus and Khiara followed behind, and Annon heard the Preachán struggling to maintain his footing on the loose gravel. The vegetation was sparse, the prairie grass stiff and crackled as they trampled it. Nizeera padded a distance ahead, hunting for signs of spirit life.
