A Path of Oak and Ash (34 page)

52

Erik felt it, after so many years, he almost could not believe it.  Was it the loss of blood, a trick of the mind?  Pulling the broken black metal from his limb he winced, looking to the scene unfolding so far from where he stood. 

Liara had retreated with the rest of the howling fell, leaving him so weakened that he could do little about what unfolded before him.  Lorcan, the outcast, the unclean, was sending the rot towards his nephew, bloody and battered in the sand.  The boy would surely be dead within minutes.  Sadness washed over him as he stumbled to his feet, he should have just left him in the human world, somewhere safe where he could live out his days in peace.  Why had he allowed the boy to talk him into confronting one that could not be bested?  It was his ego, surely.  Now they would all die and the only blame landed sorely at Erik’s feet.  How could he-

Then there it was.  A connection that traversed the boundaries of time and distance. The silhouette gleamed in the moonlight, a voice carrying in the wind, the aura enveloping him.

In spite of himself, Erik smiled
.
             

53

The enveloping smell of decay dissipated. Carrick opened his eyes finding nothing in front of him but the rocky shore.  The high pitched shriek that had muddled his thoughts was gone, distant shouting over the soft waves against the shoreline taking its place in an odd pattern. 

Lorcan's attention had shifted to the rocks above him where a shadow stood. There was a blur of motion.  Heavy feet landed between Carrick and Lorcan. 

“Lorcan!” The cloaked figure drew a large broadsword. “Get away from my son.”

Son.

The word repeated in an endless loop within his mind.  His father, his own father was here.  In the flesh.

Lorcan's one working eye focused on the new comer, his sneer one marred by fear. With sword drawn Lorcan charged, Brannon dodging his first lunge before coaxing him into a series of quick attacks, feigning an opening when none existed.  Brannon kicked, dodged and sliced forward.  His superior skill leaving a trail of superficial cuts across Lorcan's frame.  With a curse, Lorcan bent his palms forward around his sword hilt, sending black tendrils towards Brannon.

A quick flick of the druids digits created a blinding circlet of light that ate through the rot, transforming it into streaks of sunlight that struck Lorcan in the chest.

Then Brannon went on the true offensive.  His agility unmatched as he struck the fallen druid again and again, burying his massive broadsword deep in the belly of the beast before throwing him backwards with a burst of unseen energy.

Lorcan struggled to his feet, black blood pouring from his mouth as he smiled.  "This...is far...from over Brannon."  Lorcan hissed one word before dissipating into a thick cloud of black smoke.  "Manticor!”

From the far cave where boats had been seen docking there was an inhuman howl that shook the ground.  The creature that emerged from the darkness brought the fighting along the beach to a standstill.

It was a creature born of dark magic, perhaps human at one time. It's face held such features, a nose, eyes, the brows and strong chin.  However that was where the resemblance ended. It’s neck connected to a thick muscular body covered in deep red fur upon four wide paws akin to a lion, at its shoulder joint a second pair of limbs protruded, massive claws like that of a crab. Large leathery wings stretched fourteen feet in span as it howled an almost trumpet shriek displaying row after row of shark like teeth. 

As soon as it emerged from the cave, the thing of nightmares landed its gaze on a worker trying to board one of the smaller boats at the dock.  A barbed tail whipped around, impaling the man through the torso.  While the poor soul screamed in agony, the creature dipped the living man into its unhinged maw, devouring him in a quick succession of snapping bone.

What remained of Lorcan's fell army began to flee while the creatures black eyes landed on the closest living body.

Quin.

The dark druid was wrestling with a fell, from the red stains on the sand and his left hand he had taken some sort of wound.  His attention was clearly fixed on the man trying to stab him not the massive monster approaching from behind.
Oh no!  Quin!

There was no warning Carrick could shout, his faculties no longer functioned.  Not that any would have been heard over the cry of the beast.  Thankfully for Quin, Carrick was not the only one paying attention.  Aodhan shouted a string of ancient commands, the battle worn golems rushing to hold manticor at bay. 

Quin drove the fell's own blade into its chest, moments before that barbed tail thrusted towards his black cloak. Carrick winced, a vision of his cousin dying before his eyes, see that barb protrude out the front of his chest while he cried out like the last victim.

He didn't. 

A sandstone hand grabbed that scaled tail, causing it to protest in a guttural growl.  Pivoting, the beast snapped its maw into the living sand, feverously trying to free itself. Aodhan and Conall scrambled to help an injured Quin escape the creatures reach before it was done carving a whole through the golems. They didn't have long, the manitcor's sharp claws tore through the golem's like butter until they were no more than piles of sand and stones.

Brannon cursed. Turning away from Carrick he spoke to a large back shadow beside him.  "Isfearr, stay with him."  He then started to walk away from Carrick toward the beast chasing his friends, sword drawn. 

"Don't!"  Carrick pleaded, trying unsuccessfully to stand.

The eyes that turned back to him mirrored his own.  "Do not worry son.  As you say, I've got this." 

In a dreamlike haze Carrick smiled, watching as the man who looked so very much like himself, stalked up to the beast, then everything went black.

54

Not even Brannon could stand against such a creature by himself.   His bloody arm bound by a strip of his own shirt, Erik rushed towards their new foe as quickly as he could.  He made it four steps before Arcedes talons lifted him from the sand, expediting his journey.

Blocking its snapping claws with a blade no man should be able to lift, Brannon struggled hold its massive paws at bay while dodging its inhuman mouth that was attempting to snap his head clean off.  The manticor stabbed forward with its barbed tail, as Erik interjected, blocking the sharp barb from piercing his brother's shoulder just as Brannon was thrown by a wide sweep of its left paw.   With a whip of its tail, Erik was likewise thrown, landing face down in the sand beside his brother.

"Bloody beast has the strength of ten bears."  Erik growled as he stood.

"Perhaps if we-duck!" Brannon grabbed his brother by the shoulders, throwing him back into the sand. 

The leather winged beast had taken flight, swooping down towards them anew from a different angle.

"Remember the Aqrabuamelu? Run, North, Go."  Brannon snapped, shoving Erik.

His legs compiled as quickly as he was able.  Brannon was clearly making him a target to allow him to-

Erik spun, his sword narrowly getting into position in time to block the poison tipped barb of its tail that stabbed forward.  With what was left of his strength he willed the sand beneath its feet to shift, throwing it off balance, allowing him to sever half of its right wing.  The left paw came towards him, knocking the sword from his hands.  Defenseless, Erik caught the thing's front paws and squeezed, almost losing a finger in the process.  In that brief moment he saw it's face, the pain behind the once-man's black misty eyes, that jaw opening to unnatural depths as rows upon rows of sharp teeth edged closer to his head.   That tail raising high into the air, coming down again towards his chest.

Brannon leapt above them, slicing the manticor's tail clean off mid decent.   Its howl short lived, the druid leader landed besides his brother, plunging his blade deep into its exposed chest.  With a sharp turn, Brannon then withdrew it, leaping in a quick fluid motion to decapitate the beast.

"Took long enough."  Erik muttered through haggard breaths.

"Opportune moment my brother." 

Erik was unable to retort as Brannon had already left, dashing off towards his likely dying son.

55

A strange warmth overcame him, a furry one. Through blurred vision it appeared to be a Fenrir, but it was not Millie.  Strong arms grabbed his body, moving him.  The pain was so excruciating his vision flashed white, then black.  Strange chanting surrounding him.  Old words, sacred, calming.  On some level he felt the magnetic tug and weightlessness associated with the plane shift, yet he still felt sand upon his skin. 

This must be what it feels like to die.
 

Yet, time crawled forth and he still heard the loud thump of his heart between his ears, his body curiously strong though sleep tugged him back into the black depths of his mind.  As he drifted away from consciousness, he forced the words he yearned to say.

"Mom."  Carrick rasped.  "He's got..."

"Don't worry...son, we'll get her back."  Carrick reached out with a trembling hand and hugged his father, then lost himself in the warm glow.

56

“We are going to be late!"  Selene exclaimed, her long white gown floated like a cloud across the floor as she paced.  Much to her chagrin, Brannon just laughed.

"So we are late." He replied nonchalantly with a wave of his hand.

It was the last thing she wanted to hear, crossing her arms with a huff she shot him a glare that could castrate a weaker man. 

"Oh, lighten up Selene.  The bloody ceremony cannot start without the seat. Which, if I recall, is me.  So go place another flower in your hair whilst I have a moment with my son." 

Muttering under her breath, she sashayed out of Carrick's room, her voice carrying from the great hall as she started in on Erik about the time as well. 

"Women."  Brannon whispered to Carrick with a wink, "if you let them they'll plan your day from the moment your eyes open in the morning till you shut them with the setting sun."

"Did Mom?"

Brannon smiled, his eyes reliving some fond memory as he helped Carrick straighten his collar.  "If I had let her, I'm sure she would have."  His father took a step back, eyeing him from head to toe.  "There.  You look positively dashing."  Turning towards the antique framed mirror in his room he felt inclined to agree.   The healers had worked marvels with his injuries.  His leg, once crushed to the point where human doctors would amputate it, functioned perfectly.  His hand, burned to the bone, was actually stronger than it had been before.  Both limbs were now covered in a series of small runic tattoos around the lines of the trauma. Straightening his white suit coat he eyed the runes that ran down the back of each of his fingers and his palm. Carrick did not mind them at all.  In fact he thought they looked pretty damn cool.  Around his neck now hung a gold medallion of Awen, just like his uncle and to his pleasant surprise, his father wore.

"Thank you."

Together with his uncle, father and Selene, Carrick left the Elderwood, the vines of the living stair once so shocking to him now as routine as a light switch. 

Heading towards the seat of Awenydd with his family, Carrick spotted a familiar face in the crowd headed towards the bridge.  

"Bethany!"  He called out with a wave.  Her hair had already begun to grow out, leaving her shoulder length tresses dark brown at the ends, blond to her eyes.  He kind of liked it like that.

"We will go on ahead, don't take too long." Selene whispered to him, pushing both Brannon and Erik forward, much to their annoyance. 

Bouncing up to him in a white gown, she wrapped her arms around him in a brotherly hug.

"So I get to stay, Brannon's declaration."

"Really?"   Carrick smiled.

"Yeah, like, because Aurelian adopted me and I have proven myself to be a soul akin to the druidic ways although not birthed from them I shall join them."  She spoke slowly and deliberately as she recited his father's announcement.  "He said in the Greek days outsiders would come to the druids seeking knowledge and if proven worthy, learned the secrets of the trees and rivers. So it's not like a precedent isn't there for it.  Although it doesn't seem like everyone is happy to have me here."  A passing couple gave them a wide birth, treating Bethany as though she were carrying some sort of plague. 

"I got that too, give it time."

“Oh I will, not planning on going anywhere.”

“I’m glad.”

"Me too."

Quin approached from the direction of Ash End, his gloomy disposition removed by the pure white ensemble he wore for the occasion. Carrick watched as Bethany's face lit up at the sight of him.

"Looks like someone’s waiting for you. See you at the memorial."  Carrick kissed her cheek, giving her a light squeeze on the forearm.

“Thanks Rick.” He watched with mixed emotion as she dashed to the dark druid, who held out a single pink rose to her, blushing.

Quin, his
second
cousin.  In the days since their return he had discovered Lorcan had told a half truth.  He was the son of Kieron, Osin’s brother. Although Osin had taken him in after both Kieron and Kira died in what was, at the time, considered to be a terrible accident.  An accident that also resulted in the death of Lorcan’s little sister, Kyran.

Quin’s disposition was sincerely due to his father's actions, as Carrick discovered. He had been nearly cast out after Lorcan’s defeat, despite his lack of involvement. Since then Quin had endeavored to separate himself from the Slaine family, even taking the moniker of a once-revered family wiped out by his own father. 

Understanding truly painted things in a different light, made Carrick want to take back every snide word he'd ever said to him.

Quin looked up, catching Carrick staring in their direction from the walkway.  With a friendly smile he waived.  As Carrick waived back he acknowledged he could not change his past deeds, but going forward he was definitely going to give the guy a break.

Speaking of, his father would likely break him if he didn't get a move on.  Carrick hurried across the carved bridge, looking up at the statues of the prior elders before his father.  His grandfather Osin, with his furrowed brow and hallow cheeks, his great grandfather Elfine a man with a square jaw and hooked nose.  As he passed each he knew and many he did not, he wondered if one day he may too grace the side of the great bridge.  He hoped they would have been proud of him, for their victory had been bitter sweet. The Leabhar Fìrinn had been destroyed, yet its spells remained, hastily copied into a fifty cent notebook from a gas station. Now however, it was back in Dre'ien, safely in the hands of the whisperers with Lorcan none the wiser.

Lorcan, that bastard had absconded with his mother without a trace. With what remained of the whisperer's, Aurelian had managed to decimate the company Lorcan was using as a front. The reported 'terrible accident' of the oil rigs had halted construction indefinitely, Stergen Industries liable for millions in damages to the supposed families of the workers who perished in the explosion, Carrick wondered how many of them knew their relatives were no longer human. Aurelian assured him that they would ferret him out eventually, to be patient. Still his mother had been right in front of him. He had been so close and yet, he worried she would be forever lost to him. 

With a heavy heart he entered the seat, marveling at the grandeur of the grand oak that spread its branches carved into the circular throne and council, the gilded walkway before it in the wide hall. Carrick walked down the center and took his place at the right of his father, smiling at the people of Dre'ien.  In the crowd he saw Aodhan, Quin, Conall, Bethany and her new father Aurelian, the serpent sisters, even Parth and Hagan.  All aspects of the druidic people, his people.

Brannon stepped forward from his throne, lighting the large circular flame before him with a left of his left hand.  As he returned to the seat, his wide palm dipped down and patted Isfearr on the head.  The massive black and grey Fenrir let out a low rumble, mirroring the grief felt by his druid.

Families of the dead came forward, pieces of wood carved with the names of the fallen Niomar were placed into the Pyre, then Tadhg's mother, placing her son’s memoria into the flame.  As one they chanted, "Go easy unto otherworld, let the water's carry you across the blessed isles to where your loved ones await."

They would celebrate their lives this night, when the dawn came they would sing, a sapling planted for each in the nymph wood, names carved into the temple on the shore.  In the days that followed they would begin their search for Lorcan and Narine, who had evaded capture at the battle of Lesji. Now though, now was a time for remembrance.

Brannon stood, stepping forward from his massive throne, his arms spread wide as his thunderous voice filled the great hall.  "Each of us has lost one beloved, our very way of life again threatened by the fallen who turned from the truth, one who wished to topple the balance. I wish this was the last time, the only time, we had to burn this fire but we all know otherwise.  These were not our first to give their lives against the dark one, nor will they be the last.  As we celebrate the life and deeds of our beloved, do not weep. For those we have lost, at peace in otherworld, shall rise in new life.  In their memory we shall rebuild, we shall persevere, together.  That, my dear friends, is why he will never win, why we will always be victorious, for ours is a realm built on love.  Love of each other, of Dre’ien, of the blessings of Awen.”

In the applause of the crowd he felt a pride he had yearned for as long as he could remember, the serene complacency of belonging.

He was home.