The Chronicles of Lumineia: Book 02 - The Gathering (6 page)

“How did he
become the Guidrian?” Siarra asked. “Surely there are older or wiser druids.”

Agrial bobbed
his head, “Perhaps, but he is unparalleled as a leader.” He smirked. “See for
yourself.”

With that he
brushed aside some branches and stepped into a large valley. Siarra, Liri, and
Mae all gasped at the sight before them, and Taryn took their response to mean
things had changed. From their description he’d expected a small village, but
the sight before him could only be called a city.

Most of the
vegetation had been cleared except for towering trees that gave shade with
their massive branches. Underneath their protective canopy, huts and small
cottages had been constructed in tight, organized rows. The entire settlement
looked to be in the shape of a star, with a small fort at each point, allowing
for excellent defensive capabilities. All paths in between the living quarters
led to the center of the star, where several large log cabins could be seen—but
not all the structures were on the ground.

Between the
trees, rope bridges spanned the distance to create an immense interconnecting
network of skyways. Tree houses, small and large, dotted the trunks and
branches at various heights.

 “It has
changed so much,” Liri breathed.

Agrial's grin
widened. “Most of it has happened in the last fifteen years, under Newhawk’s
guidance.”

—A high
piercing cry echoed through the valley. At the same time threatening and
challenging, the sound inspired awe and fear in equal measure. Looking for the
source Taryn saw an immense red and orange bird drop out of the canopy near the
center of the settlement and bank through the trees towards them.

As it back
winged to land, it sent warm air billowing past them. Over forty feet tall, the
Phoenix shimmered in red, orange, and gold. In most appearances it looked like
a falcon, with a sharp beak and deep intelligent eyes that peered at each of
them. Never taking its gaze from their group, it settled low and allowed a man
to dismount. As Newhawk left its side, the phoenix ruffled its feathers,
causing small tongues of flame to streak down its back and sparks to cascade
off its wings.

The Guidrian
of the druids stopped a few feet from them and greeted them with a smile.
“Welcome, Oracle and friends, to Keilera. My name is Newhawk, Guidrian of the druids.”

As Siarra
responded, Taryn studied the man. Tall and broad shouldered, he appeared fit
and strong. His black hair had streaks of red, and hung long and free to his
shoulders. Intense blue eyes looked out from a square, handsome face and measured
each of them in turn. Rather than forest colors, he wore all black except for a
light orange cloak that looked to be made from phoenix feathers. A wicked
longbow hung on his back and was the sole weapon in sight, but Taryn guessed he
carried a hidden blade.

Then the man
laughed and Taryn realized why he had become the Guidrian. Newhawk exuded confidence
and charisma. Glancing around, Taryn saw every druid in view looking to their
leader with subtle adoration.

Newhawk blinked
and seemed to notice the audience. With a sweep of his hand he invited Siarra and
the others to his home. His change in demeanor bore a trait that Taryn rarely
saw in leaders adored by their people . . . humility.

Taryn shook
his head as he turned to follow Liri into the city. In another example of his
leadership, Newhawk chose to walk with them, rather than riding his Joré.
Leading them through the winding streets and paths of Keilera, he spoke of the
city with pride in his voice. When he reached the tallest tree at the center,
he stepped onto a staircase spiraling around its massive trunk.

As they
ascended towards the sprawling tree house above, Taryn felt apprehensive about
what Newhawk would do when Siarra told him of the gathering. Entering a cozy
sitting room and taking the offered seat, Taryn avoided eye contact, afraid he
would betray his concern. The conversation soon turned from light topics to
Draeken, and he hoped the Guidrian would accept the truth.

There was no
doubt that the man was a leader of tremendous caliber, but how would he react
to their warning? Would he gather at Azertorn? He was certainly capable of
bringing his people, but would he? If he was convinced, what role was he
destined to play in the battle? Whatever his purpose, Taryn sensed it would be
pivotal—if he could be persuaded to come.

He spared a
glance at Siarra's expression as she detailed what was coming, and caught an
odd glint in the way she looked at the druid leader. It was a look that he had
seen before . . . when she had told Taryn of his own destiny. The Oracle knew
what Newhawk was meant to do.

But would he
do it?

Chapter
5: The Strategist

Braon awoke
long before dawn but he didn’t get out of bed. Staring at the ceiling he
considered the heavy task assigned to him. The Oracle had said he must be the
high commander of all the races when Draeken’s army came, an impossible task
for anyone—especially a fifteen-year-old boy.

Releasing a
deep sigh he stood and dressed, but hesitated as he approached his door.
Where
to begin?
His question was answered as soon as he opened the door. An elven
guard stood ready and the moment he stepped into the hall addressed him.

“General Deiran
has requested your presence.” The elf bowed and indicated for him to follow,
but his tone didn't match the politeness of his words.

Braon nodded
and followed the guard out of the House of Runya and into the pre-dawn streets
of Azertorn. It seemed like ages since they had entered the city, and Braon had
to remind himself that they had arrived only yesterday to inform the high council
of the impending battle—the meeting in which the Oracle and the Queen had
placed the defenses in his charge.

Looking over
the city he wished he understood more of what he was supposed to do. With the
Oracle gone, he felt less than confident where to begin. He was glad that she
had stopped by his room before their departure, and her foresight that she
needed to leave, but he couldn’t deny the yearning for someone to stay and
guide him.

Then he
remembered the letter the Oracle had slipped him. She’d said to read it in the
morning. Reaching into his pocket he withdrew the folded piece of parchment and
read the short note.

Braon,

I know the next few weeks are going to
be difficult for you, and I am sorry I cannot stay to aid you. Trust me when I
tell you that this is what you can, and will, do on your own. I do have two
pieces of advice that I feel you must hear. The first is to trust your
instincts. When I first met you, I saw something in you I have never seen
before, a unique type of mind magic. It is what allows you to sense what others
will do—and what makes you a good strategist and leader. Always trust your
instincts.

The second piece of advice is to speak
with authority. You must do this immediately and consistently. Your mind is
strong, and it is vital that you expect others to follow you. You must be their
leader, at every moment, of every day. There can be no doubt in anyone's mind.
Always speak with authority, even if you don’t know what you should do.

Know that each one of us believes in
you. Good luck my friend.

Siarra

Braon reread
the note before pocketing it to consider its words. He was grateful for the
advice, and had to admit that they were exactly what he needed to hear.
Chuckling, he realized that the Oracle had known when she wrote the note, and
it had done what was intended. His confidence was bolstered and he knew what he
must do.

Ten minutes
later he felt even more gratitude as he walked through a pair of double doors
to find Deiran, the general of the elven armies, reclining behind his desk.

The weathered
elf rose to his feet and sauntered towards the young man. “Thank you for coming,
Braon. I was hoping we could settle a few . . . misunderstandings.” The general
glanced at Braon with false concern. “I know this job the Oracle
said
you had to do sounds great and all but—.”

“No,” Braon
said, and Deiran looked at him in surprise. “General, I appreciate your
concern, but not your attempt to coerce me into withdrawing my command.”

Deiran’s jaw
dropped, but Braon wasn’t finished.

“I will not
have you question my leadership, or I will be forced to find a suitable
replacement to command the elven armies.” He said the statement with no trace
of animosity, so as to not provoke the elf’s pride, but Deiran’s mouth snapped
shut with a click and his eyes turned hard.

“If you think
for one moment I will allow some human boy to command me—”

“No.” Braon
exclaimed and Deiran once again stopped speaking, his expression now of
astonishment.

“This is not a
power struggle, general. You will command the elven army—if you choose. I command
the defenses for this single battle. I have my calling, and you have yours.” He
spoke in a controlled tone to not reveal weakness, but at the same time not
show overconfidence. For the first time Deiran lost his condescending
expression, so Braon spoke again to maintain his advantage. “We must work quickly
and efficiently. There is a great deal I must learn—and plan—if we are to be
prepared.”

Deiran pursed
his lips and he raised an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”

Understanding
his question to be test of his leadership, or a trap if he lacked said skills,
Braon answered honestly. “Our first step is to show me the defenses in complete
detail. Then we find each weakness and make plans to turn them into strengths.
Last we lay out a system for how to combine the races as they arrive, including
company arrangements, training, outfitting, and particularly how to avoid
conflicts between blood enemies.” He finished and watched a flicker of respect
light the general's eyes.

“Would you
like to begin in the First Hall?” It houses the first Legion and—.”

Braon shook
his head. “I have already seen the defenses of the First and Second Halls, and
their defensive layout is, to put it lightly, beyond admirable.” He inclined
his head towards the general in a mark of respect, to which Deiran smiled
modestly. “I would prefer to begin outside the city. If we can ride west to the
end of the Giant’s Shelf and then to the east until the lake, I will be able to
get a look at what else we are dealing with besides the city. If we are to
defend the cliff, then we must see every section of it to be ready.”

Deiran’s smile
widened and he finally conceded—but Braon had no doubt that the judgment was
temporary. If he failed in anything, he would lose the general's respect.

“We ride together
then,
commander
. Let’s see what we are dealing with.”

Within an hour
they were riding west along the Giant’s Shelf with a score of armed elves in
tow. On occasion Braon would halt to examine the cliff. With the horses that
Deiran had chosen, they covered the ten miles to the high western mountains
before noon. Only once did the shelf drop below a thousand feet. The dip
occurred six miles west of Azertorn. At that point the edge sloped down a
shallow decline and lowered the cliff height to eight hundred feet. Deiran
informed him as they rode into the depression that it had once been a
waterfall, and the river had worn it down before something diverted the
waterway.

Turning back
where the plateau turned into a mountain, they picked up the pace on the return
journey. Pausing for a short repast in Azertorn, they continued east until they
came to the Lake Road. Throughout the day Braon spoke little, observing the
terrain but asking questions when necessary. Sparse vegetation dotted the
plateau's smooth rock, and spread from the cliff to the tree line several miles
back. Remarkably smooth, the stone of the Giant's Shelf rose and fell in gentle
waves of reddish rock.

As they rode,
Braon laid out some preliminary ideas in his mind, but chose not to share them
with Deiran until they were finished with the exploration. As dusk began to
fall, they reached the Lake Road. Stopping at a rocky knoll rising out of the
ground, they dismounted for a meal. The simple food of nuts and fruit tasted
delicious after the long day, but Braon did his best not to overeat. When
Deiran asked if he wanted to return to Azertorn for the night, he shook his
head and asked for a bedroll.

 “I want to
see the Lake Road before we return,” he said, and eased his sore body onto his
blanket. As tired as he was, he took a moment to imagine the ground they had
covered, organizing it into an image in his mind.

The Giant's Shelf
was a thousand-foot cliff that ran over twenty-five miles from east to west,
with Azertorn in the center. Near the western end, the dip would be the only
weakness on that side. East of the city the vulnerability would be the road,
which he would see tomorrow.

The city
presented its own problems. Majestic and grand, the tiered city was shaped for
defense, with the smallest level two hundred feet off the valley floor. Each subsequent
tier meant the defenders would always have the high ground. The top tier
spanned the entire distance between the two waterfalls, and boasted additional
battlements that abutted the rivers above the cliff.

Braon didn't
expect the lush gardens and waterways to be a problem—except at the base of the
great tree. Covering the entire first level, the Gardens of Light and
Enlightenment would be the first place their attackers would climb to. In
addition, a pond called the Mirror’s Edge abutted the cliff, meaning there were
no fortifications there. Although two hundred feet above the valley floor,
Braon had no doubt the fiends would reach it. As much as he knew the elves
would fight the issue, the gardens would have to be removed, and the pond
drained.