“Druidecht,” the man whispered in a raspy voice. He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “You have fought well and bravely. It will be a pity to kill you.”
“Who are you?” Annon said warily as the two began circling each other.
“I am the reaper of life. I am the bane of the Plague. I am the heart of the Scourgelands. I am Tasvir Virk.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
I will kill him, Nizeera growled.
No, he will destroy you!
He saw her bunch her muscles to leap at him, but the man’s eyes went black and he raised his hands, unleashing a plume of blue fire at Nizeera. He jumped in front of her, colliding with it. Annon felt it wash over him, warm as bathwater, but not burning.
I will fight him. You take the others.
“Ah! So you too have the fireblood! Excellent! Excellent!” He started to cackle deliciously. “Atu! Atu vast! Atu vast!”
The gaunt man rushed forward and grabbed Annon’s wrists.
Though he was bone-thin, his grip was like iron. Boeotians rushed through the smoke, closing in around them, around the tree. Nizeera screamed and launched herself at the foremost, claws raking. The gaunt man laughed with madness, his eyes blazing. A horrible stench came from his lips. He wrestled Annon, keeping him from defending the tree. Annon struggled against him, trying to break free. He was amazed at the Black Druidecht’s strength.
The sound of an ax chopping into the trunk. Another blow and then another. Annon struggled to free himself, but his captor was maddened. He howled with laughter.
“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.