The Lost Man by Lynn Osburn
Summary: CHAPTERS 1-10 UPDATED. In an attempt to steal an ancient artifact, Mozenrath loses his memory and is rescued by a local village. When he meets with the Druid of the tribe, it will lead him down a path of discovery that no-one could have predicted.
Rating: R
Categories: Aladdin
Characters: Mozenrath, Original Characters
Genres: Action/Adventure
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 03/14/06
Updated: 03/16/06
Index
Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Chapter 2: Chapter 2
Chapter 3: Chapter 3
Chapter 4: Chapter 4
Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Chapter 6: Chapter 6
Chapter 7: Chapter 7
Chapter 8: Chapter 8
Chapter 9: Chapter 9
Chapter 10: Chapter 10
Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Author's Notes: Thjis is meant to be a three part series. The Lost Man is compleate and The Dark Man is currently being updated on ff.net.
It was a blood curtailing scream the brought the attention of the his caregivers. The rushed inside the quaint thatched hut, baring expressions of concern and curiosity at this loud guest. He made for quite an image, sitting upright on the carved bed, thick black locks rung around his head, sticking out from between extensive bandaging. His face was long and aquiline, his eyes not black but indeed such a pale gray one would think he was missing his iris. He tried to stand, but again bandaging made it obvious that his body was not capable of many physical activities right now. But the one part of his body left unbandaged was the part with the most extensive damage.
The guest sat in the bed, staring at his dilapidated hand and screaming.
It turn his caregivers a moment to wrestle him to the bed and clamp a strong hand over his mouth. He could hear their voices above him, some cursing in a strange tongue, others trying to speak him into calmness. A myriad of male and female voices called out above him, but his eyes were cloaked behind a cloud of mist. He could see their shapes, but faces were a blur.
“Tristan he keeps slipping back and forth. Isn’t their something you can do?” This voice soft, but old, …self assured.
“Not yet. He injuries are sever, he must have fallen from quite high. It is best to keep him sleeping until his body is used to it’s current state, from there we can heal him properly.” Male, defiantly male, strong, commanding. This man had to be in some leadership role.
“Bah! We need to get him moving now, before his muscles deteriorate.” Male again, much younger and arrogant in the way all young people are.
“Be silent Essus! Let the man sleep.” Female, proud, and strict.
Warm flesh pressed against his forehead and he felt a calm overtaking the pain and ache of his body. “Sleep now man. You bed amongst friends.” Suddenly his body felt exhausted. He stopped his insane thrashing and shivered, the straw stuffed mattress suddenly felt so inviting and comfortable. The sheets made from tanned animal hide were so warm he felt encased and protected. The air flooded with a sense of comfort and serenity, and he closed his eyes, falling into slumber.
Light pours forth on blinded eyes.
I face the truth of my demise.
Wind fluttered in through the open doorway, when he awoke next. He was calm this time, his head protesting against another outburst as he slowly sat up. It hurt like hell to make that movement, but his body forced him to test his muscles. He opened his eyes, and found vision from only one. He reach up gingerly and felt the wrappings around his head, covering off half his face. He groaned at the discovery and started to look around.
He was in a hut, a well made hut with stone going up for at least four feet then turning into closely tied wood and mud to hold the cold at bay. The roof was thatched, but sturdy and obviously a year or two old. The bed he had lay on was simple, but soft as goose down and sturdy. Well tended animal pelts had been draped over him and indeed a great deal of the home seemed taken up by some sort of animal remains or another. Something caught his eye, a pair of massive stag antlers, polished to near ivory, decked with bronze bangles, inlaid with amber and small emeralds.
“Beautiful piece of work isn’t it? Our smith Brigon made it many many years ago before his arm went off in battle. To this day people still praise it’s craftsmanship.” The injured man turned to see a tall, broad shouldered fellow just walking in the doorway. He cross between the bed and the post where the antlers hung and patted them fondly. “There is not another piece like this in all Erin, and that is not just pride speaking.” The man was well aware that he was being watched guardedly. Though his guest might not be aware that he showed it.
With near thirty or more summers behind him as the Chief Druid, Tristan was something of an expert at reading people. This fellow had lain injured and near deaths door for a good month now and yet he had given much of his character and nature away. He was a man with enemies, that was obvious by how he reacted to those trying to help him. He had shouted and cursed at them, calling foreign names as if they were the cause of his current state. It was possible that he was in a fever induced hallucination, but from the way he looked at Tristan, as if the druid a dog and he a cat, he doubted it.
“Where am I?” The pale, lanky stranger asked quickly, his voice sharp as a boar tusk. “How did I come to be here?”
Tristan arched an eyebrow. “You speak our language then? Very interesting.” Tristan coughed, the strangers accent was unusual, not one he personally had come across before, but he could recognize the Persian dialect with which the man had spoke in his pain induced fit. He could speak it well enough to convey a point. “You may talk in your native tongue if you wish friend. I’ll not hold it against you.”
“My native tongue?” He paused. Had he been speaking in a different language just now? He couldn’t remember being taught this strong, brash language. It sounded strange on his lips just now, but he had assumed he spoke it naturally. If he was not speaking in his own language, how did he know to speak in this one. He shook his head and went dizzy with pain. He sunk back to the pillows as a firm hand pressed against his temples.
“Are you telling me you remember nothing before now?” The man asked gently.
He tried hard, which only made his brain swim again. “I remember struggling… my hand slipping, and slamming against something hard…several times.” He said with an air of complaint as he looked down at his bruised and wrapped body.
“Do you remember a name? Any name at all?”
He squinted and shook his head. “Wait…I feel…something with an M…”
“Mael? Manann…Mandred…Midhir…” Tristan ran through some of the name he knew and the young man bit his lip.
Suddenly his sharp gray eyes flew open. “Mozenrath…I think my name is Mozenrath.”
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Chapter 2: Chapter 2
A woman entered, her face mostly covered by a ceremonial hood over her head. “Tristan, I brought the medicine from Cigfa as soon as she’d finished it.” She suddenly turned, and Mozenrath caught a glimpse of the most beautiful hazel eyes he’d ever seen. Bright as amber and flecked with green and gold, they looked back at him appraisingly. “Ah. I see your guest has awakened Tristan. Do you wish me to leave?” Her voice! It sounded like songbirds whispering at dawn! Mozenrath felt himself woozy with delight.
“Not at all.” Tristan stood up, his mass of long peppery gray hair falling to his waist. “Mozenrath…this is Iaine, one of our younger druids.”
Iaine took her hood off and the corner of her lips pulled. She was a strong featured woman, her face was short and firm, with a squared off jaw and expressive lips. Her hair hung around her face in braids the color of fresh honey and tied about in bright red bands. She was smiling at him he realized when he looked up at her. “Good day. Are your injuries bad?”
He started to straighten up, the pride of a young cock preparing to strut for a hen, and groaned in agony. Iaine chuckled and took a glass bottle from her cloak. “Relax.” She said insistently and pushed him with a single hand back down. “You can’t risk opening those slashes on your back again.”
Mozenrath started to obey, breaking eye to eye contact and suddenly felt very different. As soon as he’d started into her eyes a kind of drunken stupor had come over him, he felt enamored, intoxicated, but that moment she’d looked away his mind had come back to him in a flash. He growled, something inside of him rebelling. He didn’t like magic being used on him. He didn’t like the feeling of being controlled.
Tristan took the bottle from her and nodded. “You might want to go help everyone prepare for tonight. I’m not sure our guest can take much more of your… natural charm.”
To his surprise Iaine blushed brightly. “I’m sorry, sometimes I forget.” She brought the hood back up over her face and nodded to Mozenrath, hurrying out the door and letting the bright sunlight stream in. For the briefest of instants, Mozenrath could swear he saw a bird taking flight. But it was gone as soon as the flap closed and Mozenrath grit his teeth against the glare.
“Don’t be embarrassed Mozenrath. Iaine has that effect the first few times you see her. It’s different if you’ve known her since she was a little one, but strangers like you aren’t ready for it.” Tristan chuckled and looked over the bottle. “Ah, perfect. You can always count on Cigfa for remedies. You caught a bad infection while you were out and we’ve been treating it with a salve.”
“How did I…” Mozenrath began insistently.
“I’m sure you have a great many questions.” Tristan said, halting the mans words. “Please, allow me to tend to you and I will explain how you got to be here.” He was a druid, first most and for most. He needed to be sure that this man wasn’t going to come down with any sort of sickness that could spread to the rest of the village. Foreigners always ran the risk of bringing some new disease or illness in that he and his people couldn’t fight. Tristan could recognize most sicknesses before they had a chance to spread, otherwise he would have let Iaine or one of the other druidess handle this. It was certainly more pleasant to have a young, handsome woman tending to a young man’s injuries than some white bearded old fellow.
“You were discovered by one of our hunters…” He explained, unwrapping the young man with as much gentleness as possible. There were no broken bones thank the spirits, but some skin had been scratched off in several places, bruises the size of a forearm and many sprains. “You were lucky you’d been discovered so quickly, other wise the damage could have been quite extensive.”
Mozenrath snorted, somehow feeling that he hadn’t needed any help. The druid touched lightly against one of the places where skin had been separated from muscle and the young man whimpered, gripping the pillows tightly. “How long have I been here?”
Tristan tilted the open bottle into his hands and a smooth, slightly green fluid came out. He rubbed the stuff between his callused palms and began to work it into the wounds. He whispered softly under his breath, making sure his words went unheard. Immediately a cool, refreshing feeling spread over Mozenrath’s entire body, an almost tickling sensation at his bruised ribs and battered shoulders. Tristan nodded. “About two weeks.” He said, satisfied as the soft white blue glow dissipated, soaking into the open injuries. “You were out cold at first, we’ve been force feeding you broth and bread, you woke up half way through and had a fever induced hallucination, took five people to hold you…”
“And this.” He held up his hand. “Is this from…whatever happened to me?”
Tristan sighed. “This kind of hurt…” he took the skeletal digits in his hand. Mozenrath suddenly felt weird. This thing, these bones where warm flesh should be, nobody had ever touched them before. He felt like they had been hidden…and should stay that way. “This kind of hurt drives deep. I do not think a fall down a mountain would have caused this kind of damage.”
“What could have…?”
Tristan’s face suddenly became quite serious. His penetrating blue eyes looked down into Mozenrath black ones, as if wondering if this memory loss could be false. “We will speak of this later. Right now I need to see how well you can move. Come.” He stood suddenly. “We are going to attempt a walk around the village.”
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Chapter 3: Chapter 3
A sea of emerald green stretched out before Mozenrath’s sight. As the wind blew across the village the grass waved back like little jewels, shining in the morning sunlight. The smell of rain and conifers flooded his nose and he sniffed as if congested, unused to the air here. Everything smelled dewy, even the hut he had emerged from. The huts were strangely shaped, like clichéd wizard hats with thick moss and wood covering them. Outside most of them stood tall looms, attended by women weaving some of the most complicated patterns he had ever seen. As he watched, figures began to emerge, strange and mystical gold hounds on a field of red and green, a man with large eyes and a great beard stood above many smaller men wielding a bizarre spear with three heads.
A bakery of sorts stood off to one side, many clay ovens cooking bread. The scent wafted over him and he realized quite suddenly how hungry he was. A tall woman looked over and smiled, recognizing Tristan. She was using a great stone to grind thick yellow grain to a fine power. He waved back and continued leading Mozenrath on the tour. “Are you alright? Your shivering.” The druid asked suddenly.
Mozenrath hadn’t allowed himself to say anything, but he was freezing.
“You must not be from around here, it is almost Beltane, your shaking like it’s Yule.” Tristan shook his head. “I will see if Essus has any spare cloaks for you.”
Mozenrath grimaced when his guides back was turned. The clothing he wore felt common and itchy against his soft skin. Most of what he wore was made from wool or animal hide, not to mention it was at least two sizes too big for him. Apparently their smith had (one of the only bachelors in the village) had given up some of his wear for the stranger as most of his clothing had been torn beyond repair from the fall.
Mozenrath would just as soon have gone naked. He couldn’t figure out why this clothing made him feel uncomfortable. He should be grateful for rags! These people were already taking care of him, had saved from certain death and tended to him like one of their own. Why then did he feel as if he should be strutting about in silks and…satin? He wore a pair of deer hide breeches that had been patched once or twice, a loin cloth, tunic, and solid animal hide boots. A massive belt that dwarfed his already too thin waist and a leather strip had been used to tie back his unusually thick black locks. He’d been given a comfortable pair of gloves to cover his grotesque hand with. He couldn’t look too awful, some of the women had notice his presence and their stares were not entirely ones of apprehension. But still…
Apparently Essus did have extra cloaks and brought them himself. A shorter, stocky man with the starting of a beard, he couldn’t be more than two years Mozenrath’s junior, but he carried himself with a familiar arrogance. The younger man looked him up and down and handed the cloaks over with barely a word, acting preoccupied. What went unspoken between them did not need to be said.
Foreigner.
Uppity brat.
Tristan smirked and arched a thick gray eyebrow. “He is a remarkable one isn’t he? He is just under me as a druid, may take the position as chief when I pass on.” Tristan looked at the expression of distaste on Mozenrath face and smiled broadly. “May…” he stressed and they continued onward.
A flock of children ran by, chasing a pig skin ball and tossing it from one to the other. As he watched, it became obvious that the children wearing three or more colors were leading the rest. They also seemed to have small, crude bracelets or rings around their fingers. As Mozenrath came to this realization he noticed that those with more colors on their clothing seemed to be doing better than those with less. Apparently this marked a chaste system. No one seemed desperately poor or lacking the essentials, it was just that some had more or finer things, others less. The whole place had a thoroughly rustic charm.
Mozenrath also began to notice that certain people, only a few out of the mass that seemed to make up this tribe, wore an eggshell shade of white somewhere on their bodies, aside from their otherwise common cloth. Tristan specifically hailed these people as they passed and they marked each other with varying degrees of respect and conversation. Most of it seemed to be about the soon to come celebration of Beltane. Apparently it was quite a large festival, expected to draw a massive crowd this year. After a while, once Tristan was sure he would neither cause nor come to harm, he left Mozenrath to his own devises.
“You're no chick in need of a mother hen.” He said as he talked to another of those white marked people. This seemed to be a dismissal, one he was not entirely sure of. A stranger, of unknown origins, left to wander freely on his own? He would never do something like that…would he? Well at any rate, it didn’t feel like something he would do. Still, if he going to go about unwatched, he may as well acquaint himself with the place.
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Chapter 4: Chapter 4
Tristan waited patiently until his guest was out of hearing range before continuing his conversation with fellow druid. “I know it’s a risk. But Ossian the man doesn’t even remember who he is.”
“He remembers his name. And with a man like him that’s more than enough for me.” Ossian crossed his muscular arms. He was only a decade younger than Tristan, and the two often sought council in one another. He had only a few streaks of gray in his dark blond braids and cool green eyes set under a heavy brow. He was in reality a quite cheerful man, but that brow often made one think twice before setting about in a tangle with him.
“But beyond that what?” Tristan argued. “Are we to kill him for a crime he did not commit? Are we to execute a man for a past he does not remember.” He frowned. “That sits ill on my stomach Ossian.”
“But he did attempt to steal the artifact Tristan. He failed, but he attempted. I admire the bold, but the brash and power-mad… It’s besides the point. He is a necromancer, one of those foul death callers from the desert. His magic is not like ours, he uses the force of those from the Otherworld, abuses it even. He shows no respect or reverence for the balance of nature.” Ossian shivered from the thought of it.
Tristan sighed. He too had dealt with the magic of the Otherworld as part of his training. He had communicated with his ancestors and left offerings for them at Samhain. But there was a fine line between working with the dead, and abusing them. “Perhaps… perhaps he can be taught…”
“You speak of bringing him into the fold.” Ossian rubbed his beard. “Damn. We don’t even know if he could be taught our ways. That nasty thing he used to cover his hand, I was trying to figure it out as you asked me too.” He took Tristan by the shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. “It’s an evil piece of magic there old friend. There’s something…dark…wicked trapped inside that hurts when you touch it too close.”
“Are you saying that thing is…conscious?”
“Aware would be a better term. It is not active without someone wearing it I think. But when I tried to break it’s spells, it defended itself.” Ossian lifted up the sleeve of his tunic to show a burn mark in the shape of a left hand.
“Have Cigfa put ointment on that soon.” He grimaced and bit his lower lip, chewing it as he often did when stressed.
“My wife has already taken care of it, I left it unwrapped to show you.” He pulled his sleeve back down. “May I offer a piece of advice? It is nearly Beltane…and it has been five years…”
Tristan closed his mouth with a snap and Ossian was cut off. “I do not think it would be wise to offer this man as our emissary to the gods. We still have prisoners from the cattle raid earlier this year, and they do not fear the fires as a foreigner would.” What Tristan was not saying struck a cord with Ossian, and he debated weather to ask our not. Tristan did not give him the opportunity. “Do you remember that dream I had two months ago?”
“Remind me.” He sat down across the chief druid and handed him a mug of beer.
Tristan took a long sip and silenced himself, thinking back. “In my dream, I was in a field of wheat, and a great black boar stood across the field from me. He was huge, with great ivory tusks and eyes red as fire. As he began to run to me, I tried to move, but could not. Closer and closer he came, and as he drew near I could see the blood coating his mouth, ready to taste my insides. But I did not move, I was afraid of him, for he could easily overpower me. But I was no afraid. He came nearer, roaring in anger. And just as I though he would tear my gut from me, I held out my hand, and the black boar became white at my touch.”
Ossian took a deep deep drink of beer and closed his eyes. “I hear what you are saying. But Tristan, keep in mind.” He looked off to where Mozenrath had gone. “Black or white, a boar still sharpens his tusks.”
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Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Mozenrath followed the scent of fresh water as he wound his way through the trees. There was some sort of path wound through here, just a little line where the plants threatened to encroach. A sound called his attention, something like a kitten mewling for attention. He hurried forward just in time to catch the sight of a falcon diving into the weeds of the river bank. There was a rustle and it soared back as if it had barely touched the ground, a fat duck in it’s curved claws. It was a beautiful creature with a blazingly white breast and dark pine brown back. He watched it catch a thermal and ride it high into the sky, it’s captivating hazel green eyes staring down at the interloper.
It sailed off behind the tree line and Mozenrath waited for a moment as if expecting it to circle around again. A sudden movement caught his attention in the brush and his eyes snapped to the spot. Something was moving through the woods at a fast pace straight at him. He raised his hand instinctively and suddenly wondered why he would do such a thing. Was that his knife hand? It had to be. Too bad he had no knife in it.
He back away, looking for something to defend himself with. What kind of predators frequented this area? He saw a sharp stone and grabbed for it quickly, planning to either hurl it for distraction or use as a stabbing implement. A flash of white caught his eye and he gasped.
“Planning to throw something at me are you?”
Mozenrath couldn’t possibly realize how idiotic he looked right then, mouth wide open, eyes blinking quickly at the sight of those unimaginably wonderful eyes. “N…no …I…wasn’t going to….” He tried to shake himself out of that stupor when she must have realized what she was doing to him.
“Sorry…again.” Iaine closed her eyes and strained for a moment, when they opened again it seemed like the gold flecks had disappeared. “I’m not used to having to guard myself like that around my kin.”
“Kin…this whole village is related?” Mozenrath said, half out of curiosity, but mostly to get the subject of the inane way he acted when she surprised him like that.
“No, that would cause inbreeding. But we are for the most part extended family.” She gestured to a row of well thatched huts. “See that one with the large cauldron outside the door? I was born in that hut. My father is one of the best warriors of our clan, Felim. He led a cattle raid about eighteen years ago on a neighboring village and in the process brought back home my mother, Blai. Some say she was forced, but as far as I can tell she’s never complained about the arrangement.”
“Ah, so you kidnap from other clans to keep from mating with your own.” Mozenrath concluded, pleased that they ploy had worked. Something about her appearance set him on edge, besides the suddenness of it. Did falcons normally have such human like eyes? He doubted it.
“Not always, sometimes the brides settle on a coibach, a bride price.” Iaine said, smoothing out her long plaited hair. He noticed a bronze ornament hanging off the end, a beautiful design with those confusing braids that seemed to be so popular around here. “My father had already prepared one for me, until Tristan realized my potential and asked for me as a druid apprentice. I was not betrothed officially, so the boys parents could not object.”
“Did you?” Mozenrath asked, careful to keep his eyes off her face. “Object I mean?” He suddenly realized he was still holding the rock. He dropped it quickly and tried to make himself straighten up. He looked a mess compared to her, in his mish meshed clothing that didn’t fit. She was wearing a white tunic that ended just at her knees and mahogany breeches that closed off into slim boots. She had little pieces of jewelry here and there, nothing to large or ostentatious. Iaine was quite statuesque, her body was strong, yet not physically muscular, still a little of the baby fat left over from younger years to be charming. As the sun light pushed through the bars of the canopy, Mozenrath realized there were little highlights of red here and there, giving her an overall golden look.
He realized that her feature were stunning without the aid of her binding eyes.
Iaine pretended that she did not notice his stare, or his ploy. She was, in essence, keeping him occupied as much as she could Tristan had made her aware of this sorcerers past, as well as what it could mean for his future. The Beltane fires. It was no dishonor to go to them, indeed many a captured warrior felt it his duty to go. But this man would not understand that, he would be afraid. Fear was something no Celt showed. Iaine felt it wrong, even with what the fool had attempted before his ‘unfortunate’ accident. But it was not her place to question this, she was still an apprentice in the druid grove.
But the night of Beltane was made for more than sacrifice. If he was indeed to go to the fires, she would make his last night a memorable one. He was nice enough company, thought she could not compare it to his former amiability. And she was enjoying showing him around the village while Tristan and Ossian spoke with the other druids. She would be able to find out what they had decided later on. “Your name is Mozenrath…yes?” Iaine said as she turned to look at him.
“I…believe so yes.” He straightened up forcefully in front of her, determined to assert himself no matter what the situation, She had caught him off guard, no more would he allow that gaze of hers to trap him. The problem was he couldn’t tell if his resistance was working until it was to late.
“I…have never heard of a name quite like that before. It is pronounced oddly.”
Unsure if he was being made fun of, Mozenrath sneered. “Like Tristan said, I’m not from around here.” He started to walk ahead of her, attempting to take the lead, but she quickly caught up with him. “I don’t need a guide.” He said and began to jog.”
“How do you know? You don’t even know who you are, so how do you know you don’t need a guide?” Iaine was smiling now, a little playfully. Her legs strode to keep up with him.
“Well I don’t need someone teasing me damn it!” Mozenrath was picking ups peed as Iaine switched her position and began keeping tag alongside him.
“Once again, how do you know your being teased? How do you know anything? Do you know that the sky is blue right now? Do you know your male?” Her grin was as broad as a crescent moon. “You are male right?”
Mozenrath’s cheeks turned beet red and he broke into a full run, his long legs passing his companion quickly. To his amazement Iaine merely picked up speed, controlling her breath so as not to run out. No one tried to stop them as they crossed through the huts and past the cattle. They ignored the curious looks of the shepards boys as they ran out through the wheat fields and into the glade.
“You run fast for a skinny, injured man.” Iaine taunted, almost childishly at him and Mozenrath’s eyes narrowed. How dare she tease him like that! He tried to push himself faster, when all of the sudden, his body protested, violently.
Iaine forced herself to stop as the pale man came crashing to the ground, holding his leg and trying to breath evenly. “Oh!” she turned around and took out a goat skin full of cool water. “Sorry…I forgot up until I said something.” Mozenrath growled at her but snatched up the skin from her hands, drinking it quickly and ignoring her reproachful look. “It wasn’t a fair race. You may have beaten me if you were so badly hurt.”
“Who said you won?” He tossed the water back to her and grabbed hold of a tree limb to try and pull himself up. She reached out to help him and he pushed her off, thought more aggravated at her or himself he wasn’t sure. He grimaced and forced himself not to whimper as his skin burned when he supported his own weight. Why hadn’t he felt this bad before.
Gee dummy, maybe because you weren’t running yourself into a heart attack to impress a girl.
Iaine tilted her head to one side, watching him struggle not to show weakness. She could easily admire his independence, his desire to accomplish on his own even when he really did need the help. A true Celt, she knew how precious pride was to any man, and though he would suffer for his later, let him take his time standing and walking again. “Ulster.” She said suddenly and he turned to look at her, confused. “You asked in your sleep, ‘Where am I.’ I thought you might still want the answer.”
Mozenrath spun around to make some sarcastic remark when a great call like a heron went up through the air. He started, but A sudden light came over Iaine’s face. “It’s almost time.” She said softly. “Here.” She took Mozenrath’s stronger arm with a no nonsense kind of attitude. “I’ll help you back to the hut.”
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Chapter 6: Chapter 6
I'll not resist, though pain is strong -
The ending notes of one last song.
“Listen to me Mozenrath.” Iaine said as she helped a grudgingly accepting Mozenrath back to Tristan’s hut. “No matter what happens, don’t try to leave unless your summoned. “ she gave no parting words but disappeared before he could tell her how he despised following orders.
Mozenrath rose to look outside of the animal skin blocking the doorway and jumped back just in time to avoid two long lances crossing in front of him. He landed on his backside and saw two strong armed, burly men standing guard at the doorway, glaring at him through blue paint tattoos and fierce eyes. He didn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d startled him but sniffed as though he’d smelt something particularly nasty.
Despite how uncaring he was attempting to be, this whole place had him on edge. The way he was being constantly watched, how everyone was being so ‘nice’ to him. Something was going on under the surface of these serene faces and it made him even more desperate to find out why he was here. Mozenrath searched the contents of the hut, not really giving a crap that it wasn’t his hut and found a satchel of dried meat. He sat in a corner and gnawed at it absently, trying to figure this situation out.
Number one: he was not from this village, besides it being made bluntly obvious, his entire body gave away the fact that he wasn’t a local. He was lean and wiry, where as most of the men here had some muscle built up on them just from day to day labor. He was exceedingly pale while most of the folk in these parts were a normal, healthy flesh shade. So if he wasn’t from around here, how did he get so far from anyone who looked like him?
Number two: His hand? How on earth did such a wretched, nasty thing come to be on him? He uncovered his tunic to get a full look at the bones. They were clean, bleached by years of exposure, so it was not from his recent accident. As he looked closely there were nicks and chips in the skeletal structure, showing that his hand had been exposed when he fell. That meant it must have been covered at some point. But by what? And, now that he thought about it, why did he feel especially at unease when one of those druids came around. It was as if a part of their being called out to him, questioning, curious as to his nature.
The smell of smoke drifted in, and he could catch the hint of roasted meat on the pit. Mozenrath rolled his eyes. It had to be that damn holiday Baleen or whatever they called it. He shifted his cloak up around his shoulders and tried to get comfortable. He sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around to discover what everyone was so apprehensive about. Especially not under armed guard who wanted him to stay where he could be easily found. Mozenrath began checking the inside of the hut, looking for any week spots.
He found one soon enough, right where the stove was located. Under the stove was a place where soot and ash could bee removed from the outside so as not to spill and ruin items indoors. It was a narrow hole, but light was clearly visible on the other side. Carefully, Mozenrath removed the tin pan placed underneath, making sure no sound called the guards to check on him. He lay it carefully next to the stove and looked around for something to take with him. He didn’t know where he was or where he was going. Best to be prepared.
After scrounging around the tables he found a good piece of flint and a crude but solid bone handled knife. He pocketed the rest of the dried meat and searched out a water skin. A few more items packed away, (mostly things that looked medicinal like that salve Tristan had rubbed on him) and he felt secure enough to make his escape. He pushed it all inside a woolen satchel and squeezed it out through the small opening, checking to see if anyone was out there.
It took a great deal of grunting and quiet digging, but Mozenrath just made it through the hole as a shadow began to turn the corner of the chief druids domicile. Mozenrath bit his lip, plastering himself against the edge as a face appeared, then suddenly stopped as his/her name was called. He/she spun around with a happy look on his/her face and ran off to see someone. Mozenrath let out a breath and looked around. Apparently all the village was gathered in the center of the tribe. No one would bother with him for a good while. But he wasn’t going to abuse how far luck was getting him tonight. He took off at a brisk pace, heading for the woods.
A full moon hung heavy over the world tonight, making everything in his path visible. He tried to avoid making too much noise, though even as the light of the village dimmed he could still hear the rancorous noises of drumming, dancing, flutes and drinking. Mozenrath smiled to himself. Even with his injuries he could be far away by mornings light, his trail gone. Feeling self satisfied, he began to slow down, allowing himself to get his bearings.
Another noise caught his attention and he froze, wary. It was a strange sound, short, frequent and feminine. He strained to hear and realized that a male voice accompanied it, longer and more grunting. It took Mozenrath a second to realize that he was standing less than six feet from a couple who had decided that Beltane was for lovers and wandered into the forest for a little privacy. Blushing more than he cared to in one day, he slowly backed away from the sight, hoping not to run into anyone else enjoying the same party activates.
He traveled for what seemed like hours until the moon rose in perfect position above him. A wind wound cleverly through the trees, carrying voices to him as he pulled his cloak tighter. He paused for a moment, wondering if he’d stumbled upon another night time tryst. But no, these voices were different, melodious and reverent. A strange pull started to make him move and for a second he felt dizzy.
Mozenrath gripped a tree to steady himself and shook his head. What was the music? Soft and light hearted, he could hear those voices chanting in time, preparing, calling to something he couldn’t fathom. Entranced, more from curiosity than the spell of it, Mozenrath began to move forward, seeking the source. Light, bright blue light swam in from of him and he crept closer, feeling as if he passed through something as the trees gave way to a circle of people. He couldn’t tell their sex one from the other, everyone wore a white robe with either yellow, red, blue or green markings on the elbows and necklines. And on top of that a hooded cloak of deep brown that let the shadow from the firelight play across their faces. Even those seemed sexless, but joined together as they rose in chorus with beautiful sounds, dancing with one another carelessly.
He could just barely pick out Iaine’s features from the rest of them, she too was their, that precocious smile on her full lips as she danced with a taller, slightly older man. A few of the people sat off on a log, beating the drums as they danced around and around the bonfire. Mozenrath strained to make out the words.
Burn burn the bon fire burn
Spirits of the evening rise
Burn burn the bon fire burn
Spirits of the darkening sky
May
The crops grow high
And women swell
With bellies full of child
The sow will root
The seed will grow
As high as the evening sky
Burn burn the bon fire burn
Spirits of the evening rise
Burn burn the bon fire burn
Spirits of the darkening sky
The song continued until the last of the singers fell down in laughter amongst the others of their kind. One of them stood, and by the long beard Mozenrath had no doubt who. Tristan pulled back his hood to reveal his face, distinguished and serene in it’s old age. The others followed suit, and finally Mozenrath could distinguish who was who. Indeed, everyone he had seen with a white band on their body was here now, and it hit Mozenrath like a bolt from the blue.
This was a druid ceremony.
Something told him to run, now before he was caught. Another part longed to linger and watch as the ritual continued and Tristan began to speak. Guess which part won.
He could barely make out the words, but the intention was clear. They were offering something to the deities of the planting season, thanking them for a good harvest the last year, and asking for a generous blessing on the fields for this season. As they began to prepare the alter, Mozenrath felt something creep along the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end. As he turned, something out of the corner of his eye moved and he jerked to find it again. The fireflies in the trees blinked back at in instantly rhythmic patterns, adding to the sensation that he was being watched.
When he turned back to the center, a man was being lead gently into the grove. He was young, perhaps in his mid twenties and strikingly good looking. He was without anything but a red ribbon in his braid and he knelt before Tristan and opened his arms wide. The chief druid was saying something in a suddenly serious voice. The young man was locked into position, forcing himself to face straight up into those stern and almost otherworldly eyes. He spoke the words ‘I accept’ with a pride and determination Mozenrath had never heard before, and suddenly ever druid there bowed reverently to him.
Two women came forward, baring a cloak of white deer hide, trimmed with beautiful golden threat and fastened with a magnificent brooch. Essus, the young druid who had lent Mozenrath his cloak uncovered a cloth on the alter, and raised the brilliantly decorated antlers from Tristan’s home aloft. He took them to each man and woman in turn, letting him or her lay their hands upon the ivory horns or kiss them softly. When he came back around to the young man, he asked him something again. Perhaps his nerve was failing, for this time he only nodded in acceptance.
The antlers were placed on his head and he rose, truly a magnificent figure, like a deer sprung to human form. Iaine came forward, baring a silver chalice with a strange liquid inside. She tipped it to his lips and he took several big gulps, draining the glass dry. Iaine smiled and his and reached forward to kiss his cheek. He smiled at her in a strange way, and walked with his head held high to the alter stone.
His legs seemed to falter and two of the larger druids helped him lift himself onto the stone, laying down amongst the flowers and wreaths and other beautiful decorations. Ossian went to the head of the man and lifted his neck, exposing his throat. He raised his arms up high and began to call out in a triumphant and heralding voice what was to happen.
And Mozenrath saw the blade in his hand.
What he did next would change his life forever.
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Chapter 7: Chapter 7
If he had paid attention, he would have seen the light leave the brave young mans eyes before he reacted. He would have seen the last breath leave his body long before Ossian raised the blade. If he had paid any damn attention he would have realized that this was willing and a means of honor. But all he could see was the knife, and the dark firelight casting a shadow on the brave youth.
No one knew how to react when Mozenrath burst from the bushes to stop the knife from falling. There was not enough time to stop him, nor enough to speak when he suddenly grabbed hold of the young mans hand and the whole world crawled to a stand still.
When Mozenrath’s hand touched his, a great breath erupted from the young mans chest. His eyes flew open and he began to breath with steady confidence. Mozenrath’s mouth dropped open and he tried to jerk away, only to be grabbed with ferocity and pulled in close to the alter. He tried to scream, to ask for help, but there was no opportunity, all of the druids stood back, waiting, wanting to see the outcome.
The sacrificial man looked Mozenrath straight in the eyes, clasping onto his cheeks with a mighty grip when he tried to pull away. “The boar had begun his charge.” He said with a voice barely human. He gave another great breath and lifted his head aloft, screaming to the heavens. “The boar has begun his charge!”
Mozenrath screamed and slammed his hands into the mans chest, falling back to the ground and staggering away. Hands fell upon his shoulders, holding him in place as the youth suddenly became very still and sunk in an almost dreamy way back to the cold stone.
Mozenrath looked up into Iaine’s magnificent eyes, and fainted.
“Well this certainly simplifies things.” Tristan said with a secretive smile on his face as the other druids talked amongst themselves. The ritual had been completed as soon as Mozenrath had been brought back to the village and tended to by some of the unmarried maidens. Ossian felt somewhat awkward as the sacrifice, dispatching a body which had just recently woken from a very power( but painless) poison to give a stunningly well timed prophesy. But still, there were other things to consider here, promises had been made and despite a little interference the ritual had gone on as planned. Now there was one question left.
What to do with the interloper?
“Simplifies things?!” Essus roared, raising from his place on the bench. “Are you joking Tristan? This necromancer walked into the middle of a privet ritual and botched the entire thing! And we all just stood there like a bunch of deer caught in the torch light and…”
Ossian reached up and cuffed Essus on the back of the head. “Sit down and shut your yap. We can all hear ya without having to scream.” He snorted and drew back his hood to ignore the insulted glare from Essus. “What I’m more interested in is the fact that he awoke a prophesy without the use of his magical glove. I thought for sure all his powers were tied up in that dark thing.”
“But this could show potential.” Cigfa, a woman of at least as many years as Tristan spoke up. “We all know the signs, they were spotted in us as children before we were asked…”
“As children.” Another druid by name of Kilydd spoke up. “We were identified as child and trained from then on. Someone, someone warped and twisted, taught this boy magic from a very young age, or there is no way he would have sensed the pulse from the Otherworld that drew him to our ritual grove.”
“Exactly what worries me.” Ossian said. “He may not remember it, but the magic he was taught is filthy, unbalanced stuff. It’s ingrained in his blood now. To the point of where he’s not even aware he’s being called to it.” He drew the brown leather glove from his hip pocket, showing it to the others gathered. “I tell you now, no matter what is decided, this thing must be hidden or destroyed. It longs for a master, and will take back Mozenrath if it can.” He threw it down in the middle of the ground, spitting on the fine leather angrily. To everyone’s disgust the liquid hissed and gurgled back at him from the fabric.
“But if he can be taught a new way.” Iaine said cautiously. “Darkness and light must exist together, this is one of the first lessons we learn as druids. We use the balance of nature in cooperation with our own powers. Once we learn this, it becomes almost second nature to care for our actions as we do for the green beneath us.” She insisted. “I believe he could be taught this.”
Tristan looked her up and down. “And…what makes you think him able to learn these new ways, our ways?”
“Did he not jump to defend that man? We think of this in the light of a willing sacrifice, going to the Otherworld in lee of his brothers in arms. To us it is a honorable and glorious death, a warriors right to chose how he passes. But to him it is a victim and a helpless person. He did not know that had he rescued that man, he only would have returned to the alter later to accept his honors.”
“You are saying he has light, though he is unaware of it.” Cigfa said.
“As unaware as he is of his darkness. Or so I think.” Iaine closed her mouth and sat back, taking a sip of mead. She had said her peace, now it was time to let the words sink in.
“Not a choice to be made lightly Tristan.” A druidess passing through from Connacht named Varia looked at the chief druid. There was something of a rivalry between Connacht and Ulster, seemed there always had been. And though druids passed through the deepest of enemy territories unharmed by tradition, there was always something of a game between rival groves to see how one another handled stress and unexpected complications. No doubt word would be carried back to the other druids of their respective kingdoms.
Tristan sighed and looked at the moon above. “Nor one to be made without a good nights sleep.” He said smoothly. “My friends, Beltane has taken a toll on us, and it has been a doubly tiring night. May I suggest a good nights rest and a nice meal in the morning before we confer.” There were weary nods all around, the kind that only hours of dancing, drinking, and singing can bring about. Even Varia gave a nod and stood up. “Very well. Ossian, where did you put our guest for the night?”
“He’s over on the bachelors hut under the most powerful sleeping spell I could lay on him.” Ossian gave a gruff nod. “I asked Fergus’s daughter Savern to make sure he stays in bed and asleep.” He gave an earthy chuckle. “Even if he does wake up, she’ll make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”
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Chapter 8: Chapter 8
When Mozenrath opened his eyes around the apogee of the sun, he was surprised to find a buxom woman with thick eyelashes and dark hair cuddled next to him. It was almost as shocking as realizing neither of them had clothing. She was a pretty thing, her arms wrapped tightly around his frame and smiling. He sat up and groaned, his head pounding like thunder. As soon as he looked around he realized he was not in Tristan’s home, but surrounded by other men about his age, none of them seemed to be without a companion in the bunk with him. Most unclothed, and all with pleased smiles on their faces. Something in him rejected this close contact and he stirred, trying to untangle himself from the long, strong arms of the wench holding him.
She moved the moment he did and smiled. “Well hello there sleepy head.” She grabbed his waist and pulled him back down. “You left me disappointed last night, sleeping so soundly with a body like mine so near.” She stretched unashamed and it left Mozenrath no doubt that no man actually slept in the same bed with her.
“I...did?” he shook himself, reaching for the sheets to cover himself. What exactly had happened, he recalled a grove, singing, dancing, and a man wearing antlers.
It came back to him in a flash and he jerked out of Savern’s grip, reaching around for clothing that looked familiar. He slipped on a pair of trousers and headed for the door. He backed away slowly, seeing a familiar shadow fall across the flap. He breathed in deep, looking around for a place to hide. Suddenly the woman’s arms criss crossed around his shoulder and she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t be afraid, if they meant death for you it would have been done last night.”
Iaine opened the door and did not look at all surprised to see Savern wrapped around Mozenrath. “Well, I see someone celebrated Beltane properly.” She forced a smile and rummaged around till she found Mozenrath’s tunic and boots and handed them to him. “You had quite an eventful night last night Mozenrath.”
“Y…yes. About that, I…I didn’t mean to intrude…I was just…”
“Trying to escape and blundered in.” Iaine finished somewhat snappishly. “Yes we figured that out already. What you saw was a private ritual, not meant for non druidic eyes.” She was, he noticed, dressed down from the last time he saw, as if she’d risen quickly to find him. Her stunning eyes had dark circles under them and if he didn’t know better, Mozenrath would say she was suffering from little sleep and a hangover. She looked disheveled. “Look your best, the druids want to see you.”
He was led across the town, still pulling his tunic over his head and nervous. What were they going to do? Had he broken some taboo? Had his interruption been so horrible that he was going to be the next man in the deer suit? He steeled his nerves and forced a calm over his body. If they thought they could kill him with the drugs and blades, they were sadly mistaken, he would fight every last one of them!
Aside from his fear, Mozenrath noticed that he was being taken notice of by nearly everyone in town. Fingers were being pointed and a wide berth was being given to the hung over druid apprentice and her companion. Maybe it was the look on Iaine’s face, she did seem a great deal more sour than the last time. Something else stuck him, he had not been a sodden drunk when she looked at him in the tent. Maybe her eyes didn’t work when she was imbibing.
He looked around the village, marking any way he might escape if there was trouble. Not that he’d get far, these people probably knew the territory better than he did. He should have thought of that last night. Mozenrath was being led to another of those huts, this one decked with archaic symbols that spoke to something in him. This tent was protected somehow, he knew it, there was a strange vibration in his bones that set off a chime like ring in his ear. Would he even be able to enter? Iaine came to the doorway and knelt forward, placing two fingers to her lips and then to the doorframe.
The ringing in his ears stopped short suddenly and he was ushered in. As soon as they had entered, Iaine repeated the gesture and the vibration snapped back against him. It took a moment for them to go from the bright noon light to the darkness of the hut. Mozenrath was surprised to see that rather than be cluttered with a mass of property like the others he’d been in, this one was large and relatively simple. Most of the people occupying it were either lounging on animal skins or sitting on stools and speaking with one another. There was a general air of apprehension as they noticed him, one by one stopping their conversations to look him over. He had somehow moved in the center of them all and felt paranoid to be gazed at in such a way.
He suddenly scowled, slipped one foot and leaned in an arrogant and haughty fashion, meeting each gaze in turn. There was a chuckle from somewhere in the room and Mozenrath noticed a matronly woman handing Iaine a root of some sort. She swallowed it down and in a few minuets looked much better. A cauldron was bubbling near the center and as tipped his head back to look inside.
“You can gaze if you wish.”
The voice was so abrupt he didn’t know where it came from. He looked around, but no one showed signs of having spoken. Mozenrath turned back to the bubbling pot, the scent of sage and jasmine wafting around him as he approached. If the spell around the hut caused a chime, this caused a giant brass bell to go off in his body. He reach out gingerly with his ungloved hand and a hiss arose from the cauldron.
“Not that way. Be strong, be confident.”
Mozenrath was feeling heady, the smoke clouding his eyes as his senses slowly flooded with a familiar yet estranged sensation. He leaned forward, feeling as though he would fall into the cauldron and drown himself in the water. He saw a pool of blackness at the bottom, a mirror image of himself stared back up at him through the dark pot. “I don’t understand…” he whispered.
“You will…” The voice was Iaine’s soft and soothing. “Just look and let yourself go. And you will.”
Mozenrath gripped the side of the cauldron, the heat from it blazing through one hand and took a deep breath. The smoke filled his lungs but he suddenly felt no need to breath. The world around him began to spin and the water in the cauldron hummed a clear, resonate note. Mozenrath blinked, and the world around him had changed.
It was dusk, the fire in the sky blazing out across the landscape to color the world bellow. Under his feet was rich red earth, fertile and bursting with energy. A field of wheat, ripe and golden in the breeze surrounded him on all sides, sheep and their shepards enjoying the balmy day. Mozenrath breathed in and the sweet mellow scent filled his body with life. He looked down at his arms and found them replenished, whole, even a little muscular. He was different somehow, closer to something he had never felt close to before. There was a presence in his body he was unaccustomed to, but at ease with. Something prompted him to turn.
A sight met his eyes that confused him. Amidst all this natural wealth lay a tree, cold and dead. It seemed surrounded by gray and black, old, decrepit and stale. Could trees be stale? He didn’t know.
As Mozenrath approached the tree a slithering feeling went down his leg. A snake, bright green with kaleidoscopic eye crept forward, turning it’s head to look at him. It…bowed…then continued onward, moving it’s long agile body up the tree.
As soon as it wound it’s self around the top most branch, the tree creaked and groaned, swaying to life as an old man rising from a comfortable seat. It shivered, and the branches wielded little bronze acorns. Then, as if this had taken all it’s energy to do so, it slumped once again, and a single acorn fell to the ground.
Without thinking, Mozenrath moved forward to the tree, his hands reaching out to touch it. With sudden ferocity the snake struck, driving it’s fangs deep into Mozenrath’s flesh. He screamed in pain, pulling away as the venom ate away at his hand, returning it to horrid bleached bone.
“Why?”
He begged the answer from the serpents mouth.
“Why?!”
Mozenrath hollered in rage!
The snake merely looked at him, gauging his reaction, and turned away.
Mozenrath came back to the physical world with a shock, landing on his backside in the dirt and animal skins. The druids stood around him, some with smiles of expectation on their lips, others with a sour grimace. “What…what happened?” he started as Tristan helped him to his feet slowly. A glass of warm ale was shoved into his hands and he drank it down, the reality of this world settling back into him.
“You saw.” Iaine said softly, she among those smiling. “He has the sight Tristan, there is no denying it now.”
Tristan nodded. ‘No there certainly isn’t.” he reached out and too Mozenrath’s hand, clasping it firmly within his own. “Welcome to the world of Druidry my friend.”
“Say…what?” Mozenrath choked on his drink.
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Chapter 9: Chapter 9
Iaine left shortly after wards. It was not necessary for her to stick around after it became apparent that Mozenrath did indeed after druidic potential. She took a deep breath, feeling grateful that Cigfa had thought to bring some ginger root to help with her head ache. The old druidess knew more remedies and herbal fix ups than she could ever hope to. Iaine knew what would be done with the sorcerer, she of course as an apprentice would not be allowed to attend, only chief druids would initiate a new candidate. She secretly wished the desert man good luck.
The tent flap opened behind her and a hand closed on her shoulder. “Hello Essus.” She said congenially.
“Why were you smiling at the man?” The druid asked, his thick blond eyebrows arching.
“Why is it your business Essus?” Iaine shrugged his hand off and began to walk away.
Essus caught up with her and pulled her around the side of a kiln, pushing her up against the baked clay. “Don’t you forget who his was, is Iaine. Think of the stories of the dark necromancer in a land of death. The tales of that sorcerer even reached our island. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
Iaine glared at him and Essus broke his hold. Her anger was as stunning as her joy, and her eyes reflected them both. “I’ll smile at who I like Essus. And I choose to smile at you no longer.” She snapped away, her braid lashing in his face. “You may have initiated me into my apprenticeship Essus, but you do not determine how I will choose to act any more than you can say what bread I will eat or where I will sleep.” And with whom. She thought privately. Essus was like a dog with a bone, unable to let go of whatever he thought his. And Iaine disliked being his bone.
She was a free woman of the Celtic people, no man dared tell her what to do save her father and Tristan. Even if Essus became chief druid of the grove, there were other groups she could join to avoid his mastery over her.
He had been this was ever since the Beltane fires five years ago. They had lain together in powerful magical rites, consummating a symbolic divine union. The act was strictly druidic, no relationship or emotions needed to become involved and she had steeled herself for that. But when Essus had lain against her, she had caved into his expertise.
It was her own fault. She knew that now. There was no denying that the man’s experience was well know through out the village. And when he lay with her she had acted as a lost pup instead of a druidess. Following him around, waiting to be used again. He had been her first time, she was attached to that. Essus had ignored her for the most part, her being just at the end of puberty and honed in on more buxom and inviting women who had long since learned to express interest in a way that would attract and not appall.
She had been so angry the first time he had taken another woman after her that she promptly assaulted the first man to show interest. A trader from a neighboring village. She couldn’t even remember his name. Iaine was ashamed of what she had done, acting like a bitch in heat. But she had learned a valuable lesson from the merchant. She could and did hold power in pleasure. Once she discovered this new ability within herself she broke her attention from Essus, suddenly being very picky about her lovers. Men in the village began to take interest in the sudden independent and coy lass, among them Essus. It was hard to be attracted to someone who threw themselves under your feet. But Iaine, a little older, a great deal more confidant and controlled, was indeed a beauty.
But when Essus approached her again, winding his charm about her so thickly she couldn’t breath, Iaine suddenly realized how unattractive he was as a mate. Oh he was handsome enough, dark blond with serious, brooding blue eyes and straight teeth. His lips were firm and manly, his body was developed and hard. But his attitude set her off automatically. She was evasive at first, simply not caring if he was enticed or not. He became more insistent as he realized that this fine prize was slipping away. She told him straight off one night when he cornered her with a fine man who had treated her with respect.
There was no evidence to prove he had done so, but a few weeks later, when a band of strange looking ‘merchants’ came through to trade goods, she had awoke one morning to find herself bound by foot and wrist in the back of a cart. Kidnapped. These had to be foreign folk, no one from Erin would dare lay harmful hands on a druid! There was a life long curse of vicious satire and horrible agony laid on those who did. They must have been paid to do so, for the ware in the back of their cart were so shoddy it could not explain the wealth of gold they jingled in their pockets.
Also they lay not a hand of desire on her, mostly left her to her own designs. That made sense. Essus was known for his jealousy and would have wreaked terrible vengeance if they dared to violate her.
Essus must have been surprised when he appeared a few days later, leading a war party to ‘rescue’ the ‘captured’ kins woman. No doubt he expected her to fall gratefully into his arms and fall doe eyed in love again. Shock, he appeared at the robbers camp to find Iaine sitting calmly in the center, eating a roast pheasant with the band staring slack jawed into the fire as if the secret of life could be taken from it.
He had forgotten the power of her eyes.
Iaine stopped as she came down to the river, the cool breeze coming off the water calling to her. She needed a few minuets where no one could find her, she was the only one who could change in this village. So if she so chose, and she often did, no one but Tristan would be able to seek her out.
The river touched her feet as they crunched in the pebbles. She removed her clothing, uncaring of the world around her as it faded away. Iaine closed her eyes and remembered sensations, wind through her feathers, the crunch of bones in her claws and the taste of fresh meat in her jaw. She lifted her arms and jumped.
It was two days before anyone saw Iaine again. Essus made a big deal of her rejecting her duties when she returned but Tristan merely nodded and asked her if all had went well. Mozenrath had already undergone his initiation into the fold, an experience that left a part of him feeling…filled…in a way he was not used to yet. He was not however, to speak to anyone regarding this. The ceremonies of the druids were held deep in the forest for a good reason. There were always smaller, more simplistic rituals held for the villagers. Most of it was a great deal of show and fun, amusing from the perspective of those who knew better. But the kind of magic done in the more secretive groups were not something your day to day person could stand to be exposed to. It would be confusing and chaotic, and most likely make one think themselves mad.
But he was coming to terms with some of what he had seen, and his training had already begun. Each druid here seemed to have one specialty or another, and his day was filled up with going to each in turn. It was not as simple as sitting and listening, he was expected to be active on a constant bases. Sometimes he was only expected to stay still and concentrate, but a great many times now he had been lead into the woods to walk with Tristan.
Mozenrath had come to a halt the other day when he realized his mentor was gone from beside him. He turned frantically, not having paid any attention at all to what Tristan had been saying. They had become so entangled in the surrounding forest that Mozenrath could barely see the sun above. He had looked around stupidly for a moment before running straight into the old druid who frowned down at him.
The staff he carried landed hard against Mozenrath’s backside, sending him arse over teakettle across the ground. Mozenrath spun around, eyes blazing as he raised his skeletal hand as if the fire on the man.
Tristan merely looked at him, sigh, and smacked his across the back of his knuckles. Mozenrath cursed angrily but did not act as if to attack again. Tristan shook his head, still not speaking and helped Mozenrath to his feet. “Come on now, and this time pay attention.”
Mozenrath was getting very tired of being smacked about like a disobedient child. Most of his teachers were of the same mind as Tristan and had no shyness about backhanding him for being a smart ass. Even Cigfa, the old woman who didn’t look like she could squeeze the water from a rag had given him a cuff when he ignored her instructions regarding the grinding of poppy seeds.
He groaned as he saw Iaine waiting for him by the river again. He was not in the mood to deal with that uppity woman right now. He knew she was one of his instructors, but Mozenrath tried to blend in with the forest before she could catch sight of him. Too late, Iaine’s eyes spotted him quick as a hawks and she smiled in that infuriating way she had.
“Well…” she said and placed a hand against her pretty chest in mock surprise “Don’t you clean up handsome.” She locked her eyes on him and Mozenrath felt a twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was true, he looked by far better than when he’d first arrived. He only ached a little from his injuries now, most of them having healed. Now that they knew he was going to be staying for a while, he’d been given three or fours outfits fitting to his station as a druid candidate. He looked good in the off white trimmed with dark yellow and Celtic patterns. He even had a few bronze bracelets around his wrists that greatly improved the look of his bone hand.
Mozenrath nodded and turned his face away from her. He simply could not trust himself not to act stupid when Iaine stared at him. She laughed and he felt an angry blush creep across his cheeks.
“I’m not using it right now. I promise.” She touched his shoulder and Mozenrath relaxed a little bit. “So what shall we do today? Another lesson in running?” At first Mozenrath thought she was joking, but with a shot Iaine took off, her strong legs moving at a lightning pace. Mozenrath stood there for a moment feeling very stupid, then took off, determined not to let her feel superior.
Iaine was a little surprised when Mozenrath footsteps feel in behind hers. She took a soft, careful breath, making a great show of it just as he was catching up with her and put on an extra burst of speed. Just as she thought, Mozenrath tried to copy her and choked himself, falling behind. Iaine sighed and slowed her pace, turning around to watch him slow. “You’re a poor runner. I thought for sure last time was just a fluke.”
Mozenrath gave her a glare so deadly she almost reeled from it. But Iaine sat down beside him and cross her legs, closing her eyes. “You need to learn to breath right.” She said softly and took a deep breath, expanding her chest and cooling the heat inside from the sprint. “Sit beside me.” She said softly.
Surprisingly, Mozenrath obeyed. She began showing him how to move his lungs properly, and as he started to calm himself, Iaine allowed herself enough room to think.
These exercises, all this training and teaching. If he’d had his gauntlet, it wouldn’t be necessary. Which was precisely why they had put the damn thing well out of harms way. This was druid magic, not sloppy necromantic power. It was like comparing a tapestry in the King’s Hall to a child’s dirt drawings. Iaine knew that when compared to the mass of energy inside the gauntlet, Mozenrath own powers amounted to little.
What was it one of her lover had said. “It’s not the size, it’s how you use it.”
As she remembered, he proved his statement quite well.
Mozenrath noticed Iaine smile wistfully and decided not to ask. From what he noticed, these Celtic women had very little in the way of morals. (Not that he had anything in memory to compare it to.) It felt pretty much like a woman belonged to her father until she began to seek out a husband. And until she found a man to her liking… well that part varied from women to woman. Some seemed to share themselves like a roast oxen at a victory feast. Others seemed completely asexual, oblivious to the bodies joys.
Iaine herself seemed to be somewhere in the middle. He knew from watching Essus reactions that at least one lover had graced her bed. And she flirted freely, though she didn’t seem to have that goal in mind. He couldn’t quite bring himself to ask, never mind the bawdy talk that went for humor around here.
“Very good.” Iaine said quietly and Mozenrath noticed that they had begun breathing in rhythm. “Now…do me a favor…” Very very slowly, Iaine raised her arm and pointed to a little poppy flower only a yard or two away. “Watch.”
Mozenrath tilted his head, trying to see what she was staring so intently at. It took him a moment, and he felt a soft creeping of energy come over him. Suddenly he realized what he was looking at. A small dark woman, maybe the size of his index finger was dancing around the petals in some kind of drugged elation. He noticed the light hit her back, and wings illuminate before him. “Oh…!” he said in shock and the little creature looked at him, startled.
Iaine laughed and the thing looked at her. She breathed in and extended her fingers, a thin trail of white smoke coming from her finger tips. The little woman touched it gingerly and nodded, bowing back down to the poppy to continue her euphoria. Mozenrath looked from the little being and back to the woman sitting beside him.
Iaine, apparently, didn’t feel it necessary to explain what she had done, just put a comforting hand on Mozenrath shoulder. “She’s a fay. A little one.”
“What is a fey?” Mozenrath asked, eyes glues to the dancing figure.
“This one in particular is a poppy spirit. If you pluck the flower, she will live on, after all we sometimes use the power produced from this plant to make sedatives. One fay might control and entire field of flowers, or just one or two.” She gestured and the field they sat in was suddenly lit by the wings of a hundred little creatures, peeking about to see who has signaled. “Sometimes, if you leave milk or honey, they will help you in small ways. Like finding things you thought lost or helping you find shelter in a storm.”
“Something about this seems very familiar…” Mozenrath muttered. Little winged people in drove, little glowing balls of light…
Iaine suddenly looked terrified and made a slashing movement. The fays took flight, disappearing into the harsh glare of the sun. Mozenrath turned to ask her why she’d scared them off, but Iaine was already standing and heading back towards the brook.
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Chapter 10: Chapter 10
Deprived of thought, my mind is numb.
At last this final day has come.
Essus was tapping his foot impatiently as Iaine headed up the path, Mozenrath standing beside her. She seemed to be pointedly not looking at him. He growled inside and had to force himself not attack the sorcer…fellow druid right there. He Iaine headed off the minuet she realized Essus was Mozenrath’s next tutor, leaving the two hounds to challenge one another.
Mozenrath gave the darkest possible scowl to Essus as the man approached him. “So what are you to teach me?” He realized, once Essus stood right in front of him, that he was a head taller than the man. He wanted so desperately to smirk all of the sudden.
“The meaning of a hard days work.” Essus said with absolutely no expression. He didn’t, to his credit, seem at all bothered by the height of the pale man. “Do you know what I did before I was marked a druid? I shoveled horse shit from the stables.” He lead Mozenrath around to a set of ten stalls, each one with a proud gelding or mare in them. “Since your lesson with Iaine ran long…” he seemed to snarl at the words. “You can just make sure you have these finished before you sleep tonight.” He tossed a shovel Mozenrath’s direction and pushed him towards the rank order of the stables.
Mozenrath nearly emptied his stomach as he approached the horse pens. He backed away, eyes watering as he coughed. Oh gods! He snapped his jaw shut. The odor was so bad he could taste it on his tongue. He didn’t bother to see if anyone was watching before he threw down the shovel and balked at the whole thing. Oh he’d have to finish the job soon enough, but right now he’d be damned if he was going to let another human being tell him what to do.
A snort caught his attention and he looked up to see a chestnut gelding staring at him with huge black eyes. “What are you staring at.” He sniffed and the horse chuffed back at him. What was wrong with the beast? He walked closer and saw that the stable was filled with muck, as if it hadn’t been tended to in a week. That did not seem right. These people were adamant about cleanliness, they washed before every meal, even if their bellies rumbled. They kept their homes clean, if cluttered. It didn’t hold that they would allow the pen to get so rank.
Mozenrath sighed and picked the shovel back up. “Well, at least you won’t cop and attitude.” He muttered at the gelding as it snorted back at him.
Essus chuckled to himself at his own cleverness. He was, technically, killing two birds with one stone. Tristan had ordered him to teach the sorcerer humility, as well as pride. If done correctly, the job he had set Mozenrath doing could accomplish both. He doubted the stubborn, arrogant man would get that on the first try. It would probably take a while for the lesson to set in. But Essus didn’t mind. He could watch Mozenrath muck out nasty stables all day long.
He knew, and admitted his knowledge of why he disliked the man. There was so much arrogance there. This self confident, outright uppity attitude that transcended his amnesia. Essus knew the man was a danger, he knew what the necromancer had tried to steal from the mountain top. If I were chief druid, he would be bones at the base of the hill. He confided in himself. Mozenrath was a foreigner, a thief, and a disruptor of the very energies that flowed through their community.
No, it was safe to say that Essus did not like Mozenrath one bit. And the final thing that irked him, was it seemed Iaine did.
It was dusk by the time Mozenrath had finished cleaning out the manure from the pens. He took a moment, his chest heavily and washed his hands in a bucket of water someone had left for him earlier. He had taken off the band tying his hair and covered his mouth and nose to avoid breathing in too much and passing out. He looked back with a certain amount of satisfaction. The horses pens were down to smooth black earth and the smell had wafted away once the sun had started to set.
Work is a strange thing. He had started off doing this, not because Essus had ordered him to, but out of a sense of pity that a beauty of a beast like this should walk around in waste product. Now he felt his job wasn’t quite finished. He set his shovel down and returned a moment later with a bale of fresh hay. He began methodically laying down the soft straw in the pens, laughing to himself as an inquisitive mare nudged him. He reached out and stroked the soft muzzle, grinning when the animal pushed her nose into it.
A soft laugh reached his ears and Mozenrath turned around, surprised to see the wench who had held him only last week watching his movements. “Oh…hello.” He said and continued what he was doing. He suddenly remembered that he had taken off his tunic when the sun grew too hot. Mozenrath felt her eyes on his body. “This…is probably going to sound very rude…all things considering…but what was your name again?”
“Savern. And your not being rude. I didn’t exactly get time to introduce myself last time.” She strutted forward, fanning out her dark brown hair and batting her pretty eyelashes. She didn’t come directly to him, but began to pet the horse he was feed grass to. “Fine animals…” she whispered and rubbed her round cheek to it’s jaw. “They say you can tell a man’s nature by how he treats his animals.”
“Their not mine…” Mozenrath began but realized that Savern must already know that.
“Ah, yet you take such good care of them anyways. This speaks even more in your favor Mozenrath.” She chuckled and Mozenrath noticed the way her breasts heaved when she spoke. It was…if he had dared be honest with himself…a little over the top. But damned if he wasn’t flattered by the attention! Savern took a bridle from a hook in the door way and hitched it over the horses head. “Have you ever ridden?”
“I…” Mozenrath suddenly remembered. “I have absolutely no idea.” He admitted sheepishly. Savern didn’t seem to mind though.
“Ah, so it’s true you have no memory.” She took another bridle and gave it to him. “Take the white mare on the end. She belongs to my younger cousin so if you’re a little inexperienced she’ll know how to behave.” Savern have him a sultry look. “The same doesn’t necessarily go for me.” She flung herself up on the animals back, all without a skirt out of place or more than a calf shown. “Come on then Mozenrath. A night ride is just the thing after a long day.”
Mozenrath followed her example fitting the bridle on the horse and to his own surprise managed to get himself up on the mare with no trouble at all. “Where are we off to?” He asked, following the buxom maids lead.
Savern slowed enough for him to catch up. “I know of a pool down in the next valley, wonderful for night time bathing.”
“Aren’t you afraid of going off from the village alone?” Mozenrath said. “After all, a young maiden like you might be a rich prize should anyone decide he wants a woman.”
“What do I have to fear, I’m with a druid.” Savern flashed a cheeky grin back at him. “Besides, any man who wants to lay with me unwilling will find himself missing a few important things come morning. She flashed a thigh and Mozenrath saw a sharp knife strapped there.
Now why did that only excite him more?
About thirty minuets later they arrived at her spot, and Mozenrath had to admit it lovely. The pool was clear blue green, with water lilies floating on the top and a great weeping willow tree crying into the pond. Fireflies dipped close to the water, winking off and on at the duo. Savern dismounted and tied her steed to a tree. Before Mozenrath could get his first leg off she had already thrown her dress off and made her way behind the ferns. The sound of water lapping at the shore caught his ears and Mozenrath came closer, barely containing his laughter.
Mozenrath removed his clothing and folded it neatly by the bush, stepping into the pond. To his surprise the water was pleasantly warm, better yet it felt wonderful to wash some of the muck off himself. Savern hummed pleasantly and took a piece of soap from her dress. “Here, let me wash you.” She lathered the soap and began to truly clean Mozenrath’s body off.
“Be honest Savern.” He turned around, pressing her body to his. “You didn’t bring me here for a good bath?” He kissed her cheek carefully, trying to be sure of his interpretation. There was still so much he didn’t know, these people were as complicated as their art work.
“Well that depends.” Savern chuckled. “If you don’t get a good bath, I will have wasted a perfectly good night.” She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him under the water, running off to the other side of the pool before he could rise.
Mozenrath came up soaking wet and laughing. Savern’s eyes were illuminated by the star alone, shining brightly with the dark of the moon in effect. Her dark hair fanned out all around her face and she pulled the locks back, showing off her facial features. Mozenrath growled playfully and ducked under the surface. Savern giggled, looking around for his form. These were the kind of games meant to be played during a tryst. Sex was wonderful, but leading up to it could be just as fun.
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