Chapter 2
Several Week Earlier
Catapulted headfirst through the oppressive wave of unconsciousness that had been his constant companion for centuries, a burst of Magic so powerful, so pure, so utterly captivating that it refused to be ignored forced the Guardsman’s eyes open and made his heart pound.
Fighting the disorientation, refusing to be dragged back to the depths of an all-encompassing darkness filled with the most vile of Sorcery, his body shook as he metaphysically grabbed onto his newly found consciousness with both hands.
From barely awake to wide-eyed and frantic in a split second, he searched for the origin of the glorious Enchantment with every shred of strength he had left.
“Amazing…”
That single word, one he hadn’t uttered in hundreds of years, echoed through his mind, blanketing him in a calm warmth that soothed not only his weary soul but his ever-aching heart. The Magic called to his own as nothing ever had. It was enticing. It was inviting. It was irresistible.
It was everything he’d ever searched for and so very much more.
Riding the wave of euphoria, the beat of his heart stuttered, stopped, then instantly resumed thumping to the lyrical rhythm of the one whose Magic had called to him.
Lifting of its own accord, the Enforcer’s hand tugged at the thick, heavy, silver chains that had been holding him captive for more than a few human lifetimes with a strength he hadn’t felt in centuries.
Drawing on that incredible métier and years of training, he opened his weary mind wide and instantly spotted the dimming light.
“H-has th-that been there all…all along?”
Even mentally, he stuttered. The unfamiliarity of his voice, the thick brogue of his homeland, and the rolling lilt of the Highlands threatened the tiny bit of sanity that remained. If only his Dragon King, Dorman, were awake to lend aid…
But he wasn’t, and the Guardsman could not, would not, give up. The light was calling to him, filling him with emotions he hadn’t known existed. He couldn’t wait for help. He was all on his own, and that would have to be enough.
Tuning into all his incredible insight, the immense Magic of his heritage, and every ounce of strength he had, the Enforcer zeroed in on the first glimmer of anything he’d seen in years.
It didn’t matter that he couldn’t put a name to it.
It was there. Not a figment of his imagination, but real and almost close enough to touch.
“I have to get there. I have to feel it. I have to…”
The harder he fought to reach it, the farther away it was.
Like a ball floating on the tide, any movement erased what little progress he made.
Even the wiggle of his fingers caused telepathic waves that pushed the waning light deeper into the darkness.
It was maddening, and frustrating, and a challenge he could not deny.
His jaws clenched. The muscles in his forearms burned.
But the Enforcer, Ruairí O’Clery, nicknamed Storm by his Brethren because of his innate and Magical ability to control the weather, refused to stop.
Rocking his body back and forth, beating his head against the bottom of the silver-lined coffin that had been his home for ages, he ignored the warm flow of his life essence as the caustic metal cuff trapping his throat dug into his flesh like the serrated edge of a butcher’s blade.
Swamped in the coppery scent of blood and acrid stench of charring flesh, he refused to stop. Refused to let his torture continue.
Refused to let what little sanity he had left be chipped away by the Black Magic that had been his only companion for more centuries than he could remember.
His body ached. His head felt as if it might explode. Every movement, every attempt to reach the beautiful Enchantment triggered another barrage of Black Magic. Its steely tendrils burrowed into his soul as its whispered cackles of his failure taunted his attempt.
The coffin buried deep underground, surrounded by dirt, sand, rock, and the most evil of Sorcery, had eaten away at his strength every minute of every hour of every day of every century of his imprisonment.
Only his iron will and incredible healing powers kept him alive.
Of course, that had been his enemy’s plan all along.
The bastard knew Ruairí would be forced to lie helplessly, trapped underground, constantly being healed, never dying, while the kin he’d spent his life protecting were mercilessly destroyed.
The enemy had studied the Dragons and was well-versed in all their Powers and weaknesses. The vile creatures knew the only way to kill one of the Universe’s Winged Warriors was to take his head, and Ruairí’s was still squarely on his shoulders.
“So, here I am… half an inch from death, but still breathing…”
There had been times throughout the years when the Earth had shifted, and he’d felt the presence of other Dragons, of other Guardsmen.
Not those of his Force but others of his kind, some descended from the very men he’d fought beside.
Just as the Enchantment begged him to respond, searching for him through the miasma of despicable Sorcery was the strongest, the Magic of the Dragon King, whom they shared their souls, had called to his own alter ego.
For a few brief seconds, the Winged Warrior with whom he shared his soul had come to life.
King Dorman had snarled and roared, more beast than the regal ruler he’d once been, as he tried with the Mysticism of the Ancients to make contact.
Sadly, he had failed. The fleeting recognition had been so brief, so far away that even if it had reached the beautiful Ether of the surface, their kin were gone, never knowing Ruairí or Dorman were there.
Day after day, week after week, year after year, the Guardsman’s frustration grew.
It became a living, seething, vengeful entity festering within his soul.
It ate away at his sanity. It conjured visions of the beaten, bloody corpses of everyone he’d held dear and forced him to relive a battle where all was lost and he was left broken and alone.
For the longest time, he denied the visions. He remembered the battle and knew, with every fiber of his being, that he and his Force–known as the Enforcers and led by none other than Drago MacLendon, known to all as the Assassin–had decimated the enemy and saved the villagers.
But the images refused to go away.
They grew stronger and more insistent. They came to life.
The clash of blades rocked the inside of his silver-lined prison.
The screams of women and children grew to a cacophonous, discordant, soul-crushing symphony.
Blood soaked the ground, seeping through the leather of his boots, and soaking his woolen socks.
Smoke wafted from the piles of bodies, their gruesome plumes creating a horrific mosaic that reeked of burning flesh and assaulted his senses with extreme prejudice.
One sight was more ghastly than the last. In every direction, he only found more death and destruction. As far as the eye could see, the devastation was unending. The enemy had shown no mercy, leaving him– and him alone– to live with an overwhelming feeling of utter and crushing failure.
Over and over, again and again, he was forced to endure the torture until pieces of his mind fractured. There were times he no longer knew what was real and what was fiction, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
Or keep him from mentally searching for his Brethren.
It was the only thing keeping him from falling into the mental abyss of total insanity.
Yes, the visions told him they were dead, but his heart and soul assured him they had survived the battle.
As he called and called through the mindspeak of their kin, both as a group and then testing each unique link he held with the men with whom he’d pledged his life, he prayed they had somehow escaped the Wizards and the Hunters and were Topside.
“They still live. They still live. They still…” was his constant and unending mantra, but sadly, the dead, dark silence that answered ate away at what remained of his sanity.
Grinding his teeth with such force that the bones of his jaws cracked and the joints popped, he snarled aloud, “They are alive,” with a certainty that shook the confines of his silver tomb.
Then he prayed. Oh, how he prayed to the Heavens, the Ancients, the gods–to anyone who was listening that he was right.
Searching his heart and soul, he was sure he would’ve felt their deaths.
The bond of blood and brotherhood, blessed by The Powers That Be, had never failed him before, but after so much time of silence, Ruairí feared the worst.
Yes, they’d been told their bond was unbreakable, but they’d also been assured that no one knew their secrets, their unique abilities–their weaknesses.
“But this box, these chains, and the shackles around my neck, wrists, and ankles tell me that we were misinformed.”
Unwilling to dwell in the darkness, he searched as far as his Black Magic-drenched preternatural senses would allow and found nothing but the dirt, rock, and sand around him. Even the creatures that should’ve inhabited the ground had been scared away by the Wizard’s despicable Spells.
“Once I escape…” Words spoken and thought with such fury and fire that they literally burnt his tongue and filled his mind’s eye with smoke.
“Those who dared to cross me, cross the Dragon Guard Enforcers, will feel the cold steel of my blade as I eviscerate them where they stand. I will call down the Lightning of Judgement promised to me by the Celtic god, Borrum, to burn their rotting corpses. Then I will let the Wind of the Gaulish god, Vintius, scatter their ashes to the Four Corners.”