Chapter 2 #2
They would know his wrath—the wrath that kept him alive.
Hate and revenge were his constant companions.
His need for vengeance was his daily nourishment.
He planned every last detail of the deaths of those who had imprisoned him, and in the fleeting moments of coherence, he watched it play out in his mind.
The enemy had started their assault from afar. They had come at the Enforcers with Black Magic Spells, Potions, and sleight of hand while they were in their Healing Sleep. They believed the mighty Guardsmen wouldn’t know who they were…
But the one known as Storm knew. There was no doubt in his mind who had attacked them and their evil motivation.
It didn’t matter that he had been unable to fight the Sorcery; every speck of Magic, no matter the origin or intent, had a signature, and the one leading the attack on the Enforcers was known to Ruairí and the Dragon King with whom he shared his soul.
From one beat of his heart to the next, Ruairí was catapulted from a reality of wonderfully mesmerizing Magic to that night hundreds of years ago when he and the other Enforcers were attacked.
There was no use fighting it. He was forced to take yet another hellacious trip down Memory Lane.
The battle had been brutal. The enemy relentless.
Many Dragons and their Allies were wounded or worse, dead.
For the first time in centuries, the Enforcers lost one of their own.
Thank the Heavens, in the end, they prevailed, leaving only the most cowardly of the enemy scurrying for cover like roaches when a candle was lit.
It took a day and a half to pay respects to their fallen Kinsmen and women and release the souls of their Brethren to the Heavens.
With heavy hearts and bone-deep exhaustion, the Enforcers lay down to rest, knowing as Dragonkin’s elite group of Warriors, they would most likely be sent to battle evil again very soon.
Pulled from a deep Healing Sleep by the sounds of chanting and the scent of putrid herbs, the Guardsman was unable to open his eyes or move any of his extremities.
Reaching out with his other senses, the Enchantment he’d had since before he was born barely made it as far as the tip of his nose.
Caught in the strongest dampening field he’d ever felt, the unmistakable stench of Black Magic slithered up his nose, filled his every sense, and set its sights on King Dorman.
Fighting the Darkness with all the strength he had, the Guardsman mentally called to his brethren, flinching from the pain of his own Magic being thrown back in his face. It was too late. They had also been caught in the snare of taint and Sorcery.
Turning his focus back to the Wizardry holding them all hostage, Storm pushed his pure white Dragon Magic into the oily tendrils of the offensive Curse, and Dorman poured every ounce of strength he possessed into the fight.
Fiery steam blew from the Dragon King’s nostrils as man and beast fought together.
For several long, tense seconds, Ruairí was sure he’d found a way to save them all.
A flash of light, a puff of noxious smoke, and a menacing chuckle filled not only the mind of the powerful Guardsman but the even more daunting Dragon King.
Assaulting his ears, the gruff, gravely sarcastic voice he’d only heard once before boomed, “Do not waste your energy, O’Cleary. You’re going to need it to survive.”
Before Ruairí could respond, the chanting grew louder, the stench of Evil stronger, and the realization that he and his Brethren were helpless to defend themselves had him shaking with fury and rage.
Eyes flying open, the sting of Black Magic thick in the air, he saw nothing but the black robes of the multitude of tall, cloaked figures in every direction.
Faces masked, their voices low and ominous, their discordant chanting grew louder with every breath, harsher with every minor note.
He tried to open my mouth. He willed himself to scream. He begged his Dragon King to roar, to growl, to spring forth and burn them all to the ground, but he was helpless to do anything but lie on his pallet and wait for the next demoralizing and humiliating act of the Sorcerers.
Willing the offensive noise to stop, or at the very least, drop the volume to a dull roar, a tall, grotesquely thin figure in a blood red, crushed velvet cloak appeared.
Walking forward as if she were gliding on air, she waved her claw-like hand, and her hood slid down her oily, ebony hair like mud down a mountainside during a storm.
Pulling a large silver disc from under her thick wrap, she lifted it into the rays of the full moon and shouted over the chanting, ‘Today we claim victory over the forces that seek to extinguish our beliefs, that choose to look to the Light instead of the Almighty Darkness, and those that denounce the ways of old. We lay to rest their finest, their elite, the strongest they have– their Enforcers– so that we may spread the Power and Glory of the Dark to all the lands.’
How did they know who they were? The Enforcers operated in the shadows.
They were a mystery to even those of our own kin.
How did that woman, a Wizard who was spewing horrific rhetoric, not only know of them, but of their mission?
It was the first time since losing his parents that Ruairí felt true fear.
Trying anything and everything to move, he was helpless but to watch as she walked to each Enforcer, knelt down beside them, and placed a glowing silver disc over each of their hearts.
Smiling wickedly, she uttered a singsonging gibberish in a language neither Guardsman nor Dragon King had ever heard.
When she finally came to perch beside him, her sharp, knobby knee pushing into his ribs, Ruairí fought and pushed and beat against the Spell holding him hostage. Sadly, it was of no use. He couldn’t help himself, much less than those he called brother.
As an evil smile snidely curled her lips painted black with juice of the berries of the black bryony and yew plants, she placed a kiss on his cheek before whispering, “Let the burn of the fruit tinting my lips be the first of many painful sensations you endure for all eternity.”
The tainted talisman was heavy over his heart. His skin grew hot as the scent of frying flesh filled the air and pain shot throughout his body.
Wanting nothing more than to jump to his feet and leave only the corpses of the enemy littering the ground, the hairs on the back of Ruairí’s neck stood on end as the Sorceress’ adenoidal voice rang out above the chanting.
As grating as metal scraping glass, she taunted, “Picture it. A perfect world where the humans are enslaved and the Dragons and their pitiful Allies have been destroyed. Think of how wonderful it will be when we, the true believers of the Dark Lord, rule the land. When Black Magic is the religion of the faithful and we are all preparing for the return of the Morning Star, Lucifer, as he is made flesh once again.”
Wrath and fury clenched into a tight fist within the pit of Ruairí’s stomach.
The need to fight, to stop the madness, to rid the world of true Evil filled every fiber of his being.
The unmitigated rage morphed into a form all its own.
It beat against the iron bars of the putrid Curse with wild abandon. Never before had the Guardsman felt
so helpless, so impotent, so completely inept. Filled with emotions he’d never been forced to face, both Guardsman and Dragon King flew into a wild frenzy with no outlet or release.
Cackling with insanity of too many years in the presence of Evil, the Sorceress mocked, “Enjoy your eternity of agony and pain, Storm.” Ruairí’s nickname dripped with revulsion and scorn as she spat, “Lay in your tomb of silver, shackled with chains forged just for you and your brothers, surrounded by dirt and tortured by the most heinous the Dark Lord has ever blessed, knowing that we won. We laid the notorious Ruairí O’Clery and his infamous cohorts to rest.”
Jerked from his pallet by the cruel hand of devilry, the sharp tip of skeletal fingers dug into the bicep of his left arm, right before the horn of a saddle struck his ribs.
The air was knocked from his lungs as he was unceremoniously thrown over the back of his own horse, the terrified animal telepathically calling to his master.
Using his mental connection to the Palomino Mustang, the Guardsman sent waves of calm through their bond. His vow of revenge was strengthened, and his last hope of escape shredded as currents of the same evil taint controlling the Guardsman flowed from his faithful steed.
Circling the horse and paralyzed Guardsman, the Conjurer’s voice oscillated from baritone to soprano, male to female, laughing to threatening in a constant myriad of tones and tenors that invaded Ruairí’s mind.
Instantly mesmerized into a dreamlike state, he had no way to discern reality from fantasy.
Had his cheek not been lying against the buckle of his saddle and the horn not been boring a hole into his side, the Guardsman would have been lost.
Sadly, that was when the Wizard grabbed a fistful of his hair and jerked his head back as far as it would go.
Pain shot down his spine as it was bent in all sorts of unnatural ways, but it was the jagged tips of the Elven ,’s talonlike nails biting into the flesh of his cheeks that literally drew blood.