A Foolish Wind Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgement

  Copyright

  Free Stuff

  Prologue

  Autumn

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10.

  Chapter 11.

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13.

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Winter

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Chapter 22.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  Chapter 25.

  Chapter 26.

  Chapter 27.

  Chapter 28.

  Chapter 29.

  Chapter 30.

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Spring

  Chapter 36

  A Foolish Wind

  Book I

  In The Oak Knower Chronicles

  The Druids, Dragons and Demons Series

  A story by

  Andy Roberts

  Dragonland Publishing

  Acknowledgement

  For Faye, Connor and Alyx.

  Copyright

  First published by Dragonland Publishing © Copyright 2018.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, lent or stored without written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

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  — Prologue —

  Dusk settled without invitation and brought with it a damp and unfamiliar chill to the early evening air, the last fingers of daylight shrouded snugly in the blackest of velvet gloves.

  The officiating eye of Amaethon rose high above the distant hills, to a spot where a million or more glittering stars waited anxiously to bear witness to the forthcoming event.

  The wind arrived late and duly blamed all for not calling upon it earlier. It searched the beleaguered landscape for a suitable vantage point, forcing itself rudely into every nook and cranny it could find. But all manner of things had gotten there first and none were willing to share sanctuary.

  With the petulance of a spoiled child, the wind whipped itself into a terrible rage, sliding off the unwelcoming mountainside, gaining speed as it went. The great oaks strained against the heaving ground with gigantic, yet ineffective claws, crops flattened and livestock scattered in every direction. With the scream of an escaping banshee, it crashed through the circle of towering greystones, kicking spitefully at the fire-baskets that burned at the foot of each megalith. The druids chased streaks of bright, orange light and stamped at the hot embers with skin protected by nothing more substantial than the moisture lifted from damp blades of grass.

  But the wrath of the wind was not yet fully spent, for it exited the circle only to catch its breath and attack time and again.

  As the cold rain settled into its ringside seat, a lone figure squatted upon the craggiest of mountain rocks, studying the intense activity in the valley below. The Dragon Lord tilted his head and caught his birth name travelling on the tail of the buffeting wind. He stood and drew a heavy animal pelt along a shoulder that matched the length of a mortal man’s arm. ‘Leave,’ he told his shadow in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder above dry plains. He said no more, turned away and dropped to a carpet of moss that was lush and green, and soft as driven snow. The shadow paced this way and that on the surface of the slippery rock, abandoned by an owner that seemingly cared for it no longer.

  The Dragon Lord thrust through the limbs of the uprooted trees, making light work of the dangerously steep descent. At the foot of the mountain, he crossed a torrent of water that cut a deep and wide furrow in the trembling land. The river did all it could to halt his progress and drag him under but he pushed against it and found it wanting. With a lengthened stride, he climbed the dirty mudslide of the opposing riverbank as easily as he might have trod a flight of fine marble steps—and all the while, a thick blanket of choking mist arrived with the silent movement of a seasoned assassin.

  The Angry Wind halted in its tracks, caught off-guard by another that herded the mist and spoke in childish riddles.

  The Dragon Lord stopped to talk. Asked it questions. Accepted its terms. And so he became one with the Foolish Wind.

  It had taken over two hundred years to get him this far; to trial at the druid’s greystones. He tore a silver amulet from a thread hanging about his thick neck with hands that were calloused and stained with the filth of the land.

  ‘Do it,’ the Foolish Wind told him. ‘Do it now.’

  The Dragon Lord cocked his arm and sent the ancient, silver coin arcing across the night sky, fluttering like a summer moth drawn to the shimmering light of a luminescent moon. The amulet struck against the altar-stone and fell amongst the glowing embers and smoking grass, its short life already snuffed out.

  He was ready.

  The druids beat their drums with a hypnotic rhythm, calling to him from within the protective circle of greystones, an army of hooded Oak Knowers dressed in robes as black as the night that engulfed them.

  With a confidence that belied his forthcoming fate, Am-Thamnoch strode with an arrogant purpose towards the flowing, white robes of the waiting Eiyl.

  — Autumn —

  Autumn’s fire burns bright in the trees, its flames consume the brittled leaves.

  Chapter

  — 1 —

  (A Thousand Years Since)

  Journey’s End was a curious name for a hostelry sat at a crossroads offering three choices—four if you counted ‘Dish of the Day’. The autumn night was as cold as a lover scorned and the air as wet as the puddle sloshing against the ankles of the druid’s beaten-up walking boots. He stooped to steady a menu-board that had all but lost its battle with the rising wind and partial to a good rabbit stew, chose the fourth option. He shouldered Windsong and released the clip on his partly-hidden seax. These being dangerous times, he couldn’t expect to receive a warm welcome in the land of sleeping dragons. He pushed on the weather-worn door and grimaced when it objected with the whine of a cantankerous old woman.

  They looked up from what they were doing—all of them. A few returned loaded spoons to wooden bowls. Others just sat there open-mouthed. One slapped the chest of his snoozing neighbour and pointed, while a sharp voice with no owner ordered the stranger to close the door, or else.

  The druid stepped inside, mud-stains following his every move across the flagstone floor. ‘Good evening,’ he said in his best Eanbish. No-one saw fit to answer, though angry objections came thick and fast when he shook himself free of his hooded, oilcloth cloak. He raised a hand by way of apology for the aerosol of sweat and rain, then cut through a cloud of thick pipe-smoke—its woody aroma not entirely unpleasant—and made his way to an empty table at the far end of the room. He rested Windsong against one of a pair of sitting stools and lowered himself onto the other. Head bowed, he waited; a rivulet of water snaking its way along the bridge of his strong aquiline nose, swelling to form a bead that hung for as long as it dared before falling to the tabletop with the thump of something
tenfold its size.

  Though the Great War had ended nearly eight years earlier, old wounds festered like carrion on a hot summer’s day—and it wasn’t every night that an Elkthian just happened to wander into their inn sporting a crossbow for company.

  But Tamulan Thrysk never just did anything, and he had it on very good authority that this was no ordinary place.

  ‘I’m tellin’ you it’s true,’ Brae said, returning to his story after what seemed to him at least, like a lifetime had passed. ‘I’ve heard the nobles speak of it.’

  ‘You’ll get yourself hung one of these days, so you will,’ Griff warned tossing a chunk of bread at the teenager. ‘You were at the Senate makin’ deliveries, not there to slip about eavesdroppin’.’ He rubbed the stump of his right thigh and glared at the Elkthian—two dogs establishing dominance.

  ‘Don’t you be startin’ nuthin’,’ Pew warned. The wooden crutch propped at Griff’s side carried a fair lump of lead shot under its cloth armrest and the farmhand knew only too well that the irascible innkeeper could swing it with as much effect as a polished war-hammer.

  ‘You’re like a second wife,’ Griff grumbled, ‘and I won’t be told what to do, so I won’t,’ he announced to the world at large.

  ‘Really?’ came a voice that threatened to shatter glass. A formidable looking woman stood at the bar bullying beer pots with a damp rag. She scratched her whiskered chin and leaned as best she could across the slab of polished oak. ‘This I gotta hear,’ she wheezed.

  They lowered their eyes. ‘Not a word,’ Pew whispered.

  ‘But—’ Griff began.

  ‘She’s comin’,’ Brae told them, the fear in his voice raising it by at least two octaves. He used the toe of his work-boot to kick the remnant of bread under the table and prayed he’d dealt with it in time.

  They each held their breath and fell as still as three rocks in an open field.

  ‘Stew,’ the druid said as Molly passed by with malicious intent. ‘I’ve walked three moons to see if what they say is true.’ His accent was thick, voice smooth as golden syrup. The inflections were misplaced, but his Eanbish was head and shoulders above their Olluin.

  Molly stopped and studied him. Some might even say that she stared unkindly at the pair of keloid scars running from forehead to cheek—battle trophies received for a fight that had almost claimed both eyes. Only Brae was alert to the object passed from one hand to the other under cover of the table. The teenager blinked and exhaled as quietly as he could.

  ‘Your rabbit is legendary,’ Tamulan said with a flirtatious wink.

  ‘She’s gonna kill him,’ Pew told them, his eyes glued to the vegetable knife that was all but hidden in the palm of Molly’s clenched fist.

  ‘A good night it is after all then,’ Griff said slapping his thigh with a satisfied thwack.

  In the time it takes a small, iron pot to heat over an open flame, Molly was back with a steaming stew and a sourdough bread. ‘Catnap Sling?’ she asked dropping supper onto the wobbling table with a dull thud. She took a drinks list from the front pocket of her apron and pointed at her recommendation. ‘Goes well with rabbit, so it does.’

  ‘How about a Twisting Kiss?’ Tamulan slid his bowl free of the puddle of spilt juices and reached to a neighbouring table, adding salt and pepper to his supper without first taking time to taste it.

  Molly watched him while she sliced the stale loaf. ‘What brings you here?’ she asked. ‘Apart from the rabbit, that is.’ It was a fair enough question given the circumstances and no-one else would likely ask it.

  Tamulan blew on the dribbling spoon, buying time perhaps while he pondered the intrusion. Something soft brushed against his leg and nuzzled in at his side. He reached under the table and lay a hand on the neck of a long-haired dog. ‘Hungry?’ he asked in his native tongue. The animal seemed to not understand Olluin and looked at him blankly. Tamulan asked again, this time in Eanbish. The dog sat upright and wagged its tail. ‘You and me both,’ he said parting with a succulent chunk of rabbit. ‘Looking for work,’ he said in answer to Molly’s question.

  ‘Then you’d best speak with Madoc.’ The innkeeper’s wife pointed towards a thin stick of a man, rosy cheeked and weathered as an old shed roof. The farmer sat next to the fireplace, fingering the deep bowl of his clay pipe. He flicked the thumb-wheel of his igniter and sent a trio of smoke rings on a lazy climb towards the split beams of the vaulted ceiling.

  ‘What’s he sayin’?’ Griff asked. ‘They’ll be up’n brawlin’ soon enough, so they will.’ The innkeeper straightened in the creaking chair, eager to get a better view of the violent action once it got started.

  ‘I don’t fancy his chances,’ Pew said, ‘even with the crossbow.’ They fell about laughing, though stopped in unison when Molly looked their way.

  ‘So what they been sayin’ at the Senate?’ Griff asked, tugging at his rust coloured beard.

  Brae pinched some table crumbs between thumb and index finger and for a moment sat and watched the rain hurl itself against the window. It was as though someone outside was throwing handfuls of gravel at the glass, trying to catch his attention, warning him to run and never come back. He pulled away from the draw of the building storm and refocused on the others. ‘That they found somethin’ right evil out by the greystones—something that once belonged to the Dragon Lord himself.’ He popped the crumbs into his mouth and chewed as he hooked his thumb over his left shoulder.

  ‘Don’t you be startin’ that again,’ Pew said, scratching at his throbbing temples. ‘Demons are long gone from these parts. You be spreadin’ rumours that they’re back and we’ll all starve.’

  ‘Take heed,’ Griff warned before Brae could interject. ‘The village is all but in ruins save for a few small businesses, Watty’s forge, and this place.’ The innkeeper looked about him and shook a head that was as bald as a fish. ‘The old man would turn in his grave if he could see it now—piss-pot in the middle of the floor catchin’ rain, and us servin’ stew and ale to the enemy.’

  Pew slapped at Griff’s raised hand. ‘Don’t point.’

  Tamulan sat up straight in his chair, positioning and repositioning the condiments as though he were coaching a pair of duelling pugilists.

  Brae lowered his head and folded his hands in his lap. ‘I miss him still.’

  ‘And so you should, boy,’ Pew told him. ‘A fine man, so he was.’

  ‘That’s so,’ Griff agreed in earnest.

  ‘To father,’ Brae called and thrust his mug aloft. He took a swig of the ale and swallowed quickly to hide its bitter taste. Griff was trying to make a man of him and the teenager would never dare admit that he much preferred the herbal drinks supplied by Molly.

  ‘Father.’ his bald brother shouted.

  ‘Iolo,’ Pew said.

  ‘Hero,’ came a cheer from all about them.

  ‘Sing to him, Griff.’ Brae blinked away a tear before anyone noticed.

  ‘That I will,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Play for me.’

  Brae disappeared behind the bar, returning a short while later with a small case fashioned from cottswood and stretched calf-skin. He sat and rested the case on both thighs, prising at its brass clasps with thumbs that were eager as a pair of bloodhounds. He lifted the lid carefully, peered inside and breathed a familiar mix of worn velvet, wood varnish, and fond memories.

  Griff nodded as his younger brother moved through each of the twelve, bone tuning pegs. The instrument squealed. Then it whined. Then sang. Sang like the sweetest of angels. Brae gave the tanore-tan a familiar place on his shoulder and rested his fingers on its catgut strings. ‘Ready when you are.’

  Pew took a penny-whistle from his pocket, wet his lips and counted them in with three taps of his booted foot.

  The intro was sweet and spoke of wet eyes, kissin’ and huggin’ all part of goodbyes.

  The verse was tense and told a fine tale, of a man, a hero, the wind in his sail.

  The bridge brought with it a gli
mmer of light; a shining beacon in the dark of the night.

  The chorus was loud—just as it should, and all joined in but the man in the hood.

  The next verse was dark and full of self-doubt.

  The bridge brought fear, as they hammered it out.

  The chorus was quiet, but still, they all sang.

  All of them that is, ’cept the travellin’ man.

  The music slowed, Brae’s fingers picking at an impossibly difficult arrangement of notes. Pew held his breath, willing the boy to succeed. Griff took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. This was for Iolo—Brae would not let him down.

  The last verse was sad and told the tale, of a man, a hero, no wind in his sail.

  The bridge spoke of nothin’ but puddles of blood, where a soldier lay dying in a field full of mud.

  The chorus they sang although they were sad, for a man, a hero, the bravest they’d had.

  Griff hurled his empty beer pot at the druid, pushing himself upright with astonishing speed. Pew grabbed his brother-in-law and wrestled him back into his chair.

  ‘Not now,’ Pew told him.

  ‘Get out.’ Griff shouted, fighting to break free of Pew’s grasp. ‘Piss off, the lot of yer.' They did as told, placed their mugs on the bar as they left and bade the innkeeper and his family good night. ‘What’s Olluin for piss off?’ Griff asked the others.

  ‘Wint ne fut,’ the stranger said, largely ignoring the innkeeper’s ongoing attempts to do him harm.