Page 106 of The Firebrand
As he withdrew from the room, his mind shifted to the battlefield. He dressed in silence, ramming US Marine Raider stiletto knives into a chest harness and shoving a short-bladed Dolch into a belted sheath. The wolfram in the weapons would be effective against berserkers, the iron and silver useless. Feasting his eyes on Brae, he groaned before he headed toward a portal.
****
Gift-wrapped and ready to be opened, Braelyn waited for Rein’s return. She selected an outfit with care—snug charcoal-gray leather pants topped with a black lace-trimmed bandeau, both designed to make Rein drool. Having kicked off her sandals, she lazed on the couch, passing the hours by readingThe Path, the book written by the Cambion about the creation of Scath. She had started it twice. This time, she hoped to get beyond the opening.
Throughout Britannia I journeyed, searching for twelve mages with unimaginable power and boldness of spirit who would join my Blood Coven, the thirteen destined to save Aeternals and humans.
Aware my appeals would need weight, I fashioned two enticements.
The first spoke of good deeds. Since Aeternal breeds had grown more savage with each century, their continuance on Earth foreboded the end of humankind, who, despite being inferior, were much beloved by the OneCreator. As foreshadowed in the Prophecy of Karma, the Blood Coven would save lives.
Second, I tapped into each mage’s hubris. Together, we would change destiny by creating new realms, one being Scath, a home for our kind. The Blood Coven’s names would be recorded in history, our power great, our acts legendary.
My first destination brought me near Hadrian’s Wall where I sought Niviane, a witch skilled at elemental spells. I found her in the middle of a farmer’s fields, her slender arms cast toward the skies, her comely figure evident beneath simple clothing. She was calling forth both sunshine and rain in proper proportions to yield a bountiful harvest. When she finished her exhortations, she collected coin from her employer. As she turned, her beauty, long dark tresses, soft curves and laughing, flirtatious eyes drew me. Despite my weary and dirty appearance, she returned my admiring gaze. After I presented my case, she joined me for both the worthiness and the fame of the venture. To say her decision gave me joy is perhaps an understatement. I had designs that she might warm my bed.
Niviane and I journeyed to a nearby fort, seeking Faelan, a warlock gifted in teleportation. Robed in black, a pointed hat atop his head, he played Draughts with a Roman legate. The mage was young, brash, and in love with his own image. Because he was losing the match, he happily listened to my tale. After which, he was eager to join the new coven, especially since it promised celebrity.
Attacked by vampires on our way to Trimontium, a Roman fort beyond Hadrian’s Wall, we dispatched the bloodsucking leeches with ease, leaving them beside the road to decay, our need to hurry more worthy than their burial.
In Trimontium, we expected to see the bellicose warlock Anarai with a sword in hand battling evil, his powers to conjure great land masses as legendary as his skills as a warrior astride a steed. He was not, however, hearty and hale. The male lay abed with fatal wounds suffered at the hands of marauding demons. When I healed him, he was not only grateful enough to join the group but also excited to do good deeds.
With three added to my coven, we traveled to the outskirts of a sleepy village in the southlands where we sought Eydris, a witch with a potent ability to control minds. As we approached her cottage on foot, she emerged, dusting flour from her hands and exhorting us to keep our distance. Later she revealed her powers were great but sometimes erratic, making her leery of meeting with outsiders. Blocking her gifts, I had assured her of our safety. Never having met a mage who could quash her abilities, she granted our group access to her home and, after listening to our tale, agreed to accompany us.
It took eighteen years to gather the entire coven of mages. The witches Morgana, Eirene, Xanthe, and Solemnia came with little coaxing. The warlocks Engel, Masoud, Stian, and Noor joined the cause, though Engel and Noor were the most difficult to convince. Their hesitation was simple. Each preferred profit to good deeds or fame.
At last, I embraced the full Blood Coven.
Each witch and warlock vowed loyalty to our cause, but they identified a need for more powerful spells to complete the mission. So, with painstaking dedication, my coven left for worlds afar, seeking to improve their skills.
Anarai, Morgana, and Masoud traveled to Lemnos where local mages had been conjuring islands in the Aegean Sea for eons. Sometimes they caused volcanos to erupt, spewing lava that solidified. But often they created something from nothing.
In Gaul, ancient Celtic mages lived atop a mountain in a village hidden by an impenetrable mist. With an invitation from these magical beings, Stian journeyed with Noor and the beautiful Niviane to live in dirt huts among them, eating meager rations, perfecting elemental enchantments needed for the schism. Seeking teleportation and summoning spells, Faelan, Engel, and Eirene sailed to Alexandria. In the city of the Macedonian warrior, they refined their skills by practicing on great crowds of people.
Eydris, Xanthe, and Solemnia studied with the Akkadian Coven in Persian Babylonia where witches had existed for millennia, weathering the storms of multiple conquerors. If a villager called them out as evil creatures, they used illusion along with mind control to create dreams, to muddle thoughts. In that way, they hid amid humans.
All my worthy mages returned home a hundred years after beginning their journeys to a cave near the sea known as Môr Iwerddon between Britannia and Hibernia, in the area that would be Wales.
We were ready.
Braelyn jumped when someone knocked on the door.
****
Reinstretched out an arm, palm upright, and closed his eyes, his fingers tasting the air. “They’re coming fast. A shitload. Is this all we’ve got?” He pivoted to check out Ram, Chay, Sabine, and Brak.
“You’ve got us, too,” said Kole, taking position with Thorn, Tyr, and Galena at his side.
Ram shrugged, letting a slow, arrogant smile tweak his lips. “This is all we need, Rein man.” He widened his stance while he gripped his katar by the cross handle. With his right hand, he unsheathed a Scottish dirk. Stretching his neck from side to side, he rolled his bulky shoulders. When he crouched low, his weighty thigh muscles tensed, coiled to strike. Like a king lion on steroids, he shook his mane of caramel-streaked hair while his translucent eyes gazed into the distance. “Let’s nail these motherfuckers.”
Always the leader, Commander Kole took point, stepping in front of his warriors who spread out along an invisible line of battle. He swung a short-shafted morning star in a wide circle overhead a few times, loosening up a solid arm. An ax hung from his belt hook. A Boker Magnum double-edged dagger was jammed into his shoulder harness, and his fire-gold demon eyes smoldered with the promise of painful death to his enemies. Not one of his Firebrands had more experience; not one was more terrifying.
A small smile threatened Rein’s lips as he watched his partner release pent-up energy. Chay tapped the throwing stars on his belt and patted the war hammer at his waist. He loaded hischu-ko-nuwith ten wolfram-tipped bolts from his quiver of unending supply. Like all his breed, he would never run out of ammunition. Then the ylve shook out his legs, loosening them. “Yup. Ready to whack ass.”
Rein glanced at the other side of the line. Clutching a leaf-shaped shield in one fist, Galena bounced her favorite short spear in her right hand a few times, finally gripping the balance point. A light-weight ax hung from a belt at her waist. Like any Amazon who went into a fight, she painted henna tats on her face. The design twisted around her eyes, curled up onto her forehead, traveled down her cheeks, circling her neck. The story was about her lineage, her grandmother, a warrior with many victorious battles to her credit.
Though Thorn had strapped a long-bladed knife at his chest, he was spinning nunchucks. He twirled the weapon a few times, doing figure eights. Passing them underarm, he struck left, then right. Repeat. Most shifters preferred knives or spikes, tools that simulated claws or teeth, but the rebel wolf enjoyed the snap of the deadly nunchucks when they mangled flesh, crushed muscles, cracked bone.
Tyr brandished his sickle-sword, a gift from his warlock father who had taken it off some Egyptian centuries ago, the spoils of another battle. It still bore an ancient inscription, showing it had been the property of an Assyrian king.
