Arcane Rising (The Darkland Druids Book 1)

  Arcane Rising

  The Darkland Druids - Book One

  Nicole R. Taylor

  Arcane Rising (The Darkland Druids - Book One) by Nicole R. Taylor

  Copyright © 2020 by Nicole R. Taylor

  All rights reserved.

  This book is written in British/AU English.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.nicolertaylorwrites.com

  Cover Design: Pixie Covers & Nicole R. Taylor

  Edited by: Silvia Curry

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  The Darkland Druids

  VIP Newsletter

  About Nicole

  NEXT: Arcane Spirit

  More by Nicole

  1

  Gordan Quarrie had been fighting out of control bushfires for close to two months when they finally came.

  He was riding on the back of the backup tanker from Lidcombe—a suburb west of Sydney—when he saw it lingering amongst the charred eucalyptus forest.

  Leaning out the window, he looked back at the shadow. It’d been years since he’d caught the scent of them and this time, they were closer than ever.

  Thumping his fist on the side of the truck, he called, “Can you pull over here?”

  “Here?” The driver eased up on the accelerator and pulled off the road, the truck’s wheels bumping over the uneven ground beside the bitumen. He turned in his seat and peered at Gordan, his protective helmet askew on his head.

  “The front is still a click away,” the man beside him said.

  “I want to check the containment lines,” he told the crew.

  “On your own?” the driver asked. “We’re not supposed to go solo.”

  “I know, but there’s another unit up there.” He tapped the walkie in his coat pocket. “I’ll radio.”

  He leapt out of the tanker and sent them on their way. Checking for traffic in both directions on the highway, he legged it across and into the already burned fire field.

  No matter how many seasons he served, Gordan was always startled by the lack of traffic where there would usually be a stream of holiday makers heading to the Blue Mountains.

  Today, the road had been closed on either side of the range and nothing was getting through, save for those fleeing the fire front and the firefighters rushing towards it.

  He adjusted his coat, cursing as his slick fingers rubbed against the inside seam of his gloves. The gear they had to wear was thick and cumbersome, and he sweated like a pig, but it protected his skin from the radiant heat—which was much more of a risk than open flame or stray embers.

  In the distance, about half a kilometre away, he could see the telltale flash of yellow and red—the back-burning crew checking their containment line.

  But between him and them, he saw the shadow waiting.

  Their luck had finally run out. It’d been quiet few decades, but deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone came looking. She was too important for them not to. In a world where creatures of power were desperate for domination, they’d never be safe. At least, not for long.

  The creature flashed through the charred trees, leaving glowing footprints in its wake. Embers flared and he cursed. It was an elemental solider, its power unhindered now that the Witches had allowed the way to their twisted realm remain open.

  Human in shape, its soul was nothing but fury. A shadow of the world it had once come from, the solider was a pawn in an ancient war for dominance that would likely rage for all of time. A war that would continue to claim innocent lives, no matter the consequences. It was a tale as old as the hills—the never-ending cycle of violence. The lust for power through dominance was a corruption he could never stomach.

  Gordan knew it was an idiot move coming out here to face it, but if he hadn’t, it would have followed him to the front where he wouldn’t have been able to stop it from killing him and the others on the Lidcombe crew. Then, with him out of the way, nothing would stop it from finding Elspeth.

  He wouldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t.

  “Your time has come,” the solider said, the words dripping from its blackened mouth. “Where is the girl?”

  “Go back to your master and tell them she doesn’t belong to anyone,” he snarled. “She is not theirs.”

  Its black eyes began to glow—crimson at first, then bright orange as the temperature rose around them.

  Flame flickered, emerging from underneath the already charred surface layer of the burned undergrowth, and the creature drew the embers into the air. They began to swirl, gathering more sparks, and a front erupted with a loud woosh.

  Gordan held up his arm to shield his face, calling on his Colours to deflect the radiating heat.

  “You can’t have her!” he shouted over the roaring flame. “You hear me? You can’t have her!”

  The creature stalked towards him, pitch-black and menacing, unafraid of Gordan’s power. “She needs to be with her people, fealltóir,” it rasped, speaking in a stranger’s voice. “You can’t hide her forever.”

  “You can’t have her,” he snarled again. “You can send all the soldiers you want, but I will be there to stop every one of them. Every failed attempt will leave you empty-handed and another of your evil kind sent into the void.”

  The creature stood before him, twisting with flame. “Is that so?”

  The screech of sirens broke through their tense stand-off and they both looked into the smoke at the same time, both with different intents.

  Through the haze, Gordan could see a crew of firefighters race towards him, hoses in hand with the truck creeping behind. They were trying to save him, dumping a torrent of water on the approaching flames, but they couldn’t see the enemy hiding within the firestorm.

  Blue and red lights flashed through the haze as he shouted for them to stay back, but his cries went unheard. His radio chirped—the desperate calls distorted by static.

  The fire roared behind him, spurred on by the elemental force twisting in the tornado. They’d all be killed if he couldn’t stop the solider. It had to die here and now before it could get to Elspeth.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured as if she could hear him. He took off his helmet and tossed it to the ground. “There’s so much you don’t know, but I have to keep you safe. This is the only way. I’m sorry.”

  The creature lunged and he leapt into its searing embrace, pouring his Colour into the twisted monster. It screeched in agony as Gordan’s essence drove into its core, shattering the soul that helped its impure body cling to life.

  Fire raged around them, engulfing their bodies.

  He knew he was only buying her time. Destiny would lead her home. He just hoped he’d taught her enough that she would understand how to find her way.

  With his last breath, he sent his love to his daughter…and a prayer for her future.

  I’ll never forget the sound of that knock on the door.

  A man and a woman stood o
n the porch, both wearing navy-blue police uniforms—their vests laden with radios and cameras, and light-blue shirts underneath their bulletproof vests.

  “Elspeth Quarrie?” the woman asked, taking off her cap.

  I nodded, the scent of burning eucalyptus thick in the air. The air quality had been terrible for the last month, the smoke haze from the fires covering Sydney from top to bottom.

  “I’m Sergeant Peters and this is Constable Guthrie. May we come inside?”

  Yeah…I’d never forget that day. What I was doing. Who I was waiting for. What I’d been dreaming. The Christmas Day I’d just spent with my dad. Just the two of us.

  I’d just graduated university and my whole life was ahead of me. The television was turned onto the news, my mobile phone was open on the government emergency app, and the air conditioning was running at a breezy twenty-two degrees Celsius. I should have been working on my resume, but my mind was elsewhere.

  I’d never dealt well with the heat. Neither had my dad, but we lived in one of the hottest and driest climates in our changing world—Australia—and with it came certain dangers. Venomous snakes and spiders were one thing, but the constant threat of drought and fire was a reality no one could escape. Not even the big cities could ignore the looming smoke on the horizon anymore.

  Bushfires had been raging across most of the country for months, and my dad was out there, fighting the impossible inferno with the thousands of other career and volunteer firefighters.

  As an environmental scientist, Dad’s skills were in high demand during the emergency. He could predict shifts in air currents and weather patterns that were useful on the ground. He could look at the growth in a forest and the curve of the land to know where to best put in containment lines. He coordinated back burning that saved towns from being completely wiped off the map. Knowing where the fire would leap or where the embers would blow was crucial in saving homes and lives.

  After the first month, he came home looking like he’d aged a decade. Soot was permanently caked under his fingernails and his eyes were… Well, he looked haunted by the things he’d seen.

  Two days later, on Boxing Day, he was packing up his uniform to hit the ground again. He was the only person I had in the entire world. Why did he have to go?

  I have the power to help, he told me. And when the Earth and her creatures cry out in pain, we should answer with our whole hearts.

  So when the knock came on the front door, I already knew who stood on the other side.

  The visitors the family of firefighters dreaded most during the summer.

  It was the sound of your entire life being torn out from under your feet.

  That night, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Things went that way for a couple of weeks, even as flowers began to show up at the house, along with letters from the government and casseroles from the neighbours.

  We’d kept to ourselves, but it seemed Dad had been loved by many—no matter how secretive he thought he’d been.

  Dad never spoke about my mother or his home in Scotland. He never talked about his family or what his life had been like before we came to Australia. I never knew what happened to my mum or why we’d come here. It was as if our lives had begun the moment he carried me off the plane.

  I’d shared everything with him. Not just the adventurous Scottish spirit that ran through our blood, but the things I dreamed about and the future I saw for myself. It was him and I against the world, but I was all grown up now and with age came the unfortunate responsibility of knowledge.

  I searched through his things, looking for a birth certificate, a photograph, or a scrap of paper that would tell me where he’d come from or who my mother was. I found nothing—not even a secret diary or a hidden compartment. For all his accolades and achievements, my father was a ghost.

  I was a ghost.

  I stopped looking for work. I stopped caring. I didn’t know how to go on without him.

  So, I walked. At first, I took the train into Sydney and wandered around the markets and the harbour.

  I watched people go about their business, wondering where they were going in such a rush. Did they have someone to go home to? Friends? Family? Kids? None of those things had ever been in my life…at least, not for very long.

  I was a terrible friend, always enjoying my own company over that of others. Any friendships I did have fizzled out pretty quickly, and it was the same with boyfriends. Either they were only interested in one thing or I couldn’t connect with them. Life was a mould, but I couldn’t bend far enough to fit inside the white picket fence.

  As I walked the city streets, I had a sudden sense that I never really belonged here. Australia had been my home, but I wasn’t a part of it. My dad had been my anchor to this place. Now that he was gone, I was adrift.

  There had to be something else…this couldn’t be it.

  That’s when I saw it.

  Standing outside the travel agency, Flight Centre, I stared at the poster in the window, my eyes drinking in the rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands like they were an oasis in the middle of a charred forest.

  The world fell away, and I imagined myself walking through the wild landscape, the cool wind on my cheeks, the drizzling rain misting through the greyish sky, and the trickling of a creek feeding into a vast loch. The absence of people and the pull of the Earth.

  The blood in my veins hummed and I pressed my palm against the window. An unfamiliar longing was rising, charging my body with an almost electric excitement.

  The sound of a car horn blaring broke me out of my daze and I blinked, snatching my hand away from the window. I rubbed my palms up and down my arms, chilled as if the heat of the summer day hadn’t reached me at all.

  I glanced at the people walking past, my cheeks heating with embarrassment, but they didn’t seem to notice me at all.

  A daydream, I thought. Just a daydream.

  I glanced at the poster of the Scottish Highlands again and my heart skipped a beat. Hardly understanding what I was doing, I opened the door to speak with the travel agent.

  2

  The first thing I noticed about Scotland was the cold. Then how green and lush everything was compared to the dry, dead brown of the drought-ravaged Australian countryside.

  I stood outside the large grey building on the Royal Mile, in Edinburgh’s Old Town, looking up at the stone façade. The sign above the door read, Campbell’s Serviced Apartments. At least I was in the right spot.

  Rolling my suitcase behind me, and following the directions on my printed booking confirmation, I went into the foyer. The lines were all wobbly, the last of the ink made the picture of the building look like an old-fashioned sepia portrait. That’s what I got for making last-minute travel arrangements based on a hallucination.

  The instructions said to knock on the door of the ground-floor apartment, so that’s what I did.

  The door opened, revealing a robust older lady. Her short grey hair was a wild mop and her brown, cable-knit jumper looked handmade, but her eyes were warm and friendly.

  “Mrs. Campbell?” I asked. “I’m Elspeth Quarrie. I—”

  “Ah, there you are,” she declared, her accent almost musical to my ears. “You’re a pretty lass. Let me look at you.”

  “Uh…okay?”

  She’d obviously set the bar low, considering I wasn’t anything special to look at. My hair was mousey blonde with touches of auburn—the flecks of red brought out the green in my eyes. I was on the taller side, but neither overweight nor slim. I was simply a normal woman. Average, unremarkable, but passable if looks was what it came down to.

  “I thought the fairies had taken you,” she went on, completing her assessment without comment. “I was expecting you hours ago.”

  “Uh, no fairies, just a long line at customs.”

  “The fools,” Mrs. Campbell scoffed and gestured for me to follow her up the stairs. “I gather their computers were broken again or some such. They usually are. There’ll be a s
cathing write up about it in the newspaper tomorrow.”

  “Yes, they were.” I gathered she wasn’t a fan of technology. “Everyone had to wait to get an old-fashioned stamp.”

  The stairs creaked as we began to climb.

  “There are three other apartments in the house,” Mrs. Campbell said, leading me up the narrow flight. “You’re here for a month, but if you want to stay longer, let me know as soon as you can. It’s winter and past Hogmanay, but people still want to stay on the Mile. You seem like a sweet lass, and a sight quieter than the regular louts that rent the place, so I’d rather give it to you. But as I said, you’ll have to let me know.”

  “Oh no, I won’t be any trouble, Mrs. Campbell,” I told her, dragging my suitcase up the stairs behind me.

  “So, what are you? Writer? Artist? Please don’t tell me you’re one of those digital nomads.”

  “What do you have against digital nomads?”

  Mrs. Campbell turned and gave me the evil eye. “They’re the worst, lass. They pretend to ‘work’ on their computers, eat up all the WiFi with their streaming, and come in at all hours pissed up past the eyeballs! And all of it captured with a camera on a long stick pointing at their own faces.”

  I bit my bottom lip to stop myself from laughing and shrugged. “I’m just looking to find some information about my family and maybe a little sightseeing.”

  “Oh!” she declared. “You’re a historian, then? How lovely!”

  “Sure.” I didn’t know what I was, but I didn’t want to burst her bubble. I’d graduated with one of those useless Arts degrees in the hopes of one day doing something creative like work in an art gallery or a museum, but that day seemed like it belonged in another life.