Awen Rising Read online

  AWEN RISING

  O. J. BARRÉ

  PEACEMAKERS PUBLISHING COMPANY

  PEACEMAKERS PUBLISHING COMPANY, JULY 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Olivia J. Herrell, writing as O.J. Barré

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For information, please address the publisher at:

  PeaceMakers Publishing

  14505 N Presidio Loop

  Nampa, ID 83651

  [email protected]

  [email protected]

  https://www.ojbarre.com

  For information on discounts, options, rights, and disclaimers, click here.

  PeaceMakers Publishing eBook ISBN: 978-1-7332736-0-2

  Cover Design © 2019 by Lauren Willmore

  Edited by Charlie Knight

  First Printing, 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  IN MEMORY OF BUGSY

  &

  TO VILLA RICA

  Table of Contents

  December 21, 2012

  One Thousand Years Ago

  A Thousand Years Later

  Water Dragon

  Underworld Encounter

  Nergal

  News from Afar

  Possession

  A New Start

  Jocko’s Pizza

  Palm Springs

  The Hester Family

  Carriage House

  Quoth the Raven

  Lost and Found

  Discovery

  Catspeak

  Earth Dragon

  Obsession

  The Family Business

  An Odd Question

  Druid Library

  After Hours

  A Rocky Start

  Making It Official

  Conquest

  The Wyrd

  Druid in Training

  Weather Witching

  Answers in the Wind

  A Hunk, A Hunk, A Storm

  Druid Cellar

  New Student

  Air Dragon

  Moral Support

  Awen’s Handbook

  Unexpected Opposition

  Ham Comes Home

  Patty’s Odd Behavior

  On Cu’s Cue

  Hamilton and the Wolfhound

  Brian and the Talking Dog

  Nergal in New York

  Brian Joins the Fray

  Humiliation

  Premonition

  Time to Gloat

  Snowed In

  Back to the Beginning

  Awen Rising

  A Deadly Drunk

  Grand Druid

  Elementals

  Travel Plans

  The Calm Before

  Awen Brownouts

  Fire Dragon

  Zoo Atlanta

  Hakuna Matata

  Last Chance

  Gorilla Surprise

  Underlying Fault

  LEAVE A REVIEW

  UPCOMING BOOKS BY O. J. BARRÉ

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  COPYRIGHT, ETC.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AWEN:

  Life Essence, Inspiration,

  Divine Creative Energy

  December 21, 2012

  T he scroll was delivered to the White House in the wee hours of the morning by an old woman demanding secrecy. High-ranking officials were summoned from bed, and after a flurry of activity, had declared the scroll authentic and “threat-free”. Only then was the message copied and deciphered, the age-delicate original stored in an acid-free environment for preservation.

  The president’s polished shoes sank into the rug as he crossed the Oval Office. He had engineered a rare moment alone and used it to remove the file from the hidden alcove in the Resolute desk. Withdrawing its contents, he read through the report and studied the map at the bottom of the reproduction.

  Outside Caen, in the north of France, was a town called Falaise. It was here the message had been discovered, under the ancient ruins of a castle that once belonged to William the Conqueror.

  The cave itself was a significant find, containing pictographs and vault-like chambers that held an entire library of scrolls and tablets, and a treasury of precious gems and metals. But in an inner chamber, sealed away from all else, was a priceless sculpture of a woman with long, curly hair, flanked by an inordinately large hound and wildcat. In the photograph, the woman’s arms were lifted to the heavens in supplication with the rolled parchment resting in one hand.

  The president considered the lacy writing and the meticulously drawn symbols. Carbon dating and writing-style analysis had traced the parchment to the early eleventh century, corresponding to William’s reign.

  Translated, the missive warned of a world-ending event. The timing made the find more significant as the Mayan calendar ceased its countdown today. The White House stood prepared for the worst.

  But if truly a prophecy, it also declared the existence of a champion. And therefore, hope. He polished his glasses with a soft cloth and put them back on to reread the cryptic message.

  When Armageddon threatens,

  The sleeping one will wake.

  Along the same meridian

  The fallen steps in place.

  One coast will gather light and kind

  The other dark, despair,

  But each will yield its suffering

  To a world laid waste with fear.

  The call will soon be answered

  Old wounds doth fester e’er,

  The battle begun before

  Earth was wrought

  Must be won in the helm

  Of the sufferer’s heart,

  And from thence

  She leaps forth

  Once again.

  The president slumped deeper into his regal chair and tapped the sheet of paper against his chin. The words meant nothing to him. He was a politician and understood legalese, not prophetese. But the nation’s top minds were working on the cipher. With the clues supplied by the mysterious crone, he was certain they would come up with something of use.

  The intercom squawked, jarring him back to his hectic day. He folded the prophecy and stuck it in an inside pocket, then replaced the file in the hidden drawer.

  Still pondering the riddle, the president stood to receive the Bahamian ambassador.

  One Thousand Years Ago

  T he druid Awen focused on exiting Belafel’s body and returning to her own. With a deep inhalation, she invoked the magical waters and separated from the mare. The spear from the battle had been expelled in the shift and floated nearby, handle up. Blood from the wound in the mare’s haunch stained the waters a bright red.

  Leading Belafel to the shallows, Awen examined the injury. In moments the rapidly-healing gash was gone, replaced by healthy tissue and hair. Patting the mare, Awen murmured thanks and released her to the wild, then turned to attend the fallen royal.

  Mercifully, he’d remained unconscious for most of the difficult journey. His head rested on a mat of lotus flowers with his youthful face floating above the surface. The rest of the duke’s body lay submerged in the pool.

  Awen studied the finely chiseled features and wondered again that he’d been sent to her. Had she not intervened, William, Duke of Normandy, would have died with the others.

  She had awakened at daybreak and known the duke was in danger. The tea leaves had given confirmation. Later, as Awen bathed in the pool, his gaunt features appeared in the reflection of the clear water. She’d gazed into eyes the color of steel and a knowing had come upon her: this man would unite nations and take all she held dear.

  Of course, that was predicated on Awen saving
him. She did have a choice. But it was a fool’s choice and against Awen’s nature to do otherwise.

  She grunted as she drew the creaking mail from the broad chest and muscled arms and shoved it aside. Summoning all her strength, she dragged the duke inch-by-faltering-inch out of the water, then leaned close to probe for injuries. The wounds had closed, save those that kept him from waking.

  With an ear to his bloody gambeson, Awen listened for the beat of life. It was faint, but steady. A good sign. Placing her cheek above his mouth, she felt his breath, shallow and hurried. Turning her face to examine William’s color, her lips accidentally grazed his.

  The eyes flew open, stared without seeing, and closed again. His body was waking but his spirit still wandered the Otherworld.

  Worried he might not make it back from that dark, treacherous world, Awen touched her lips to his cold, white ones. The eyelids flickered. Encouraged, she placed her hands on either side of the handsome face and kissed the duke in the way of the druid: forehead, nose, chin, eyelids, cheeks, then back to his lips.

  This time they were warmer and breath tumbled from them like the water that sprang from the rocks of Luftshorne. Awen waited, face inches from the fallen warrior’s. But the death sleep was unrelenting.

  Uncertain as to what to do next, Awen sat back on her bare heels. The glade would soon go dark. She must set a fire and heat the kettle.

  But first to wake the almost-dead. Shaking the shoulder that had not been pierced, she urged, “Arise!”

  The handsome head lolled away. Cradling it gently, she eased it toward her to repeat the kiss of life. This time, the princely lips parted on hers and strong arms snaked out to encage her.

  Awen jerked away in protest, but her lips softened of their own accord and yielded to the duke, whose eyes never wavered. No veil could hide the soul of this man, no shroud could cover hers.

  Betrayed by her own body, she melted into the warrior’s embrace. Her heart thumped against his gambeson. His answered and beat in sync with hers; slowly, steadily gathering strength. When the heat between them was too much to bear, Awen squirmed out of the duke’s grip, eager to escape the unfamiliar feelings.

  Gloom had settled heavy upon the clearing. She must get him inside.

  “Come,” she commanded, ignoring the blush riding high on her cheeks.

  William clasped her outstretched hand and let her drag him upright. With a long moan, he wobbled on unsteady legs. Awen crooked an arm around his waist and one step at a time helped the weakened leader to her simple hut.

  His heavy-lidded eyes masked the effort Awen knew it must cost. The healing waters had mended his outer wounds, but the toll on his psyche was another matter.

  William ducked through the doorway, swaying when she let go to close the door. Reacting quickly, she grabbed his out-flung arm.

  “You’re shivering,” she exclaimed. “Can you strip out of those wet things while I light a fire?”

  The duke got the tight inner-armor over his head and his knees buckled. He staggered into Awen and dropped to the floor, arms pinned overhead.

  She bent to free them from the sopping gambeson. “We’ll get you in bed, your grace. But first we must remove these wet breeches.”

  The duke rolled his eyes, but obliged. He pushed the lot to his knees and slumped back to the plank floor. Water sloshed from his royal boots as Awen shucked them off. The sodden breeches followed.

  “That way, my lord.” She pointed with her chin, eyes averted. A blush stained her cheeks as she helped the naked man stand.

  He took two stumbling strides across the room and collapsed on the tiny bed in the corner. Relieved, Awen rushed to bolt the door and close the curtains, then added wood to the fire until it blazed. The chill hinted of an early winter.

  She turned to the man draped across her bed and gasped. The young Duke of Normandy had fainted again, leaving the glory of his aroused manhood on display.

  Awen shivered and covered her eyes. This morning’s vision had not prepared her for the raw attraction that sparked her breath and made it ragged.

  She hurried to the cot and arranged the pelts over the duke’s frame, then leaned close to feel his feverish brow. William wasn’t out of the woods yet. The night ahead would be critical.

  **

  William woke to a distant roll of thunder. Without opening his eyes he knew he was somewhere other than the Chateau. Then horror and grief tore at his heart.

  Percival. Vesuvius. All were dead. Even Shaen, his page, brilliant beyond his nine years, had fallen to the murderers. How could William have survived? It was impossible.

  Thunder rumbled, louder this time. A storm approached. But where was he?

  They’d been traveling north with Vesuvius in the lead, on a hunting expedition in the wild lands. A gift from his uncle for his seventeenth birthday, William had been suspicious. But all had gone well for the first two days, and he’d lowered his guard. Then the heathens fell upon them, attacking his small party from all sides.

  Ferrach had reared, taking a spear meant for William, then crashed to the verge. William had rolled free and whipped his sword from its scabbard. But an arrow knocked him rearward and a spear struck him in the back behind his heart. From there, William had no recollection. Was he dead?

  Nay. A flame seared his back where the spear had hewn, but his heart beat strong. His shoulder ached where the arrow had found its mark. Yea, William lived.

  But where was he now? How had he escaped? And how had he come to cheat death of its rightful quarry? No man survived such a mortal wound. Not even William, Duke of Normandy.

  Yet here he lay, on a pallet of soft feathers with naught but a fur covering his loins.

  A glance told William he was in a one-room hut that felt oddly familiar. And he wasn’t alone. A woman huddled by a lowing fire. A great wolfhound lay at her feet and a wildcat curled in her lap. The cat’s yellow eyes were trained upon William, alert and on guard.

  He examined the room without moving his head. There was a door and two windows. Should need arise, he could escape.

  But why was he here? Why was he not dead? And who was this mysterious woman?

  Pushing up with great effort, William slowly maneuvered his legs over the edge of the bed, dragging the pelt with him. The room swayed and he felt slightly nauseous.

  The wolfhound scrambled to plant its body between William and the maiden. She sat up in consternation, fire dancing in crystal-clear eyes the color of Oriental jade. He had seen those eyes before. In a dream, perchance?

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Where is this place? And what magic has kept me alive?” William swung his arm as if brandishing a sword. “My shoulder and back bear no mark. What magic is this that my heart yet beats?”

  “Druid magic, my lord. I am Awen.”

  “A witch! I have been magicked by a witch?” William recoiled.

  The woman leaned forward and held a candle between them. Cerise hair shot with gold tumbled over her shoulders and cascaded to a compact waist. Long-lashed eyes gazed into William’s soul. Heat gathered in him. He stared, mesmerized.

  She tossed her fiery hair and laughed. “A witch I am not. I am a daughter of Earth, as you are its son. My powers come from her and can be used only for good. You know this. You have the gift. Search your heart.”

  William tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him. He collapsed on the bed and studied the witch through narrowed eyes. Though alarmed, he did feel comfortable. Safe even, in spite of what he’d been taught of witches.

  He closed his eyes and studied her energy. William felt no evil, nor malice. No duplicity, either. Still he was wary. The church despised pagans and had fought long and hard to wipe them out. How had this one survived?

  “I fled my home in England,” the woman answered his thoughts. “My mother and father were murdered, along with our servants. Luckily, other druids happened upon me: a childless couple leaving England. They brought me along and raised me here. Strong magic hides this g
lade. It can be found only by those who know it.”

  She paused and William motioned her to continue.

  “I foresaw your uncle’s treachery. He betrayed you and sent you riding to certain death. I could not let that happen.”

  “My uncle? It is no secret his loyalties lay elsewhere. But why would a druid witch care about my fate?”

  She stared at a point just over his head. “This morning I dreamt of your ambush. You were killed by the spear that pierced your heart, bleeding out as one of your own turned his back. He betrayed you, Sir. And relished striking the killing blow, this man of fair face and foul heart.”

  William’s guts twisted into a knot. He suspected he knew who had done the deed.

  “Then Normandy rebelled and neighbor slew neighbor. The madness spread throughout France, England, and Europe, then on to the Orient and the rest of the world. Civilization fell and anarchy reigned as humans laid waste to our earth.

  “So, Earth fought back. Great cracks appeared all over the land. Fiery pits opened and spewed lava until the sea boiled, and the air filled with fumes too harsh to breathe. Earth died. And took all life with her.”

  William stared at the sultry witch. Her story sounded much like the Armageddon prophesied in the Christian bible. But she couldn’t be right. As much as he would like to think so, William wasn’t important enough to have such an effect on history.

  “And what has this to do with me?” he asked.

  The woman blinked, as if waking from a trance. “Only you can stop it. How, I do not know. But the vision was clear. If you die, Earth and all she mothers dies too. I could not let that happen. So, with the help of a brave mare, I rescued you. And brought you here. The waters did the rest.”

  “The waters?” he hiccupped, touching the shoulder that had been wounded. “The healing Waters of Luftshorne?” The witch nodded.

  “That’s a legend,” he sneered. But something had healed his mortal wounds. Something very powerful.

  “Aye,” she agreed. “A legend based in fact. When you’re strong enough, I will show them to you. But tonight, my lord, you must rest.”