The Nectar of Power

Chapter One: Kevron - 1

Kevron knelt on a branch about fifty feet above the ground, surveying the stream that flowed beneath his feet. He had been out here for three days without a single drop of rain, and he needed water. The parched trees and stale air would still have supplied adequate hydration for him, but using the Fuil Bláth diminished his ability to absorb and process the water. For now, he needed to drink.

He unhooked the flask of nectar from his belt, removed the lid and tilted it slowly above his outstretched tongue. A single drop eased its way out and down. As he reattached the flask to his belt, his tongue still protruding from his mouth, he could already feel the effects of the Fuil Bláth taking hold. He stumbled as he wrapped his arm around the trunk. Once he pulled in the drop, before he could even swallow, it hit him like a stone over the head. A rush of adrenaline, a sharp, piercing headache, complete loss of vision and a dizziness that would have made him vomit if he had anything in his stomach.

His eyelids held as tight to each other as his arms did to the trunk. The pain would only last ten seconds. He breathed deep to find his center and prevent himself from screaming. When he opened his eyes again, as the pain subsided, the brightly colored forest was even more vibrant. The nectar had begun its work on his brain, pushing his perception of the world far beyond his natural ability. Each leaf edge was vivid and crisp. Flower petals burst with bright pinks, oranges and blues. Every divot in the bark, every ripple in the stream was clear, as if it were inches from his face. He saw a small amount of heat emanating from a piece of scat five feet on the other side of the stream. The animal must have left it at least a half hour before. He could see the heat from the sun dissipate at the edges of the shadows. There were still some drops of moisture in the air, more heavily concentrated above the stream as the sun evaporated water from the surface.

Kevron loosened his grip on the trunk and listened to the world around him. A family of chipmunks scurried through a nearby tree, and a light breeze rustled leaves. With no visible or audible sign of nearby beasts, Kevron jumped down to the ground below, landing a few inches from the scat near the bank of the stream. He retrieved his bow and nocked an arrow, but he did not draw back. He expected no trouble, but he knew better than to be unprepared.

Last year, he had been out with Mare and Conlan when they decided to head groundside for no other reason than because the young sometimes like to make poor decisions. They thought they had taken every precaution necessary before heading down, but as the last of them hit the ground, a pack of Cait Púca rushed out from the trees. Kevron, knowing that he had no time to grab his weapon, jumped up the nearest tree and turned to help the others. Mare was already attempting to climb, but her leg was gashed by one of the Púca's claws as Kevron helped to pull her up. Conlan was still fumbling with his knife, having already attempted a fruitless shot with his bow, which was now laying on the ground.

Mare and Kevron both drew their bows, but by then, all four Púcas were already on top of Conlan. His arm flung wild, stabbing one and causing it to run off. The next two followed close behind with arrows in their sides. The final one, the smallest of the feline creatures, slashed at Conlan's face, its back feet digging into his chest. From their angle in the tree, any useful shot would have gone through the creature and into their friend.

Kevron's instincts took over as he unsheathed his knife and leapt onto the creature, sinking the blade deep into its back. It knocked him to the ground and ran into the woods with his knife still planted near its front left shoulder. Both his friends lived, but their recovery was long, and Conlan would wear the scars for the rest of his life.

Now, on the banks of this stream, there were no creatures leaping out from the trees. Kevron's heightened senses would give him ample warning should anything approach. He kept the bow in his right hand, his index finger wrapped around the nocked arrow. Kneeling, he used his other hand to scoop water into a bowl which he had detached from his waist.

After drinking four bowlfuls, his mouth was as dry as ever. He had no memory of ever feeling this thirsty before. Frustrated at how long this was taking, he pulled the bladder off his back and dipped it in the stream. The gentle splash against the surface followed by the light swishing and bubbling of the water rushing in were calming. His heightened senses rarely caused discomfort. More often, they were relaxing. He was at one with the world around him, fully capable of distinguishing each detail.

To enhance his hearing further, he closed his eyes. He listened to the water, the wind, the family of chipmunks, now chomping on fresh plucked leaves. Another family chittered at each other as they played. A bird pecked at twigs; he was certain it was working on a nest.

He felt the temperature drop. Just my luck. I finally make my way groundside just before it starts to rain. He looked up, but he could not see the rain for the treetops. He closed his eyes again. He could hear it coming. It was close, and it was dense. Then another sound, this time from across the stream. Twelve distinct paws were coming fast and heading toward him. He grabbed his bowstring with his left hand and pulled.