BRENDAN WRIGHT
GODS AND HEROES: RISE OF FIRE
Copyright © Brendan Wright 2018
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Brendan is not currently represented by any publishers or literary agents. He can be contacted at: [email protected]
Connect with Brendan:
Instagram: @brendanwrightauthor
Facebook: /brendanwrightauthor
Website: brendanwrightauthor.com
Cover art by Rebecacovers via Fiverr
Map illustrated by Renflowergrapx via Fiverr
This book is dedicated to my best friend and my brother, Damien. Without your friendship, your advice, and your unfailing support, I would not be where I am now and this book would never have been written. I will never forget the day you finished reading my first draft, and you told me I’d written something worth publishing.
No matter what happens, as long as you love my books, I know I’ve made it as an author.
Acknowledgements:
All of my love and thanks go to my mother, Christine. You encouraged and fed my love of reading and writing from a very young age, and I cannot thank you enough for that. You instilled in me a belief that I can achieve anything I set my mind to; and with your love, support, and positivity, I have. Thank you. I also want to thank anyone who read drafts of this book, and provided feedback to me. A huge thank you goes to my sister-in-law, Emily Wright, for catching more inconsistencies than I thought would be present in the first drafts, and for being so passionate about the story. I also want to thank my friend and fellow author Jack Heath for inspiring me and being a shining example of success as a Canberran author. You paved the way, and I’m not sure I would have tried at all if you hadn’t tried and succeeded before me. And lastly I want to thank everyone who buys and/or reads this book. It’s insane to think that I’ve written something that might be sold and bought in an actual book store by a stranger. So if you’re one of those strangers… Thank you so, so much.
Prologue
A seemingly endless desert stretches to the horizon and beyond. Dark grey sand is punctuated by dark stone and occasionally by small, barely living trees. The deserts of Omas resemble a dead, ash-filled wasteland. Even the scarce trees grow in hues of bright red and orange, swaying in the slight breeze, giving the appearance of fires burning. In the dark of night, the effect is even more brutal; deep shadows crowd every tree and boulder and the usually bright trees are dulled to a grey to match the sand. A massive volcano rises from the exact centre of the desert. The top of the volcano is flat, and as wide as a small city. Out of view of the small camp fires crowding the Thearan army's camp-site on the volcano's plateau, a bonfire burns in the night. A massive cloaked figure watches the fire, tending to it until it becomes a massive, roiling inferno. He takes a dagger to his wrist, holding a cup underneath to catch the blood. Once the cup is filled, he throws it into the fire and whispers an ancient, forgotten spell.
As his wound bleeds, the fire changes from pale orange to a deep, bright red. A whistling sound emanates from the centre, and a deep rumbling follows soon after. The rumbling grows in volume until the figure flinches in pain, and then it suddenly stops. Burning logs move and shift, and a small, slim, fragile looking creature emerges from the bonfire, crawling out from under the wood. It steps onto the sand gingerly. Its body is made from pieces of still burning wood, its face a jagged stump with two furrowed whorls for eyes, glowing red hot from deep within. Its limbs are spindly, and the fire burning at them makes them look as though they might collapse at any moment. The creature turns back towards the fire and reaches in, grasping a flickering tongue of flame and pulling, sweeping a cloak made of pure orange fire onto its shoulders.
"My Lord," The man kneels, bowing his head.
"Rise, servant," replies the fire-cloaked creature in a jagged whisper. "We haven't much time."
The huge man rises and looks down, directly into the eyes of a Fire God.
"I have a deal to make with you."
"I know. I accept."
The man hesitates.
"Just like that?"
"Yes." The fire god sounds amused, though its whisper is fading.
"I see. Thank you, my lord. What do you ask in return?"
"You know the price, mortal. You know what it will cost you and your warriors. The only question is whether you are willing to pay."
The man stands, still and silent for several moments. Then, he gives a slight nod, and in a low voice, responds:
"Yes, my lord."
The plains of Omas stood silently in the starlight, grey sand sweeping through a mostly dark camp-site. There were one or two fires amongst the dozens of tents. A woman’s piercing scream shattered the silence, and the warriors guarding the outer perimeter of the camp whipped their heads around in the direction of the noise. One of them barked an order to another and two warriors ran off. They slowed as they reached the large tent the screaming emanated from. It was the healer’s tent. The two warriors looked at each other uncomfortably. The healer was a mysterious and frightening woman. Her strange ways had grown even stranger in the last few moons, her medicines more effective and her spells more powerful. She had started chanting in the early hours of each day about Fire rising from the Shadows, only getting louder any time one of the tribe told her to stop. Screaming started again from the tent, and the warriors glanced at each other, deciding in unison they would leave this business with the healer. They both turned and headed back to their post.
Footsteps faded outside the tent. The Thearan healer paid them no mind. A young woman screamed in agony and writhed on hide blankets on the tent floor. She was giving birth. The child, if it survived, would be one of a very few pure-blood Thearans left in their tribe. Hours passed in the large tent. The air was stiflingly hot; a fire had to be lit inside so the healer could see what she was doing. She whispered to the young Thearan woman, trying to quiet her down. The pain must have been unbearable; the healer had never given birth herself, but she could imagine. Still more hours passed, until finally, the healer caught a glimpse of the child’s head. Brilliant white hair and dark brown skin emerged, more and more, until the child was finally born. The mother let out a ragged sigh of relief and exhaustion, and looked upon her baby for the first time. Tears spilled slowly down her cheeks, and the healer noticed the strength still left in the young woman’s eyes; her love for the child was instant, fierce, and immeasurably stronger than the ordeal she’d just been through.
Sunlight finally broke over the horizon, and a gust of wind blew the tent flaps open, spilling dawn's light throughout the tent. It blew through the large tent, forming a tiny tornado as it rustled hides and knocked some of the healer’s tools off a small table. The fire roared in response to the wind and flared bright as the sun. Watching the miniature storm inside the tent, the new mother smiled and looked at her baby. The healer handed the child over, and whispered in a dry rasp, “she’s a girl. What will you name her?”
The young woman’s smile grew deeper. “Aella.” In ancient Thearan, it meant Whirlwind. The healer smiled too.
Atillus
Atillus Argyris hated his family. His father Thorinos was perpetually angry that the crown didn't belong to him. His younger brother Alliphis was as furious as Thorinos, and resentful of Atillus for being first-born. The youngest of the three siblings, Anamas, never spoke a single word to anyone. And his mother, Eirene, spent all her time trying to sooth her husband and second son. Atillus was routinely ignored. He wasn't old enough to know what life was like as a Prince; his father's father, Agimos Argyris,
was overthrown by the Megalos family before he was born. Yet the event had overtaken his life all the same. Thorinos' bitterness ran deep, and on the rare occasions he did speak to his oldest son, there was always anger in his voice.
Ten years of constant fury at the Megalos family had seeped into Atillus’ mind, and he couldn’t help but feel it too; his family deserved the crown, and he’d be next in line right now if things were as they should be.
So he took to hiding from them all. Atillus, just like his mother and youngest brother, was an avid reader. And just like Anamas, he much preferred the company of books to people. He read all the time, spending most of his days in the Omati Library. Before long, he tired of the limited selection and constant presence of strangers. Even silence felt heavy in the crowded rooms, as if the people reading around him were staring at him.
He took to exploring the city itself, sticking to smaller streets and alleys at first to avoid the crowds. The Noble houses were located in the same district as the palace, and separated from the commoners by the largest river in Pandeia, the Alpheus. He stayed on the Noble side, as there were far less people. Thorinos owned quite a few stores in the shopping district on the Noble side of the city, and Atillus learned a lot by simply watching them for a while each day. He never spoke to the shopkeeps, but he saw everything they did from the roof of a nearby building.
He saw them set aside a small amount of coin from each sale in a secret drawer. They gave discounts to certain shoppers who looked wealthy enough to buy the entire inventory. When his father walked down the street, they hid their misdeeds. Their backs straightened, they shooed away the shoppers who received discounts, and they made sure the secret drawer was closed and hidden.
Atillus watched his father converse with the shopkeeps one by one, checking their ledgers and inventory. When he left each store, Atillus saw the faces of the shopkeeps change from respectful humility to open hostility. They stared at him the way Thorinos himself stared at the King. Smiling, Atillus climbed off the roof and returned to his chambers. He wasn't the only one who despised Thorinos Argyris.
Atillus was only ten years old, but already much smarter than most. He knew his father was plotting to take the crown back, and he knew if that happened he would be next in line to rule Omatus.
Thorinos was a bad father and would make an even worse King. He thought whatever damage was done under Thorinos’ short rule would be worth it for what he could accomplish as King He loved the city. Not for what it was, but for what he knew he could turn it into; A paradise. The envy of all of Pandeia. He just needed to make sure Thorinos was successful in his schemes, but didn't drag the city down into the dirt before Atillus was old enough to rule. King Megalos built a name for himself as an effective but brutal leader; loved by the other Nobles and hated by the commoners. Thorinos spent the last twelve years helping the commoners and spreading vicious rumours about the Megalos family through the lower Noble families.
It was a good long term strategy, but after twelve years Thorinos was still no closer to the crown. Atillus didn't mind. The longer his father took to become King, the shorter his reign would be before Atillus took his rightful place. Besides, despite the time it took, Thorinos was building a solid foundation on which the Argyris family could rule.
Atillus returned to the Omati library one day to read about the history of the Royal Families. Most of the books he found were as he expected; list upon list of names and dates, with a short passage describing the King or Queen's rule. One book gave him pause. It was titled The Royal Palace of Omatus; a detailed history of the largest palace in Pandeia. He read the entire tome that day, enthralled by the information. It was written hundreds of years ago and likely quite out of date, but the author didn't hold back any details. It described hidden passages and rooms, and contained a map of all the slave's corridors that ran through the entire palace. There was a private library, with more collected knowledge than anywhere else in Pandeia. His breath caught in his throat. It would be perfect for him; silent, endless books to choose from, and best of all, empty.
Getting into the library was far easier than he expected. Maps of the slave's corridors and entrances laid his path plain before him. He stole a plain white slave's chiton from the quarters in his own family's palace. Wearing it, he became invisible. He was tall for his age, and among adults he fit in perfectly. As he approached the palace, he focused on balancing the confidence of familiarity with the humble submission of slaves. He kept his head lowered, and avoided going too close to other people, but moved with purpose. Nobody questioned him, or even gave him a second glance. Almost an hour later, he snuck through a small secret entrance into the Royal Library.
It was cavernous, stretching out in endless aisles of ancient knowledge. Empty. Silent. Atillus smiled and stepped into the giant space, breathing in the smell of old dry paper. Finally, he found a place that felt like home.
He'd read many books on politics and just as many on war. The more he read the more he realised they were one and the same. He was searching for another such book now, trying to find something new and interesting to learn before the feast. A regular occurrence in Omatus, feasts were thrown seemingly every other night. It made no matter to Atillus, who much preferred the company of books to people and who didn't enjoy food half so much as most of the other Omati Noblemen.
Atillus turned into another aisle in the maze of the library, and paused. After six months of exploring, he'd never been this deep in the massive room before. He walked a little further on and noticed a closed door at the end of one of the aisles. It was the only door other than the main entrance and the secret tunnel he used. It looked solid, most likely reinforced with metal or Omasi stone behind the old-looking wood Atillus could see. It was relatively small, only just big enough for the average person to enter, where the main doors were giant arched stone doors that looked like they would be deafening if opened. It was once locked, but the lock either rusted away or broke long ago. Odd, he thought, this door does not appear on the maps I saw. He pushed against it, gently at first, and then harder when it wouldn't budge.
Finally, the door creaked slowly open, the sound painfully loud after the library's pressing silence. Atillus winced through the sound until the door was open wide enough for him to enter.
A long, narrow corridor followed from the doorway, pitch black and as silent as a grave. Most of the castle was built from Omasi stone, which was a pure black and could be polished to a mirror sheen. It was beautiful and almost as strong as steel, but it made for dark housing, and there were no torches lit in the corridor. There weren't even sconces adorning the walls; this place was supposed to be black. Atillus couldn't help himself. He needed to learn what this place was. Keeping his left hand to the wall beside him, he ventured into the corridor.
It was cold, and there seemed to be an immense pressure squeezing him, as if the castle itself was trying to squash him for trespassing. He kept walking, slowly and carefully. Even going as slowly as he was, it didn't take him long to reach the end of the corridor. His left hand bumped into stone, and he stopped abruptly, trying to see with his hands. The corridor couldn't possibly be this short. From the door it looked as though it went for miles. Though the more Atillus thought about it, the more he realised he hadn't actually seen much of the corridor; it fell to darkness quickly, and it gave the impression of incredible depth. He shook his head, marvelling at this place. His hands continued exploring the end of the corridor, but there was only smooth stone. He breathed a sigh of annoyance, but the heavy silence somehow wasn't broken. He blinked, though it was pointless as he just shifted from pitch black to pitch black. Surely he'd made a sound. He wanted to shout, just to hear something. But suddenly the thought of breaking the silence made him uneasy. He turned instead, painfully aware of not being able to hear his own footsteps, and looked for the doorway through which he came.
It was there, sure enough, and from this side it looked much closer than he remembered. The light streaming throug
h from the library was almost blinding, but when he turned again he still couldn't see the walls around him. Atillus couldn't make sense of it. The corridor was unlike anything he'd ever read about. He walked back towards the library, quickly this time. The heavy door started moving, closing, slowly but too fast for him to reach in time. Despite the awful noise it made earlier, it was completely and utterly silent as it swung. Just as he reached the end of the corridor, the door slammed shut without a sound, wrapping Atillus in complete darkness. He reached out, touching only smooth stone. He screamed at the top of his lungs. He heard only silence.
Zanela
Zanela sprinted along a thick tree branch, careful to avoid the stones whistling through the air in her path. She wasn't sure how to properly dodge them. They moved far too quickly for her to even see them clearly, let alone react in time. The fact she hadn't been hit so far was pure luck. Dakesh shouted encouraging compliments from a neighbouring branch. He threw the stones hard, but probably not as hard as he could.
She ducked and weaved as much as she could, though the movements were random. She was perhaps three quarters of the way along the branch when a stone hit her ankle a fraction of a second before it landed. It twisted her ankle just as she stepped on it, and she dropped forwards, smashed her shoulder on the branch and plummeted down into the forest. She didn't have time to scream as she was yanked out of her fall by the safety net hanging below the branch.
She lay in the safety of the net, calming herself, when there was a sudden jerk and thumping sound, and she was almost tossed over the side. Dakesh appeared beside her, grinning.
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