Tear of Light

by Michael Edward Tenner

  The marketplace was in ruin, full of people who pushed the carts away and destroyed the stalls, all angry many with swords in their hands. They all screamed over each other, causing just the chaos the rebels have predicted. The rebellion had begun.

  Oren cared little for it, he had his own goal. The front gate would surely be guarded, but he was armed, clothed, and knew of a way out. A few alleys away was an entrance to a secret tunnel leading under the walls, used by the rich to escape before Vikar’s arrival.

  To get there, he made his way to the back alley behind Ceril’s shop; from there, it was not far at all. The crowd was too busy arguing, shouting, and fighting over spare swords to notice him. The store was dark, nobody seemed to have been inside. Then a scream reached his ears. “Stay the fuck away!” It was the voice of Narra. He rushed to the sound, just a corner away.

  There she stood, her sword drawn. Opposite of her stood Alec, his blade also at the ready. A crackling torch beside them on the outer wall of the shop emitted just enough light to show Oren what was happening.

  “Thank the Gods!” shouted Alec. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

  Oren walked to him, silent. “We were supposed to wait,” he uttered in a hushed whisper. “Or have you changed your plans again?”

  “They tried to run the moment you and Alen killed those two fuckers.” He laughed. “I had to act!”

  Oren caressed the little pentagon at the end of his sword’s hilt. “So much death Alec,” he said. “You failed to mention that in your plan.” Alec ignored him. “I’m no longer part of your already failed rebellion.”

  “Shut up, you insolent brat! There are things at play beyond your understanding.”

  “I don’t care.” Oren looked at the shining moon. “Sometimes, I might seem like an idiot, but I’m not that stupid. You would have never let me go if I refused to help. That’s why you failed to share your plans with me.”

  “Shut up!” His hands and the sword in them shook. “Help me kill this little imperial bitch, and then we’ll talk.”

  Narra struck against Alec, and their swords clashed. Oren took a step back. “I knew you were trouble!” she spat her words. “The moment I saw you.”

  “I know,” said Oren. “Sorry about that.”

  Their fight was not at all entertaining to watch, Narra was reckless, and Alec was slow. “Help me!” the rebel shouted.

  After a few more strikes and parries, Alec dropped his sword. He kicked Narra’s groin, and she fell down face forward. Quicker than her, Alec grabbed his weapon, ready to deal the killing blow.

  Oren then drew his sword. “No more lies, Alec.”

  Smaragdine Cruelty

  Sound of embers cracking woke up Morael from the worst of dreams. His hands, scarred and burned, his armor broken, and his eyes burning feeling the wrath of his light. When he could see through the veil of darkness, he saw fire behind a tall, muscular figure.

  His hands were tied, and his feet chained to the wall behind him. Trying to wiggle out the rope that held his hands only tightened it. When calling for his magic, it failed him, it didn’t answer. He was powerless, drained of all strength.

  “Prince Morael,” the man said, his voice deep as a bottomless chasm. He stepped into the light. “It’s an honor, Your Majesty.” With a wicked smile, he touched Morael’s cheek. His head was covered in writing. The ink losing its strength, but even then, Morael could read it. The words of ancient Sesterian spelling out incantations of the worst kind - torture.

  “I do not know who you are,” said the prince with a defeated sigh, “but I urge you, reconsider whatever you are about to do. Only time can tell when they will come for me.”

  The man laughed and laughed unbothered by time. “Nobody will come, little princeling. Not until it’s too late.” He swiftly unsheathed his sword. With the blade’s tip, he made a cut across Morael’s cheek. The pain was impossible to contain. Blood gushed out and dripped down from the cut. “Where is that magic?” the man whispered in amazement. “Someone has lost his favorite toy.”

  From his leather belt, the man pulled a small dagger. It was sharp and brand new, made of glimmering viridescent steel. With a pleased mocking smirk, he stabbed the middle of Morael’s chest.

  Never before, he felt pain so great. The concept was so new, his life of luxury and protection, of power for most impossible to comprehend, disallowed pain. But even with blood flooding his body, his veins severed, and organs destroyed; he would not give up.

  In his eyes sparked a flame of crimson gold, and the wound on his chest began to glow. The blade, still deep in his body, shattered like the most delicate of glass.

  “Such is the beauty of defiled magic,” the man said, playing with the broken hilt. “Let us proceed to the next exercise.”

  Morael tried to argue, to beg, to threaten, but always only a harrowing laugh would be the man’s response. Often he laughed, as he drove yet another blade into Morael’s body as he stripped a piece of skin from his arms, and seldom he spoke. The prince’s royal screams filled the dark room, playing a symphony with the laughter.

  The first torturer’s goal was to find the extent of Morael’s healing ability. He began with shallow cuts, stabs, and the lighter wounds, but very quickly, he progressed to causing more severe injuries and even cutting off pieces of flesh. Whenever the prince lost consciousness, the torturer would wait for him to wake up and resume his testing.

  Morael’s pain was unstoppable; the man’s resolve unbreakable. Nothing Morael said had any chance to change his mind. Hope began to escape him. Nobody knew where he was if help was on the way it would be long until it arrives.

  Soon time began to blend together as the tattoed man would leave and come again only a moment later, leaving Morael to bleed and enjoy the pain, as he liked to say. Everything he did was done in such a way to cause more and more suffering, to disallow Morael a single moment of repose. He asked no questions, he demanded nothing, he merely tortured him with utmost pleasure.

  After what seemed like almost an entire day, the man came back, with the sound of the chain following him. Soon he saw what it was. A’stri, tied like an animal. Almost nude and covered in bruises and blood. Seeing her innocent eyes so full of tears caused so much more pain than the still healing injuries.

  “Had some more fun with this one today,” said the man, pulling on the chain around A’s tri’s neck.

  Morael sighed. “Please, don’t,” he uttered with tears in his eyes. “Leave her be. She has nothing to do with this!”

  “Nothing to do with this?” he said with a chuckle in his voice. “She is the reason you are here, Your Majesty.” He knelt beside her and grabbed her chin forcing her to kiss him. Morael screamed, disgusted, but he was ignored as the man ran his hand all over A’stri’s body.

  “Now, that was fun, gotta do that again.” He winked at her. “Anyway, come here, dog.” He tied the chain to a stone pillar. “Be patient you two, I need to bring in some more toys.”

  The man left, and just as the door shut behind him, A’stri looked at Morael. “We ought to escape,” she said.

  “We do,” Morael replied in a broken, silent whisper. “Do you know what they want?”

  While fighting the rusty chains holding her, she quickly explained. “A green gemstone. Someone used it, and you were there. They say you will give it to them if they are thorough enough.”

  “I’ve not an idea of what they speak,” he said and watched A’stri hope fade. “I am sorry, A’stri.”

  She cursed and began to laugh. “Come back!” she shouted, and with a green flash of light, her chains unlocked. The man returned. “He doesn’t know.”

  “Really?” the man questioned. “Yeah. Saw it in his eyes. Poor boy has no clue.”

  Not entirely, he understood what he just learned. They mocked him, together, it was all a scheme to get information. A'stri was the one who led them to him.

  “Any news from Sesteria?” the man asked.

  A'stri
growled. “None. There is some news about the younger prince. He will be dealt with.”

  “What are you planning?” Morael shouted. “Do not dare to go near Aelir!”

  She shook heard. “We will do whatever we please thief. Be quiet, Olar will be with you in a moment.” A’stri words were vicious, like those of a hunter celebrating a newly captured animal. Just then, his suffering was of no concern; his brother was far more important than he.

  In his eye cracked a new spark, a cinder of a phoenix’s flame. Within him power began to course, stronger than ever before. Vanquisher was not just a weapon, it was a shackle of its own, holding his power in check. But through his veins coursed the blood of a future emperor, and its power was beyond even Morael’s fantasies.

  The chains holding him shattered. “It’s over!” he shouted and threw a bolt at the tattoed man, freezing him on the spot. Then he threw one more at A'stri, but she rushed to the door and escaped.

  Morael approached the torturer and grabbed the temples of his head. “I am of the phoenix’s line. I am an inheritor of power you cannot comprehend. Right now, through your brain runs all the pain you inflicted on me. Poetic revenge, is not?”

  His screams were like a song to Morael’s ears. A beauty to hear. To feel the man’s life leaving his body, his soul being torn to shreds. He enjoyed every second until with his eyes burned to crisp, the man’s body fell to the ground lifeless.

  The door then flew open with a powerful magical force. There waited six men, their weapons at the ready. “Please! Don’t harm us,” one of them begged. “We are being forced to do this.”

  With a snap of his fingers, Morael summoned a great force, squashing them all like flies. Yet one remained; one more person stood between him and freedom.

  It was the woman whose blade shattered the Vanquisher. Rage consumed the young prince in full. Wrath, he did not experience before seized him and refused to let go.

  With his power, he grabbed her by the neck and threw her inside, right at the blazing fireplace. Her body destroyed the stone, but she still walked.

  The ground was shaking beneath his feet as he walked towards her. She summoned her blade, glowing violet, and struck against him.

  He caught it with his bare hand. Now he was far beyond such minuscule power. With his other hand, he grabbed the woman’s wrist. With little strength needed, he broke shattered it, separating it from the rest of her arm.

  The blood landed on his face and only fueled his rage. “Please!” she shouted. “I can explain, I can tell you all there is, the truth. You want to know it, yes?” He didn’t listen, he cared not. Whoever she was, whatever her goal, his thirst for revenge prevailed.

  She began to run, and so with a burst of echoing laughter, Morael took hold of the building’s very foundation. Up from the ground, he pulled it up, most of the crumbling above him. Then with a wave, he threw the woman through the stone wall.

  He ran after her, the sun blinded him just for a moment, but long enough for her strike. The tip of a different blade cut across his cheek. As quickly as she could, she threw a bolt of powerful flame against him.

  With a chuckle, he consumed it with a sphere of water. Looking around, finding a way to end the battle. They were in a forest, surrounded by old tall trees. He found it. The fire and water turned to steam, and he used it to return the attack, forcing her to move back. Only barely she managed to avoid certain death.

  Again and again, he attacked with bolts of lighting, of fire and wind, the elements raged and forced her to move back yet again. Then, finally, his plan was complete. He forced down the trees around her, creating four walls.

  With her unable to see, he disappeared in a flash of light and appeared in the back. He jumped through the durable logs and caught her neck. It was over, he was the victor.

  She looked at him, with fear in her eyes, fear he has not seen ever before. “How?” he asked.

  “With power, you forgot about,” she said. “The consequences of your destruction are coming back to haunt you, lord Vi Dera. I beg you to spare my life and—.” He snapped her neck.

  It was then when a blast hit him from the back, throwing him away. The power was so immense, so far beyond that of the woman, yet it was a power he recognized.

  “Attacking from the back A'stri?” he asked mockingly. “I thought you would be kinder to the man who saved you.”

  “Saved me? Do not make me laugh.” She appeared before him. “You meant to use me, nothing more.”

  Morael shook his head. Faster than ever, his strength was replenishing, ready for another fight. “I never meant to use you. Not once I have not had your wellbeing in mind”

  “And here you go, making me laugh!” She forced a long drawn out laugh. “I see through your lies, Vi Dera. You are no different than the others.”

  “You speak as if we knew each other as if you knew my family. How could you know any of us? Wherever you are from, we have never been there!”

  She walked in front of him, close. “I am A'stri, a child of the remaining natural magical power!” Her hands and body trembled as if the worst cold overtook her. “Your forefathers, Areon, his compatriots, because of their meaningless war with the east, because of their corrupted visions of grandiosity, they twisted, defiled the beauty of this world. Stole away our very lives!” A smile arose on her soft face as a verdant light lifted her just a foot from the ground. “It matters not whether you knew or not. The blood coursing through your veins is the same as that of Areon himself. I am sorry, there is no other way.”

  She attacked with a force even he couldn’t parry. It threw him even further into the forest, smashing trees like a hurricane.

  He avoided her next attacks only barely. “It is really a fight you want?” Sadness was in his golden eyes. “Very well, you shall have it, and when this is all over, I will bring you to Sesteria to rot in the eternal dungeons.”

  “Better be quiet!” A'stri shouted and rushed forth with a blade of her own, shining verdant green. The blade cut across Morael’s arm and severed it from his body. He let out a scream that bent the very trees of the forest.

  The severed hand lifted itself up in the air and connected back to Morael’s body, leaving a golden scar.

  Yet again, he called upon the power deep within, the power that remembered Areon’s touch. His eyes sparked, but not in gold, but in deep scarlet red. The magic of the world was nude in front of him. Seeing the life force of even the smallest of animals and the flow of the winds made him smile and rejoice. The white of his eyes was no longer there and consumed by the primal rage, he launched a counterattack.

  Missing the hilt of Vanquisher, he dared to summon a new weapon, one that all would tremble to even behold. He remembered it, on the pages of the Book of Areon, secrets of their magic so terrible only a few were mad enough to use them.

  It was not a spear, nor a sword. It was a weapon of legends, of times long past. A magical staff. Made of black steel, its hilt covered in the finest leather, and on the peak four spikes holding a pulsing scarlet gem. It could reshape into any weapon he desired.

  First, it turned to a bow, one that needed no arrows, he shot and as fast as lightning itself the projectiles hit A'stri, turning corners as if sentient.

  When she counterattacked by sending the same force against him, the staff took the shape of a shield, one that her strength could not penetrate.

  She wouldn’t let go from the offensive and instead summoned fire, burning hotter than even Nariel’s Everflame. Morael’s weapon was a sword, and it cut through the flames like a hot knife through a block of butter.

  Then the staff returned to its original form. He took hold of it with both hands and flew up above A'stri. Wielding the almighty power of the elements, he sent one attack after the other, from the sky, from the ground, from left and right and front and back. The very wrath of nature was against her.

  The grass grew and bound her legs, the water in her body forced her to stand in place, the fire she held in her
hand began to surround her.

  With a swift jump, Morael struck A’stri’s chest and send her flying even deeper into the forest.

  She retaliated; from her blood, she created a javelin and threw it against him. It struck his chest and bolted him to the ground.

  “Your power will never be victorious,” she said, gasping for air. “It’s impure and defiled magic. It cannot win.”

  His blood mixed with hers. For once, Morael felt the death’s grasp coming close. “I didn’t want to fight you,” he spat his words. “Congratulations.”

  “Laughable,” she whispered. “Time to end it.” In her hand appeared a blade.

  Before she could strike, her blood evaporated. Morael jumped up, avoiding her attack. His entire body was in immense pain, losing a lot of blood made his head spin. “Let’s stop this, I beg you.”

  “No.” She whispered something to the blade and its verdant glow grew in strength. Once again, she attacked Morael, who carefully dodged the attack, yet a cut appeared on his face, a wound that would not heal. “This is over!” screamed A'stri with a painful frown.

  He growled in pain. “I am not scared of death,” he yelled, “nor am I dying today!” He attacked with his staff, sending a bolt of scarlet lightning against A'stri shattering the very skin of her body.

  She screamed in pain and stabbed herself with her blade. Her blood, shimmering in the sun’s light, dripped down into the dirt. Before he could realize from beneath him came a blade. It pierced his foot and the palm of his left hand.

  With a smile, he looked at her. “Your friend taught me so much about pain.” He pulled his hand and foot back, cutting right across them. His power healed him, yet the small cut made by her sword still remained.

  “Let’s end this,” he whispered, and the staff flew in front of splitting into small glowing pieces of scarlet light. They locked around his wrists like shackles, each possessing half of the gemstone.

  With a light jump, he propelled himself upwards like a bird flying through the air. He felt so light.