Tear of Light

by Michael Edward Tenner

  Morael let out a tired sigh. “We cannot know for sure.” With his eyes, he looked to a bookshelf behind him. It reminded him of Aelir; he always loved the smell of old books. “Even an enemy of such power cannot stand against an army. If they appear I will take care of them. The gates and walls will be taken down, as I have already informed you. Right away, I will ride into the city to deal with any potential threat.”

  “Very well,” said the commander with some doubts still on his mind. “I believe it was the Alifreis that opened the gate for us.”

  Morael nodded. “Yes. I believe one branch of the family remained in the city, the rest moved all around the empire really. Good on them, if they did not, well, they’d be dead now.”

  “You believe the rebels would start executing them right away?”

  “Yes.” He shrugged. “From what I have heard, the people of Beria hold a great grudge against that family. I do hope that it has not come to that, but I have doubts.”

  With the subject finished, they moved on to discuss logistics and provisions for the city. Not to run into the very same problems as Vikar did those many years ago, they planned three supply lines, two from Istra and one from Camirna.

  For the entire night, they planned and debated the assault. Come sunrise, all was decided. In two days, they would march on the city, showing the people of Beria the might of the Eternal Empire.

  Morael went to rest come noon. Yet even in the soft bed of the villa, he was unable to clear his mind. After all that has happened, all that is to happen, a great burden lied on his back.

  A great sense of worry grew within him, but he assured himself, this was what he spent his entire life preparing for. The records of battles, the books of strategy, Aelir’s hours-long lectures, all of it was leading to Morael’s first battle. He would succeed, there was no room for failure.

  While his mind wandered, his eyes fell, and he fell asleep only to be awoken, mere few hours later, by the sound of an alarm bell and people screaming as loud as they can. Some even called out his name. Shortly someone knocked on his door. “Your Imperial Majesty. Please, it is urgent.”

  “Come in,” Morael commanded, and in came a scrawny young soldier. “What is it?”

  Stuttering, the soldier replied, “We do not know precisely just yet. The patrol was found dead, and four of Natind’s people disappeared without a trace. Commander Arter is coming to the war room.

  “Thank you.”

  The soldier bowed and rushed off at full speed while Morael put on his coat. In thought, he walked out of his room and headed straight downstairs.

  Below awaited not just commander Arter but two men and a woman. “Your Imperial Majesty.” They all bowed.

  “Arter, talk to me. What happened? Who are they?”

  “Forgive me, these are the witnesses. I shall go into detail in a moment, but I believe that you should hear them out.” He gestured towards them.

  Morael nodded and turned to the three. The woman he recognized, she owned the tavern; he often saw her through the windows while returning from the soldiers’ camp. The two men he has never seen before. “Well, what did you saw?” he asked.

  “Your Majesty, our prince, I saw things too hard to describe, but,” one of the men began speaking. “It was horrible, and it had claws. I, well, my brother and I, we--”

  “Please, anyone who can actually describe what they saw? Apologies, but we have little time.” Morael asked with a sigh.

  “Imbecile,” the woman whispered to the stuttering man. “I can, Your Majesty! A traveler came to the tavern with something hidden under a black cloth. When he revealed it to me, it looked like a shard of red and gold metal, its edge sharp. He also had a pole with Sesterian runes and what seemed to be a handle, covered in expensive leather.” Her gaze fell. “It looked expensive, and he offered to pay with a single shard, but I refused. At first, I thought it be some sort of fake.” Then her eyes looked into his. “I mean not to presume, but it looked like Your Majesty’s spear, the Vanquisher.”

  Vanquisher. He had no words, how could it be? The blade was shattered, destroyed. “Thank you,” he said. “This was very helpful. Now I do not believe it was Vanquisher you saw, but we will investigate.” He smiled as Arter escorted them out.

  “Your Majesty?” the commander said just as the door closed. “What is the matter?”

  “I know what it is,” he said, defeated. “No matter. Tell me the rest.”

  The commander took a seat. “We do not know for certain what this was. The bodies we found were pierced exactly through the heart. From the wound came streaks of red and gold as if their veins were visible.”

  “This is wrong,” Morael whispered. He rushed to the bookshelf and pulled a parchment, quill, and ink. Quickly he scribbled few words on it, a secret message intended for Vikar, telling him Morael is in grave danger and then folded the paper. “When did it happen?”

  Arter shrugged. “Sometime during the day. We do not know exactly. The corpses look days old, but I personally saw some of them just yesterday.”

  “We should be safe for the night then, I hope. Please, commander, leave me. I need time alone.”

  The commander bowed and left. “If anything, you know where to find me.”

  Morael grabbed the folded parchment with two of his fingers. He threw it in the air, and it disappeared in a flash of scarlet light. “Come quickly, Vikar,” he whispered under his breath. “For once, I need your help.”

  While awaiting the arrival of his dearest friend Morael buried himself in books found lying all around the villa. Most were accounts of mayors, and rich men who stayed there.

  The dry prose and not at all interesting subject only made him wonder just how can Aelir can spend days doing nothing but reading; Morael was sure he’d find the books captivating. It would be nothing for Aelir to read them, his tendency to sit down and read tomes of thousands of pages always intrigued Morael.

  His musing was soon interrupted as the darkness outside was disrupted by a flash of white light. Through the door, only seconds later rushed in Vikar. “I came as soon as I could,” he said, closing the door. His hair messy and covered in sweat; he sat down on the first chair he saw.

  “What is it?” Morael asked, seeing the worry in his eyes.

  Vikar sighed. “I cannot tell you about your father’s orders.” As Morael shook his head and raised an eyebrow the archon threw up is arms. “Mori, trust me, you do not want to know. It is for the better.”

  “Vik, you have known for very long. Do you truly believe so?”

  “I do.” He sighed. “Fine. Nael is dead.”

  Morael’s heart sunk. The archon of Sesteria was second in power to only the Vi Dera dynasty. If he was dead, killed by an enemy. It could symbol far worse things to come. “Do we know who killed him?”

  “Yes. Aelir did.”

  “Do not joke,” Morael spat his words, but Vikar’s gaze told him enough. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. Your father has taken it horribly. So did Nariel. Lady Arianna, Aelir’s frequent companion, was devastated.”

  Morael sighed and waved his hand. “I trust there is a reason for this, but the situation at hand is far more pressing.”

  He explained all he was told by the witness, by commander Arter. Vikar himself could barely believe it; at first, he outright refused to and labeled the shards as fake, but both knew well there was a slim chance of that.

  “If it’s Vanquisher’s power running rampant, then we are in deep trouble,” Morael concluded.

  “How is that even possible? The spear was just a weapon.” Vikar shrugged and looked into Morael’s eyes. “Remind me, how exactly did you create it?”

  “Always asking the right questions,” Morael said quietly. “I never told you, did I? Vanquisher was different than the other weapons. While playing and throwing magic around I cast a spell. It was powerful, very. The crimson-light shined so brightly. At the time I had no idea what it could be but I knew it was pow
erful. So I tried casting more but it was difficult to handle. So I bound it, forced into a spear that I conjured. That’s what gave it its power. When it shattered, the light must have been released.”

  “Light tainted by death. The spear killed many. We must prepare for the worst,” uttered Vikar, afraid.

  Yet they would not get a chance to discuss it further as from outside came a scream of horror followed by a flash of crimson-gold light.

  With his staff in hand and Vikar by his side, Morael ran out to face the danger. A few turns, and he looked to the southern gate. Four people, all men, stood there their eyes shining crimson-gold.

  “You’re not alone,” said Vikar as in his hand appeared a sword shimmering with light.

  Morael nodded, and together, they walked towards them. Then from their mouths came a voice. Yet it wasn’t the common imperial tongue they all spoke. It was ancient sesterian in its purest form, like a song. “What do you want?” Morael shouted in the same language.

  They did not reply and continue reciting the same phrase. “In light’s final lament, it punishes the sinners, the thieves, and the wicked.” All four in unison said the same. “By the hand of sin, corrupted, the light sees all. The crimes long-forgotten are seen clearer than the skies above, yet darker than the blackest night.”

  “Everyone who can hear me,” Morael shouted as loudly as he could, his heart beating fast, “get out of the city. Run to the soldiers! Do not take any of your possessions, just run.” As his words reached the town, the people ran through the north gate out.

  Morael, trembling with fear, looked at the men and turned his staff into a spear. Similar to Vanquisher, yet lacking much of the beautiful decoration, he added to his old weapon. Together with Vikar, he readied for a fight.

  “A feather of a phoenix’s wing,” the four continued, their voices ever louder, “fell to the mud. To restore it, from fire, it must rise.”

  The four people then fell to their knees, and from the center of their chest came a hand. Blood spurted out as the hands grew claws. From within the small people came monsters of eight feet, a colorless skin, their eyes crimson-gold, the spine cracking with each little movement.

  Inside their mouths, Morael saw rows of sharp teeth. Then they smiled, and with unnatural speed, they rushed towards them. Both he and Vikar were thrown far back. Only thanks to their reflexes, they managed to slow their flight and save their lives.

  Morael summoned his magic and struck with the elements. The earth shook, and spikes of stone came off the ground. Yet they shattered when they made contact with the creatures’ skin. Lightning, water, ice, fire all useless.

  The two separated to lead the creatures in opposing directions. While chasing them, much of the town was destroyed.

  Hidden in a back alley, Morael wished to strike with his scarlet spear, but the creatures were quiet. One grabbed him into its hand, and with all of its strength, it threw him. Through walls of stone all the way to the inn, he flew. Air pushed out of his lungs.

  The creatures jumped, and only at the last moment, Morael managed to parry the strike of its claws. As it hit the blade of his spear, a sound of ringing echoed all around.

  With all of his physical strength, Morael pushed, and finally, the blade cut through the creature’s hand. It opened its mouth and screamed in the language of Sesteria.

  Morael’s body felt weak. All magic, the gold light within his veins, fought against him. With a powerful, yet difficult strike, he cut off its jaw. Once unable to speak, he buried the spear in its chest.

  Yet it did not die; it began to cry like a wounded animal so loudly even he had to run back and cover his ears.

  Then it fell to its knees and imploded in a flash of light that set all things around on fire.

  Once it was gone, he grabbed the weapon and pushed himself up through the roof. He looked over to where Vikar was, the part of town was almost leveled with the ground.

  While in the air, supported by magic only, he changed his spear to a war hammer. Letting its massive weight pull him down, he struck the second creature. Yet again, it exploded in light.

  Still, his fight was not done. He rushed to Vikar through the rubble. His hammer became a javelin. Just as he laid his eyes onto the creature, he threw it, and it struck its chest. “Cover your ears!” he shouted, and Vikar did as he commanded.

  Morael did not and pushing through the pain; he ran towards it to grab his weapon as soon as possible. It changed into a greatsword, one Morael could barely lift, and he killed the final creature.

  Both the prince and the archon fell to the ground once their enemies were killed. “What was that?” Vikar asked with a stupid smile on his face.

  “I don’t know,” Morael replied, breathing heavily. “Why are you smiling?”

  With a laugh, Vikar replied, “Haven’t felt this excited in forever.”

  First Fire

  While the embers of a burning campfire danced in a weak gust of wind, Oren recalled the first time he started a fire on his own. It was after the second year in his first orphanage. After it was bought out by an affluent Berian royal to open a tavern for the rich, he and the other orphans were thrown out into the streets.

  He ran from the city, urged his friends to go with, but they refused. For three days he camped outside, drinking the water from a nearby pond. The nights were still cold; it was only early spring, and so he had to learn or die. The little he was taught helped him little, but after a few hours of trying, crying, and more trying, he started a small fire.

  Since then, he liked to say that fire gave him his future. When he returned and realized all his friends were gone, some dead some kidnapped, he met a smiling young girl. She didn’t notice him, but he saw her. That girl was Efri, and ever since he was taken into a new orphanage, by the city guards, he liked to watch her from the window of his and the other boy’s bedroom, for Efri’s house was only a few alleys away.

  Now he was alone yet again, sitting before a fire. His past turned around. Narra was gone, set out for Istra, Efri was missing, and Beria was in open rebellion. He gazed at the verdant sword. For a while, it’d seem he was some sort of a hero, wielding an ancient magical sword that binds the darkness.

  He laughed, still thinking whether what he did was the right thing to do. All of it. Leaving Narra, leaving Natind, going out on his own, taking the gem in the first place, not throwing the sword away, the first chance he got.

  What choice did he even have? He was no more than a victim of circumstances. It was a stroke of luck that he took the gemstone from Nika, just as was running into Narra, leading her through the secret tunnel and finding the hidden chamber. No, he was not a chosen hero, but an inconsequential man given power he cannot comprehend.

  So much hurt within, he didn’t want to even think about it all, but he couldn’t stop. In truth, he missed the comfortable bed and the magical baths, Narra beside him, holding him in a warm embrace. What strange people they were, the imperials, after a lifetime of hatred, he understood what Efri was trying to say. The people are not to blame for the actions of their nation as a whole. Vikar Ka Ner, even though he was punished, was the one to be blamed, as was the Emperor, for giving him power. But not farmers, the ordinary citizens. They had no part to play in the butchering of Beria.

  Narra might have been a gorgeous flower in a garden of rotten weeds, but he chose not to believe that. So easy it would be to say as much and continue his hatred, but he knew it not to be true.

  All of it now mattered not at all. The journey before him would be difficult, and he knew it. First, it was a horse and some supplies that he must obtain. If luck does not abandon him, he may come across a small town, one just like Natind.

  He sighed, watching the flames dance around. If only there was a juicy rabbit or chicken above the fire, something to eat. So quickly, he got used to a warm dinner every evening.

  The moon was rising, but he was not tired at all. Not that he could sleep even if he were, but still, it felt good not
to force himself to stay awake. He took a full breath of the forest air. With a hint of cold, he ran through his lungs. It smelled like magic, nature’s magic.

  The shine of the morning sun was the best wake up call, that’s what Oren said whenever Efri complained about it. That day it was a sign for him to leave. Quickly he gathered his things, made sure to hide the charcoal left after the fire, and went on his way.

  From the forest, he got back to the paved imperial road, still in awe at how well kept it was. As he journeyed forth to Tristicia, a city he knew nothing about, he planned to enjoy some more time alone, but to his surprise, there was not a moment too long before a merchant, a guard, a soldier, a mother with her children rode from one direction or the other.

  To his continued luck, the happy family told him of a small town, Ashton, not too far away. The main imperial road often split into side roads that led to smaller towns, villages, and even singular steads, or castles. At each crossroads was a wooden signpost telling travelers what lies in each direction.

  The road that to Eshtorn led through a patch of a forest. Many of the trees were cut down, with axes, not magic, and the road was well-traveled. Then above the trees, he saw smoke. The town!

  He hastened his pace, and within a short while, he arrived to not a town more a village. There was no gate, no palisade. It reminded him of villages near Beria, the few that remained after the war.

  Even the smell was similar to the one he was used to. Sounds of people working and he was there was a mill nearby. He took it all in.

  Yet there was no time to squander. He had the money, and so the stables were his destination. As he passed by the local tavern, he could not resist. It was quiet, but he was sure they were open, and he yearned for some good food.

  Outside stood a tall man with an unkempt beard and a dirty hat. “Good morning,” Oren greeted him.

  “Howdy boy,” the man replied and blocked his way. “If I may ask what brings you to Eshtorn?” He eyed him suspiciously.

  “I’m Oren, a traveler, on my way east,” said Oren with a happy smile. “Tristicia’s where I’m heading.” During his time in Natind Oren learned a few tricks. The imperials were happy folks who enjoyed broad smiles and honesty. “Now, I am in need of a horse.”