Tear of Light

by Michael Edward Tenner

  “Explain to me,” Oren said in response. “What did you need the green gem for?”

  “There is much you do not know. Please sit.” He gestured to rock beside him. Carrine and Oren sat down and watched him, carefully listening. “First, my name is Varlien Startrail, and I am from a continent far in the west.

  “I believe you have heard of the three gemstones, the librarian was always good at his job. He has not told you all. The city of Beria, your home, was founded by us thousands of years ago to stand against our ancient enemies. The Li’Ari and the Der’ ai. Once Areon Vi Dera did his little spell,” he spat the name with disgust, “the war ended. We departed these shores while the Li’Ari had to deal with the newly founded Empire. You are not of this continent, Oren.”

  “I am of Beria, that city over there. My eyes don’t glow green.” Oren was proud of his home; he was no magic-filled man of the west.

  Varlien smiled. “They don’t. Still in your blood courses power of our common ancestors.”

  “I don’t care.” Oren shrugged. “What happened to Natind? Did you do that?”

  “Light’s final lament,” he replied. “What Areon did was that he locked magic away, and those three stones became the keys. As he planned, people began using his own magic, but with his words, Sesterian. Only using those words can magic be truly unlocked.

  Still, his power is impure. These, all around us, are the consequences of pure light winning against the crimson. Creatures of pale skin attacked Morael Vi Dera and Vikar Ka Ner. They won, barely. Few were hurt, but the town was destroyed.”

  “I saw them,” Oren said. “Those creatures. Killed them with ease.”

  “The sword is pure, and so it destroyed the weak residue light of the prince’s shattered weapon.”

  “Do you know where Efri is?” Oren cared so very little for what Varlien told him, he had one goal and one only.

  Varlien nodded. “I do.”

  “Tell me. Whatever you want, I will do. If you want the sword, I shall give it to you.”

  “The gemstone is now yours. You hold that power. See, only the three gems can unlock the magic and allow its user to break through Areon’s lock. Our goal was to study it. We sadly cannot take it away from you. If you leave the sword and ride away, it will appear on your waist soon enough.”

  Oren shook his head. “So, what do you want?”

  “I want you to come with me,” he said. “Soon, more of us will arrive, and we will retake Beria. Route the imperials.”

  “Why should I?”

  “You have no love for them, Oren. Deep down, you know that you will never belong with them. Also, not only we’ll tell you where Efri is, we will save her. An army will go for her, not just you.”

  “Alright.” He could feel Carrine’s eyes locked to him, but there is no one thing he can do to find out where Efri is. An answer given to him on a silver platter, all he has to do is cooperate. “Tell me where she is. I want to know.”

  Varlien smiled. “Consumed by light. Stored in the consciousness of magic. We destroy the Vi Dera’s hold, and she can come back. The secret to doing that is in Sesteria itself.”

  “You want to attack the capital?” Carrine shouted, laughing. “That city cannot be taken. It is impossible. The Empire is thousands of years old, withstood worse than you.”

  “We shall see about that,” Varlien replied with a smile. “You may wait and see with us, or go and run to your imperial masters. Choose wisely, Carrine. Our enemies will die under the shadow of a dragon.”

  Wrath of the Phoenix

  The sun set below the horizon, and dawn came again before all was ready. Through the night, Morael sat on the battlements of Beria and watched the amassing foreign army. To every corner of the empire, he sent a word of their arrival, but nobody came; they had no time.

  Come noon, the other army was marching against them. Seeing as much Morael ran down from the walls, passed the few mages that were fixing the many holes made by them just days ago and ran straight to commander Arter who was shouting orders to everyone around him.

  “They are on the move,” said Morael. “Now or never.”

  The commander nodded. “This way.” He led Morael through the next few streets until they reached the city’s western gate. Right outside, hidden in the forest beside the city, was a hundred riders all members of the inquisition.

  Even though they were older than most Morael saw fear in their eyes. He wondered if they can see the same. “Ride, attack as soon as you can. Do not hold back,” he commanded. “These are enemies who also possess magic. Be careful. As you ride out stay in formation, but far away to make their spells have a lesser effect. The moment you see them attack, engage defenses. If it’s too much turn and ride back.”

  “As you command!” they shouted.

  “You are the heroes of this day!” Arter joined the shouting. “Songs will be sung about the heroes who first rode to met the foreign threat. Ride! Not for glory but for the lives of your countrymen,” he looked to Morael, “for the life of your future Emperor!”

  The riders shouted and cheered, their eyes flashed with light, and they rode forward in a tight formation. “Let’s go,” said Morael, and with the commander, they ran back into the city.

  Once they reached the battlements, the riders were already in their second formation. Between each soldier a great enough distance to make most spells affect one at most

  The marching army stopped the moment they noticed the riders. “Good, we have their attention,” Morael whispered under his breath. “Now will come the attack.”

  He was right shortly arrow began flying imbued with fire. Still no magic. Arrows were easy to defend against the riders who had no problem with doing so. “Our turn.” They raised their hands and, as a collective, began an assault against the enemy. The steam attack, half used fire, and the other water, which created powerful steam. A single caster used the powers of the wind and sent it against the foreigners.

  The attack hit, connected with their vanguard, but did nothing. It was not magic that stopped it but their shields. Morael’s heart fell. “Get them back, now,” he commanded. “They’re useless.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “I saw this before,” Morael replied. “When Vikar was captured, he was put into magic nullifying chains. I never expected it to work this way. Their armor, weapons, and shields are most likely the same. Most of our magic will not be able to even touch them.”

  He was right as what played before them then proved. With all of their magical strength, the riders attacked again, now each casting their own spells. A storm of elements attacked the opposing army but did null.

  The moment they turned to retreat came the counterattack. From the wooden arrow became bolts of lightning. Once they hit the ground, they exploded, sending electricity through the bodies of the riders. Most fell right there. Only three defended themselves properly and withstood the attack.

  “All has a limit,” said Morael. “Go, commend the three riders and give me their names. If we come out alive, I will see to it personally they are honored.”

  “As you command.”

  Left alone, Morael was ready to attack. From the battlements, he stepped onto the air and propelled himself up above the city. His eyes burned with scarlet, his weapon, a dagger, became the staff once again. He struck against the sky itself, shattering the white clouds and turning the azure to deep red. Magic helped by the sun.

  He landed back on the walls and watched. The army stopped marching. He won and gained some time.

  With the scarlet sun shining down on them, Morael ran to the center of the city. There was commander Arter with three women. Morael came closer, they knelt, he waved his hand, telling them to stand. “Is this them?” he asked.

  “Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. Alarra, Rinn, and Dalla,” Arter introduced them.

  Looking at them, they looked years younger than even Morael himself, and he was only twenty-five after all. “You withstood the enemy’s attack.
For that, I commend you,” he said. “Sadly, now is not the time to sing praise to anyone. I apologize for being blunt, but we must act fast.”

  They thanked him, bowed, and Arter excused them. “What is that?” he asked once they far away.

  “Magic. Plain and ordinary light. I suspect that their armor, weapons, equipment, in general, can’t sustain magic forever. It will break eventually with enough force applied, just like ordinary armor.”

  “We cannot be certain of that. Are you not spending much of your strength to do this?”

  “Little. If I am correct, then this could be instrumental to our victory. I worry how we will fare in direct combat.”

  Arter nodded. “I share that feeling. There is some good news, however. I am happy to say that the Carminian fleet is coming. At least two-hundred military vessels and twenty empty civilian ships. We will get out as many as we can.”

  “Good,” said Morael. “Any words from lord Vikar? The capital?”

  “None. Lord Garel is not present in Camirna. Last, they heard he was in Sesteria, and nobody has heard a word from the capital for two days now.”

  With a sigh, Morael looked to the sky. “They will wait for the night,” he said. “We cannot lose that advantage.”

  “Do you intend to abandon the city?”

  “You know better than most what kind of an effect city walls have when fighting against magic wielders. They will shatter the stones and attack us just like we did with the rebels.

  “Our sole advantage is that light and our numbers. We march out of the city and meet them in combat.” He observed Arter’s reaction. Over the days since their meeting, the old commander showed his wisdom, and while Morael would never admit as much, but if Arter were to decide against taking the offensive, he would listen.

  To his surprise, he agreed. “I’ll give the order.”

  Seven and half thousand out of Morael’s eight thousand soldiers marched out of the city. The five-hundred were left there to protect the citizens in case an unforeseen threat was to arise.

  The sun still shined on the field before Beria hitting all with the then scarlet-colored rays. It had no effect on the imperial soldiers, but as much couldn’t be said for the opposing army.

  Before long, magic was being thrown from one army to the other. Commander Arter was issuing commands while Morael stood beside him, watching unable to do a single thing.

  Then the two armies met, and chaos ensued. Both held formation. Imperial soldiers couldn’t push through their shields, and they couldn’t do the same. Morael helped and sent powerful lightning to hit at several spots through the hard line shattering the formation. It helped, and the battle began to rage.

  Wielding his weapon like a sword, he killed those that attacked but surrounded by death, his men dying by the dozens the same as the opposing army, he felt powerless. Such great power rested at the tips of his fingers, yet there was so little he could do. He healed one or the other, killed a few, but there were other mages who could do the same.

  For the first time, he smelled battle. The bodies gathering all around, the blood splattered everywhere. He froze, seeing one of the three riders dead, sword driven right through her skull.

  In all this time, he didn’t bother to look at the enemy. All of them were a big verdant blur. Their eyes, all of their eyes, just like those of A’stri. The armor they wore was like leaves folded over each other, and just as he suspected, it was resistant to magic.

  Fighting avoided no one. Even the commander was engaged in battle. The sky above wasn’t just full of scarlet light but also filled with fire flying from one side to the other.

  One of the opposing soldiers made it into their lines and struck against Morael with his spear. He caught it into his bare hand, looked the soldier in the eyes, and shook his head. The weapon broke, and half fell onto the blood-soaked ground while Morael drove the blade into the soldier’s stomach, the armor of little help.

  Seeing the young man fall and cough out blood brought him much sorrow. This wasn’t like the books in the library, not like the tapestries and the legends. It was a terrible evil what they did, and he would let his people suffer no longer.

  He ran in, joined the front of the formation. With his weapon, he attacked, using as much power as he could. Dozens fell to his anger, and every single enemy felt the power of his bloodline.

  Surrounded, he fought off more than any other soldier, but even he was unable to withstand such power. While the screams of his men dying rang in his ears, spears pierced his body, arrows lodged themselves in his back. He lost.

  Yet again, as always, his eyes sparked scarlet. He jumped and landed in the middle of the enemy’s forces. A shockwave created by his landing sent them flying in all cardinal directions. He could feel it, he knew just how unwise the decision he made was, but his life was not more valuable than the lives of his countrymen.

  He outstretched his hands, and all around his body, scars appeared, glowing in scarlet. The ground began to shake, and through cracks in it came more of his light. Then the very earth exploded beneath their feet, only a part remained where he stood.

  From bow and arrow to a javelin or a whip, his weapon changed every few seconds taking lives left and right. The power he felt was like waking back in his chambers under silk covers to the singing of the capital’s birds. He closed his eyes and let the power control him.

  Imagining his return to the capital, a hero of the battle, he would be reunited with his father and Aelir. Differences would be settled, and they would continue living happily.

  In the end, it was not meant to be. While hundreds died, his grasp on reality was lost. The wrath of the phoenix was unleashed upon the earth, and there was no stopping it. His eyes were burning with light one even he could not see through. Fighting not just with his enemies but also with himself was too much even for him. The power he possesed was too great, yet too little to become what he was meant to be.

  He struck the ground with his weapon, and it shattered, the scarlet gem flew out of it and blinded both armies. All but Morael averted their gaze, his eyes burning, hurting, but he cared not. The last thing they saw was the gem falling into his hands. His eyesight was gone, burned sockets where his eyes once were. In agony, he screamed, his voice shaking the entire peninsula.

  As he closed his hand, the gem in it, he became one with the gem, just like Aelir and the gem of gold. Finally, he was powerful enough, his power a match for his young brother.

  The scarlet light of the sky disappeared, and only the red of blood remained. Then from below, the ground broke and a firey shadow of a phoenix rose, burning all alive. It roared with the power of the eternal blood of his dynasty. The continent, for the first time in thousands of years, felt the Wrath of a Vi Dera.

  Cinder of the Past

  After the bridge fell, so did her last ember of hope. She was left alone in a continent far away under the light that always shines. Enemies all around her and the only way to get home sailing away on the azure sea.

  She turned and saw a man far on the horizon. The ground shook, and the soldiers beside her did nothing. They didn’t attack, they just watched. With nothing to lose, she forfeited her life and ran. Not into the desert in search of freedom but against the mage who made the ground shake. He was the one to blame.

  Not even when he was feet away, she was met with resistance. His men ignored her, paid her little mind. Even the man himself seemed not to care. Not until she was truly close when his glowing azure eyes looked to her.

  He was Li’Ari, just like Ri’on. The way he grabbed her neck is something that she’d remember for long years. Only a bit of strength more and he snapped her spine in half. Yet he didn’t do that. She gasped for air and struggled, but he wouldn’t let go. A gust of wind pushed his hood away, revealing his cyan hair.

  Then her eyes began to close, and her hold onto reality began to crumble and shatter. She fought hard to keep awake to see what was happening, but it was all for nothing. With no air, she s
lipped into unconsciousness.

  A few times, she opened her eyes, felt the cold around her feet, hands everywhere, all around. She felt her naked skin touching hard metal. Yet she never woke up properly. It was all like a dream, pages of a book with ink long faded.

  Through the voice that she heard, most a muffled whisper, there was on the phrase they repeated, one she remembered clearer than her old life. “Night will come to Ailia.”

  She woke up feeling hard stone pushing at her uncovered back. All around, she saw darkness. Trying to call out resulted in a long-lasting echo but nothing more. The cold was terrible; she shook, barely able to speak. On her, not even a shirt, she was naked.

  To stay awake, to escape the cold, she carefully stood up. Her body no longer touching the even colder stones of the ground, and the wall behind was of some relief. Still, she was freezing. Wherever she was, she had to find a way of escape, find where she is. She touched the cold wall, and with one arm stretched before her, she made a step forward.

  Yet minutes have passed, then at least half of an hour and still no end. She hastened her pace, but even then, there was no end to that room. In a moment of defeat, she stopped touching the wall and made a step to her left. Nothing there.

  It was a prison, what else could it have been. Surely her captors wouldn’t let her die. So she decided to sit back down, lean on the cold wall and sleep until either someone wakes her or death comes for her.

  As she stepped back and tired touched the wall, it was no longer there. Two then four and six steps to her right. There was nothing. Where the wall stood was just darkness and cold. Magic was at play.

  Shaking her head, she sat down onto the cold ground. She’ll wait right there.

  Yet she wouldn’t fall asleep, hours passed, and nothing happened. Her stomach didn’t growl; her mouth wasn’t dry, and she wasn’t thirsty. Then some more time passed, it must have been at least a day since she woke up. She wasn’t feeling hungry, just cold. Not once, she felt like needing to use the privy either.