Emerald Fire
Kathryn Blade
Emerald Fire
Kathryn Blade
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2019 by Kathryn Blade
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Please contact the author at [email protected] if you are interested in using part of this work.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are figments of the author’s imagination. Resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2019
www.kathrynbladeauthor.com
[email protected]
ISBN: 9781097801367
Dedication
Thank you, Jennifer Hart Yonts for the most kickass cover ever! You saw my vision on day one.
Thank you, Jenna B. Neece, for giving me the editing and support I needed to continue when I doubted myself most.
Thank you to my husband, who sat quietly by supporting and encouraging me. I love you more than words can say.
Thank you, Lisa, for your undying support. You are my bestie and my muse.
Thank you to all those who have heard and supported my ramblings about Emerald Fire for the past few months.
Contact me:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kathryn.blade.50
Twitter: https://twitter.com/blade_kathryn
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kathrynblade
If you want to contact me or send some snail mail, here’s how:
Email: [email protected]
Kathryn Blade
PO Box 14
Pound, VA 24279
Ancient Prophecy
When twin suns eclipse the midday sky, the one who is destined will smite the despot king.
Chapter 1
The Beginning
The dying woman lay on her back in the midst of a cottage’s smoldering rubble. Crimson stained spittle dotted her lips. An open wound in her chest sucked and gasped for air. Her skin was as pale as freshly fallen snow.
The tormentors came, two armored men with weapons and a deadly purpose. “She’s done for, Willem,” one man spoke, his words low and soft. “I need a drink.”
“There will be time for wine later, Cedric. Finish her, else the prophecy will be your undoing.” Willem, the larger of the two, wore the king’s colors and insignia upon the plackert of the heavy armor.
The woman coughed, a deep rasping sound that brought more flecks of crimson to her lips. A thin trail of the watery blood-stained fluid trickled down one side of her face. She held a shaking hand aloft, palm outward as if shielding herself from harm.
“You do not understand the prophecy.” Deeper coughs and a strangled wheeze interrupted the woman’s choked words.
Cedric turned, placing his hand upon Willem’s shoulder. “I cannot, you must do it.”
The king had no skill in battle. It did not surprise Willem Jarin when the task fell to his hand. Willem’s massive broadsword, Hope’s End, flashed in the fire’s dying light as he drew it from its sheath. The tip came to rest upon the woman’s chest between heaving breasts. He had no desire to draw out the end. It was best to end her before others came to her aid.
Strangled coughs and laughter burst from her lips seconds before the sword’s tip drove downward into her heart. Pieces of burning wood and stone shards crunched beneath their feet as they walked away.
“You’ll make a fine Grand Meister.” King Cedric congratulated Willem Jarin as they found their mounts and headed north toward Helmsfield Keep.
“Aye, that I will,” Willem replied. The sickening taste of bile, bitter and acidic, rose high in his mouth. He had not always been this man. Those who lived in King Cedric’s world knew they could not rise at the king’s court without a thirst for power and barbaric nature. “We ended the prophecy, Cedric. You need have no worry. You are safe now.”
Their horses cantered toward the road leading north. The men did not see the burning emerald eyes that peered out from deep shadows cloaking the barn’s loft. They were unaware that the savage assassination had not ended the ancient prophecy. Instead, it had set the prognostication in motion. Both men had sealed their fate.
***
Loriann
The Olde World was an ancient land of varying landscapes and climates. The lands of Simland, the northernmost hold in the realm, were frequented by rain during spring and summer. During late fall and winter, it was known for its heavy snows and frigid temperatures. King Cedric Norwood chose to call Simland his home. The dark stone of Helmsfield Keep had served as home for all the Norwood kings.
Villages dotted the hilly landscape of the hold. Peasants received little support from their king, but most supported the aging monarch without question. They eked out an existence by planting crops during the short spring and summer seasons. Wheat was their favored crop as it grew well in Simland’s dark, rich soil. The hold housed Ebonbarrow and Froudown, the largest villages next to the city of Helmsfield.
Loriann Astus called Ebonbarrow home. She had no memory of the life that came before Ebonbarrow. It was as if someone had scrubbed time, place, and people from her mind with a brush and caustic soap. All she knew was hunger, cold, and an everyday fight for survival.
The people of the village were not kind to those with bad fortune. They treated the orphans, the sick, injured, or even the elderly worse than the stray dogs that roamed the muddy pathways. She slept in the loft of an abandoned barn where hay lay forgotten. It kept her from succumbing to the chilly night air that seemed to always linger over the village.
She took things that did not belong to her, not for the thrill or gain, but for survival. It was only food at first, then later a rough cloth shift to cover her bruised and battered body. It was not long before Loriann was accused and found guilty of stealing food. She knew the meister punished any crime. He was a balding man with rotting teeth who seemed to take great joy in administering punishment. She thought the man loved pain more than he loved justice. None of the villagers questioned him.
She begged the gods to take her life after the daily punishments began. She knew the afterlife in the seven hells was better than the hell she lived on earth. Time passed, the agonizing grinding of daylight into darkness, only to find a new day upon her. The gods forsook her. There would be no salvation from the meister’s rod.
The rage came after her first moon blood. It was small and easily controlled at first. Then it grew in power. She became frustrated one day after finding seven empty snares in the fields surrounding the village. The eighth snare held a rabbit. The unfortunate thing struggled with one foot caught in the trap. The rabbit broke free just as she reached for it. The rage came as the rabbit raced away. Emerald fire flew toward the animal, ending its life less than a dozen steps from where she stood. She ate well that night.
The meister’s men brought her to him as they always did for the daily punishment. “Maybe a rod on your bare bottom will put the fear in you,” he said with a wide grin which revealed the rotting stumps of teeth.
“I didn’t do it!” she cried. No one believed that she was innocent.
The pain of the rod on the already broken, welt-covered flesh would be much worse. At least the thin cloth afforded her some measure of protection. She squirmed out of his grasp, trying to break free and run away. His fist thundered down upon her face. The blow split her lip, a ringing sound filled her ears.
The rage and fire came without warning. Gouts of emerald flame consumed the meister. The smell of smok
e and burning flesh filled her nostrils. At least she no longer smelled the stench of his body. The meister screamed, begging for mercy as his skin split and turned black. They showed no mercy for my sins. Why should I show mercy for his? Loriann thought.
She made it as far as the village outskirts before the others knew of the fire and the meister’s death. She was thrown into the shack. The meister’s men accused her of false crimes. They punished her just as the meister had.
She huddled against a wall of the dark room just after the dawn of the second day. A thin wool blanket clutched about her body did little to ward off the damp chill. Rain fell as it always did in Ebonbarrow. It dripped from holes in the thatching. The air was filled with a damp, heavy mustiness that penetrated everything. The shack provided only misery.
The heavy wooden door opened, thumping hard against the wall. The men entered, sent to punish her again. They grinned and laughed before closing the door.
“Ya ready ta confess?” The tallest man said. “‘Tis the only thing ta save ya.”
A hate-filled glare came from beneath the matted shock of ebony hair. Rage and hatred filled her eyes. “I did nothing wrong!” she screamed.
The other man walked forward. He kicked her, hard, in the hip. Another bruise joined the multitude covering her body. “Confess ta yer sins. Yer the dark lord’s spawn!” Another kick followed.
Loriann knew the punishment would not stop. Failure to confess to an imagined sin always led to more beatings in Ebonbarrow. Before long they would tire of torture. She would die at their hands. The hatred and rage continued to grow.
The tall man joined his partner in meting out punishment. Blood dripped from her split lip after a short time. Her head filled with a ringing noise as a fist caught her ear. She nearly wretched after smelling the foul odor surrounding the men. It was born of unwashed bodies, sweat, and sour wine.
A man grabbed her arm. His fetid breath added to the rank odors assailing her senses. “Maybe we ought to hang her...or have our way with her.”
The other man laughed as he pawed at her chest. “She ain’t old enough to have titties!” he snickered, fondling her again.
Something inside her snapped. The rage exploded. She did not care there was no way to control it. An almost bestial scream burst from her lips. An unknown force flung the men against the wall. She could see the fear on their faces.
“We’s just kiddin’ girlie!” The tall one stammered, his voice rising to a high pitch.
She faced them, not caring that she was thin and dirty or that her hair was matted. Emerald eyes burned with rage as she screamed again. The force flung them against the wall. This time it held them there. Their feet were barely touching the ground.
“I am not.” She spoke only those words. An emerald wall of flame appeared then raced toward the men. Their screams brought a smile to her bruised and battered face. The impact flung the door open. Loriann stepped barefoot into the rain and muck. She did not feel the cold as the rage continued to build inside her.
She saw the first villagers near the cottages. These were the first people who had accused and tormented her. Great, fiery orbs flew forth, striking the intended targets. The villagers screamed as they burned. The sound brought another smile to her lips.
It did not take long to hunt them all down. Each one died in flames, writhing, screaming for mercy. She did not show them mercy. They had never shown her any mercy. Loriann left the village untouched at first. She needed food, a bath, clothing, and supplies before she left Ebonbarrow.
The final firestorm, a seething windstorm of flame, came before she turned to the road leading elsewhere. She contained the rage, nursing it to a feverish pitch. The final tempest incinerated the village. Flames danced high in the sky. A billowing cloud of smoke carried the news that Ebonbarrow was no more.
The smile faded as she turned south toward Astor. She felt free for the first time in years. For now, she forgot the past. The misting rain stopped as she walked south. A chill still clung to the land, but the heavy cloak taken from the village kept her warm.
Glancing skyward, seeing azure blue through the ever-present grey clouds, she had hope that the rain would end for a few days at least. The sun was nearly unknown in the northern part of the Olde World. Hope filled the way to Astor. Perhaps there she could find the archmage of Baeliton Keep. Surely he could help her understand the powers of rage and fire.
***
Chapter 2
Loriann
The path merged into a large, well-maintained road. Fields of wildflowers dotted the hilly terrain. On impulse, Loriann picked a handful. She met the first people at the crossroads. The older man and a woman walked in the same direction as she did.
“How’d you bruise your face, little one?” the woman asked.
She ignored the woman’s words. Jamming her fists into the pockets of the rough breeches, she looked away. She felt nervous, uncertain for the first time since the fire had set her free.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” the woman added.
They walked in silence for a time. Others traveling the same road passed by, moving ahead at a faster pace or disappeared down narrow muddy paths that led to other villages or farms. The sun rose high above them before the older couple stopped for the midday meal. They asked her to join them. She hesitantly accepted but kept her distance. The meister had taught her that much.
Within minutes of stopping, the woman started a fire. Rocks encircled the flames. The woman filled a pot with dried meat, vegetables, and water. She placed it on a flat stone near the fire. It appeared the couple carried many goodies in their pack.
“Won’t be long now,” the woman said with a smile.
Loriann sat in silence, ignoring the woman’s attempts at conversation. She pulled the cloak’s hood farther over her face to hide the bruises. The woman placed a wooden bowl filled with simple stew in her hands. Hunger rose strong and harsh inside her when the heady aroma assailed her nostrils. She ate with fervor, not stopping until the bowl was empty. The couple smiled at her. She blushed and ducked her head.
“Thank you,” Loriann’s words of gratitude came as she handed the empty bowl and spoon to the older woman.
“You’re quite welcome, dear. Where will you spend the night?” The woman glanced at the man as she spoke.
Thin shoulders shrugged. Loriann had not really thought about that. Her plan of action had only included the southern journey to Astor.
“You should come with us, dear. We have an extra room. Our home isn’t very far from here,” the woman continued. “We would love to have you. My name is Derah Humble. What is your name?”
“Loriann Astus. I have to go now.” She rose to her feet and walked toward the roadway.
The woman’s soft voice came at her back. It was unlike the voices of the villagers. “Loriann Astus, it would honor us if you would join us. You can rest up, take a few meals with us. I can look at the cut on your lip, dear.”
“I’ll be fine,” she called out, walking faster now. The few years she had lived in the village had taught valuable lessons. Do not trust easily, if at all. Never believe the words of those around you. Be ready to run at a moment’s notice.
“If you change your mind our farm is near here. We planted yellow daisies in front of our cottage. It will be easy to find. You’re welcome anytime,” the woman called again.
She would keep to the road. Now was not the time to trust strangers. The rage had withdrawn to a place far back in her head for a time.
***
Derah and Sandel
Derah and Sandel lived on the farm since their marriage thirty years ago. The cottage was the first building they completed. They lay stones and timbers in place by hand. A small barn was the next project. It provided a warm place for the animals. The barn allowed them to put up an ample store of hay for winter. The garden near the house contained a variety of vegetables—turnips, onions, lettuce, potatoes, and peas. Selling the additional vege
tables at the market supplemented their meager income. Over time, they saved enough money to buy a cow.
Each night Derah asked the gods for a child. She realized after several years had passed without the blessing’s fruition that there would be no children. Still, she lavished attention and food on others with poor fortune.
Sandel, a gentle soul of a man, denied his beloved wife nothing. Each time she gave fruit or bread to an orphan, he smiled, feeling the blessing as much as she did.
Their paths crossed with a girl no older than eleven or twelve years after a trip to the village to sell vegetables. Derah’s heart filled with compassion and pain to see the pitiful shape the girl was in. She was painfully thin. Bruises, bumps, and a split on her lower lip marked her face. They walked in silence along the path.
When the sun rose high in the sky, they stopped to eat. The girl agreed to join them but kept a healthy distance, eyes glancing furtively about as if expecting trouble at any moment. Someone had broken the young thing’s trust. Who knew the horrors she had experienced in the harsh world.
The grumblings of her belly were audible in the still air. A reaction came when Derah placed a bowl of stew in her hands. The stew disappeared, with not a breath taken, between each bite. It warmed Derah’s heart to see the girl smile timidly when she handed the bowl back. The couple invited her to join them. The girl declined and ran away.
They could only leave the invitation open. “If you change your mind, our farm is near here. We planted yellow daisies in front of our cottage. It will be easy to find. You’re welcome anytime,” Derah called again.
Derah wondered if she would ever see the girl again as they cleaned the pot, bowls, and spoons, then put out the fire. Derah remarked, “Queer one, that girl. Seems to have had a rough go of it lately.”
“I hope she comes for food at least. Poor thing, that bowl of stew was the first thing she’s had in days, I’d wager!” Sandel remarked.
Emerald Fire Page 1
