Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  “Did you tell Ascher?”

  “No.” Emma’s cheeks reddened a bit. “I didn’t want him to worry. Besides, it’s stupid. I mean, come on, Ranch dressing? I used to hate that stuff on salads.”

  “But, Emma”—Milo tightened his grip on the tray—“you have the sight. And the man in your dream said ‘Ranch’ dressing. What if he’s real? What if he knows we live on a ranch?”

  Emma avoided his eyes. “There are probably millions of ranches on Taradyn.”

  Just then, Milo saw Ascher cross the room going toward the buffet tables. He was wearing one of his colorful, patterned Sunday robes and looking down at the floor and mumbling to himself. When he came closer, Milo saw that his heavy white brows were knitted together in worry.

  “Hey, kids,” he said, coming up to their table.

  Milo and Emma spoke together. “Hi, Ascher.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat. It took him a few seconds to get comfortable. Because of his enormous girth, he had difficulty getting his legs to fit under the table.

  “Aren’t you eating?” Milo said, dipping into his scrambled eggs.

  “Nah. No appetite today.”

  Emma studied the glum look on his face. “Ascher, what’s wrong?”

  He released a long, drawn-out sigh. “A group of bandits has been attacking villages and cities along the Taradyn coast over the past six months. One of the attackers is most definitely a Savant who can cast elemental spells—a sorcerer, like Milo. They know my name, and they’re torturing and killing anybody who won’t help them find the ranch.”

  “They’re looking for us,” Milo said, forgetting about his food. “I knew it.”

  “And they can’t use a sightstone to find us,” Emma said, “because we have the beacon crystal. So they’re doing it the old-fashioned way.”

  “Unfortunately,” Ascher said, “I think you’re right.”

  Milo felt himself grow smaller in his chair, and colder, like a plant wilting before an oncoming winter storm. His appetite flew away.

  “What’s going to happen?” he said in a small voice.

  “We’re going to leave. All of us. We’ll get off the coast.”

  “But I don’t want to leave,” Emma said. “Isn’t there something else we could do? I mean, if they’re looking for us, that means they don’t know where we live. Maybe we could throw them off somehow, or—or…”

  Ascher shook his head. “I didn’t bring you two to Astros so you could live in fear for the rest of your lives. If that was the case, I’d hide you on Earth, but even that’s too risky. If I had my way, I’d consult your mother.”

  “Wait,” Milo said. “Does the sorcerer have red hair? Because Emma had a dream after we got here, about a man with red hair walking out of a wall of fire. He laughed at her and asked if she wanted Ranch dressing.”

  Ascher sat back and looked deeply into Milo’s eyes. Then he looked at Emma.

  “Are you sure he had red hair?”

  Emma nodded. “It was the color of rust, and wavy, and it came down to his shoulders.”

  Milo pushed his tray away. He had begun to sweat. A vision entered his mind of the ranch being swallowed up by flames.

  “A man with long, red hair…” Ascher looked away, captivated by a vision of his own.

  Then his face went tight, and the twins could tell he was clenching his teeth. The next word out of his mouth sounded like a cross between a hiss and a growl, the sound a bear might make if it could speak.

  “Iolus!”

  CHAPTER 46

  T he woman and the boy floated in side-by-side tubes.

  The bluish liquid gave their skin a morbid, icy tinge. The woman was tall and wispy, the boy skinny, with hands that seemed to dangle from his arms like useless ornaments. Broken lines of bubbles streamed upward from breathing masks that gripped the lower halves of their faces.

  “Samara, my dear.”

  Kovax touched the glass right over the spot where his wife’s bare feet hung, touching at the ankles. The positioning made her look like a ballet dancer standing on her toes. Her arms floated down by her sides and a mess of brown hair—a rather soft mess in which he had always liked to rub his face—fanned out from her head like a cape, reaching down to the middle of her back.

  The boy had inherited his father’s jet-black hair (it had been black in Kovax’s youth, anyway) and his narrow shoulders and gangly limbs. Though his mother was Humankin, the boy had been born a Savant like his father—a sorcerer, no less.

  “And you, Kofi,” he said, reaching out to touch the tube holding his son. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited in a while.”

  Behind Kovax, the hospital’s medical facility was silent. It was a huge, white room with a ceiling that rose past several floors. Metal platforms, also white, ran along the sides, connected by stairs, allowing access to various labs and spellcasting rooms. On the ground level, towering machines were scattered all about. The only sound in the room was their incessant humming.

  The nurses, doctors, and scientists had left Kovax alone for a few minutes of privacy with his family. The low mage’s eyes were red-rimmed. His skin hung off his face, covered in lines of weariness and age spots.

  “I know I keep saying this over and over again”—he gazed up at his wife, squinting as though looking at a bright star—“but we’re close, my love. Once I get that tower up, once I have all that energy within my reach, I’ll have what it takes to wake you. I just need more time. And I need those twins.” A malicious tone slithered into his voice. “Milo and Emma Banks. The batteries for my Tower of Light. And when you find out what I’ve done, please don’t tell me it was wrong. I remember you said never to spill innocent blood in the name of the greater good, but this time, it’s warranted. I swear it’s warranted, and not just to wake you up.” He looked at their son. “You—and Kofi.”

  Somewhere behind him, a beep was followed by a hissing sound. He ignored it. He had been hearing that sound for a decade, always while speaking to his wife and son. He hated it because it reminded him of where he was—in a wretched place of imported Ayrtorian machinery that served him where magic could not.

  But someday that wouldn’t be true anymore.

  “When the time comes,” he told his wife, “you’ll forgive me.”

  He got up close to the glass and pressed his face against its cold, sanitized surface. He kissed it, glad that he was alone and the security orbs had been shut down.

  “I did it again,” he said. “I summoned a Risen One.” He looked up at his wife and clasped his knobby hands together and begged. “Please don’t judge me. I needed help. I would do this the honorable way, but I just don’t have that kind of strength anymore.”

  He closed his eyes, smiling at the next thought that crept into his mind

  “Iolus does.”

  CHAPTER 47

  T he royal bedroom was enormous, the furniture made of Gorbodhel oak, the most expensive wood in the realm, and the rug of the finest Valestarian wools, handwoven by Feral slaves trained since birth to make such wondrous designs. The lamp by the bed, the silverware on the table, next to several plates of uneaten fruits and chocolates, the plates themselves, the handles on the doors and cabinets—all of it was made of gold. The silks of the bed’s canopy were of the finest quality, softer than the hair on an infant’s head. This was luxury fit for a god.

  They were still swooning—the two women sprawled out on the massive bed.

  “You really know how to treat a woman, Your Highness,” one said. She wore a thin, semi-transparent nightgown.

  The other woman, dressed in a scanty robe and barefoot, munched on a chocolate-covered strawberry and smiled.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said.

  Corgos Leonaryx, King of Taradyn and current Emperor of the Nations of Leonaryx, stood at the foot of the bed, wearing a thin red robe that tickled the tops of his pink feet. He grinned at the two women. The admiration in their pretty, jewel-like eyes made him feel like a Sargonaut.

  �
��Don’t get chocolate on the bed sheets,” he said, wagging his finger from side to side. A smile cut across his wide, bearded face. “I’d rather you got it on me instead.”

  “Huh huh huh…Hee hee hee…”

  The women covered their mouths and giggled. It was more of a titter, which he knew would become annoying soon.

  He couldn’t remember their names. He called them “Blondie” and “Brunette.”

  Blondie patted an empty spot on the bed, between her and Brunette.

  “Why don’t you come lie down? You look tired. Gee, it must be so hard to be a king!”

  “Mm-hmm,” Brunette said, wiping chocolate off her lips. “You should relax, Your Grace.”

  Corgos rested his hands on his hips and sighed.

  “That may be”—his voice came out deep and rich—“but Your Majesty is in no hurry.”

  “Hee hee hee…Huh huh huh…”

  Now they were rolling around on the bed and laughing. Blondie’s hair, which shone like sunlight spun into thread, had fanned out across the sheets. Brunette’s hair gleamed dark brown like the chocolate staining her lips, and shimmered in the light as she flipped it over her shoulders.

  Corgos licked his lips. They were a mess of hair and legs and twinkling eyes—and boy, oh boy, wasn’t it good to be king.

  He was about to dive in and grab handfuls of blonde and brown hair and smell and taste each color when the relay sphere began to glow and hum. He had left it on, like an idiot.

  “Who is it?”

  “My sincerest apologies, Your Highness. The batch is ready, the one you requested for inspection. Shall I hold them until tomorrow morning?”

  Corgos looked at Blondie and Brunette. They were staring at him, silently, with pleading eyes that seemed to be saying, Not now. Let’s have some fun.

  No. This couldn’t wait any longer. He had promised Kovax an answer by tonight…

  He wanted to stamp his feet and slam his fist into the glowing blue sphere, where a scientist’s face hung patiently waiting. He was one of Kovax’s men.

  Gods! His cousin could be so demanding. Just because he was a Savant and Corgos was only Humankin with no special abilities—

  Just remember who’s king, he told himself. No, not just king—emperor! Since acquiring control of Valestaryn, he was officially an emperor! Soon, once he had his Tower of Dusk, the other kingdoms and republics would fall, leaving him the most powerful man in the realm.

  “Send them up!”

  Corgos tied the front of his robe and motioned for the girls to get off the bed.

  “Come back in one hour,” he told them.

  “But, Highness,” Blondie said.

  “Your Majesty,” said Brunette.

  Corgos pounded his fist against the bed. The mattress rippled enough to dislodge the two women.

  “Go!”

  They leaped off the bed, not even stopping to gather their sandals as they pulled open the door and practically climbed over each other to get out. They were laughing, because they knew Corgos wasn’t serious; this was all part of a game, and they were the lucky ones, hand-picked from among the former noble class (there was no more nobility, except royalty, now; Corgos had seen to that). These girls were guaranteed wealth and status as long as they were young and beautiful, which they were—for now.

  “Brats,” he said under his breath.

  He pulled on a pair of silk pants the color of red roses, drank the last dregs of wine from a gold cup smudged with lipstick, and popped a chocolate-covered strawberry into his mouth. He slapped his hands together and belched.

  A knock at the door. He spun around.

  “Enter!”

  Two of his men came in, one dressed in light leather armor and carrying a sword, the other in a white smock that hung down to his feet. The one in the white smock was old, a Savant scientist. He motioned toward the open door.

  Four Feral children in their early teens were led in. Colorless and dressed in white, they looked ready to collapse from exhaustion at any moment. They were three boys and a girl, and a smell like sour milk followed them in. Corgos covered his nose. The children didn’t appear to notice the smell, or they were used to it. Each one had a tail and a badge with a number pinned to their shirts, one to four.

  “Your Majesty,” the scientist said, sweeping forward in an elegant bow.

  “Cut the theatrics,” Corgos said. “Show me what you came here to show me, and make it quick.”

  The soldiers pushed the gray children against the wall in numerical order.

  “One week after blood ether extraction,” the scientist said, indicating the boy with the number 1 on his badge. The boy, despite being gray like the others, looked fit and strong, if a little drowsy. His hair was a tangled mess that hung over his forehead, and he was looking down at the floor. “Each child yielded close to one thousand blood lumins. As you can see with number 1, no sign of the blightsore after one week.”

  The scientist indicated the girl with the number 2 badge. “Four weeks after extraction. At this point, the Feral is incapable of phasing into animal form.”

  The girl’s skin was so gray it was almost white, and her hair was as white as an old woman’s. The scientist lifted her shirt and exposed a collection of nasty sores that clung to her skin like leeches.

  Corgos nodded, stroking his chin with three fingers.

  The scientist let the girl’s shirt drop and moved on to the next child. The boy’s eyes kept closing, and he was swiveling like a drunk. A bit of drool crept out of his mouth and slid down his chin. There were blightsores on his arms and neck, some of which oozed purplish blood.

  “Six weeks after extraction. The boy is near death.”

  “Help me,” the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked at Corgos. “Please.”

  Corgos wagged a finger at him. “Don’t look at me, boy. You point those beastblood eyes down at the floor.”

  The boy looked down and sniffled. A single tear snuck down his face.

  “And finally,” the scientist said, making his way down the line. “We have number four.” He indicated the last boy, who looked more like a skeleton than a living person. The boy’s hair had mostly fallen out, leaving only a thin, white wisps. He stood with his knees bent, arms hanging limp by his sides, his skeletal face turned up to the ceiling. His mouth gaped open. Several teeth had fallen out. His eyes looked off in different directions and there were blightsores on his forehead and cheeks. One long sore ran across his chin like a strap.

  “By the gods,” Corgos said. “Don’t tell me this is what happens after only two months.”

  “Ten weeks, to be exact,” the scientist said. “The boy is hours away from death, which is why this meeting was so urgent.”

  “I can see that,” Corgos said. “By the gods, he stinks!”

  The boy let out a pathetic moan. Upon seeing Number 4, Number 3 began to cry and shiver. He collapsed and covered his head with his arms.

  “I don’t want to be like that!” Number 3 wailed. “I don’t want to die!”

  “Get him up,” Corgos said.

  The soldiers did as ordered. They slapped the boy until he stopped crying. Corgos couldn’t watch. He went to the table and checked the wine bottles to see if there was any left.

  Empty. He had drunk every last drop.

  “Get them out of my sight,” he said.

  “Highness, there’s one more thing. Some of our experiments have shown that direct contact with blood ether causes the bacteria on the dead skin cells to transform rather unusually. There’s a possibility that the blightsore could go viral and infect us all.”

  “Take care of it. Blame it on the Ferals, then create an antidote, or a magic potion or whatever, that we can sell to the masses. Might as well make some money off a bad situation, right? Besides, the Tower of Dusk need only be operational for a short time. After the other nations surrender, we’ll shut it down.

  The scientist bowed. “Yes, Highness.”

  Corg
os lifted a goblet off the table that still had a mouthful of wine at the bottom. A lucky find. He would have to order more immediately.

  “The war is as good as over,” he told them. “With the Tower of Dusk in my possession, no one will ever stand in my way again.”

  He swallowed the contents of the goblet in one gulp and let out a loud burp. A drop of wine ran down his chin. Seeing it, the girl burst into sobs and covered her face as, next to her, Number 4 collapsed.

  He was dead before he hit the floor.

  CHAPTER 48

  V alhades Cemetery, a place known for its twisted black trees and poisonous spiders, lay at the southern end of Lethargis, nestled against the Elder Wall enclosing the city. People believed Valhades was haunted, that the ghosts of the dead rose after sunset to mourn their own tragic ends. The roads around the cemetery were empty at night and dimly lit, so it was easy to imagine phantoms going out for a stroll.

  Holding Duo in his right hand, Kovax waited as his men pulled open the gate, a massive web of iron that squealed like a child in pain. Beyond it lay not a single gravestone. He had gotten rid of the last one a decade ago. Valhades had not been a proper cemetery with gravestones and mausoleums and pathways in a long time. Now, it was home to mass graves where criminals, prisoners of war, and those who had opposed King Corgos’s will were dumped and buried without ceremony or recognition.

  A shred of cold wind scratched its icy nails across Kovax’s face and slid down his cloak. He didn’t like this place at all. Too many memories of people cursing his name in their final moments. It was bad luck to be cursed like that. The gate made a bang as his men opened it all the way and walked through, carrying torches that did little against the inky darkness. It was like walking on the very bottom of the ocean.

  “Bring the prisoners,” Kovax said.

  His soldiers brought forth five skinny, wasted-looking men dressed in rags and covered in dirt. Each had orange eyes and a tail, and all were bound by chains and a collar around their necks to keep them from phasing into their animal forms. The soldiers threw them to the ground.