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

by Richard Denoncourt

  Her eyes widened. “Children?”

  “They had to keep them a secret, even from you. I imagine you understand the importance of that.”

  Pris nodded, though the feeling of betrayal was clear on her face. In another life, she might have been like an aunt to Milo and Emma.

  “I enrolled them at the academy,” Emmanuel continued. “The boy, Milo, cast a fireball spell before his feet even touched Astrican land. Thirteen years old. No training, no burns on his hands, no brain damage. He’s a natural. And the girl, Emma…”

  He paused, still astounded by the thought of it. Pris must have noticed his amazement, for her voice came out laced with curiosity.

  “What about her?”

  “She sprouted a set of golden wings. I don’t know how or why.”

  “Like Aliara, when she would take Godkin form. There’s an ancient prophecy…”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Emmanuel snapped at her. “No one can be sure what it means. And prophecies are the stuff of bedtime stories. You know that.”

  She flinched at his tone. Then hers turned sour. “You haven’t changed a bit, magician. Still the arrogant, self-absorbed boy who used to throw rocks at me in the training fields.”

  “I never meant to hurt you, Pris.”

  “I wasn’t hurt when you left. I was disappointed. And now I have people to look after. You can help us fortify the town, or you can take off in that fancy jet and let me clean up the mess. Your call.”

  She turned away before he could respond. Emmanuel watched her take long, easy strides through the snow, kicking away its frozen layer as though it were nothing but dust.

  With a sigh, he trudged after her.

  WHEN EMMANUEL SAW the ruined state the little girl was in, he understood why Pris was in such a dour mood. This was his first time witnessing a Creeping Frost infection up close. It looked far worse than ones he had seen in holograms, and the little girl had clearly been drugged for the pain.

  “She’s the only one so far to survive a wraith’s touch,” Pris explained, sitting on the edge of the bed and gazing somberly at the tiny girl.

  She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. Her arms and half of her face were covered in patches of steaming, purplish ice. It seemed to be eating through her skin one layer at a time.

  “What’s her name?” Emmanuel asked.

  “Genvella,” a man said, rising from a chair next to the boarded window. “I’m her father, Joel. And this is her sister, Synthia.” He motioned to the woman standing in the corner with her arms crossed. She wore a full suit of chain mail armor and an expression just as steely. “We need your help,” the man added. “Can you do something to save her?”

  With an uncertain sigh, Emmanuel took off his hat and tucked it into his coat pocket. He approached Genvella and bent to study her face. Her eyes opened sluggishly.

  “Hello, Genvella,” Emmanuel said. “That’s a very pretty name.”

  The girl’s eyebrows rose the slightest bit. She was too weak to voice a response.

  “We’re going to help you feel better, okay?” Emmanuel assured her.

  She nodded once. The pain from the movement made her wince, but finally she managed enough strength to speak. Her lips had turned a pale purple.

  “Fire ants,” she whispered.

  “What did you say, nectar?” Emmanuel lowered his ear above her mouth.

  “Touched fire ants once. Stinging. This is—like that.”

  Emmanuel straightened. “The pain is only for a little while longer, Genny. We’ll make you better. I promise.”

  The girl tried to smile. “Just a boo-boo, right?”

  Pity tightened Emmanuel’s throat, making it difficult to reply. A Creeping Frost infection was deadly, the result of bacteria infused with dark magic. The greedy organisms nested in living flesh with the intent of eating through their host. By now, it had surely gotten into the girl’s bloodstream. The only thing that could kill the bacteria was a magical fire so intense it would kill the poor girl in the process of cleansing her.

  “Look at me, magician,” Joel said from the other side of the bed.

  Emmanuel turned to look at him, already mentally preparing a response—one Joel would surely find disheartening.

  “Tell me you can save her. Tell me your magic can cure this thing.”

  “I can tell you what I know about the infection,” Emmanuel said calmly, “but it won’t do you any good.”

  Joel’s eyes were tearful. “You Savants and your magic. If the gods had never created your kind, those monsters wouldn’t exist. And now my daughter has to suffer. Damn you and everyone like you.”

  “Joel, listen…” Emmanuel raised a hand to calm the man down.

  Joel’s next movement caught him by surprise. He grabbed Emmanuel’s fingers and twisted until a popping sound rang inside the room.

  Emmanuel yanked his hand back and clutched it, stumbling away from the bed. At least two of his fingers had been cleanly broken. His anger flared, and the room darkened in response. A magical current made the air seem to sizzle.

  “Stop it,” Pris said, moving to stand between him and Joel.

  Emmanuel was glad for it. He had almost sent the man flying through the window.

  “For the girl’s sake,” Pris added.

  Genvella had begun to cry, a mewling sound like the whimpering of a kitten. Joel placed a hand on her shoulder. Synthia stood at the foot of the bed, her face having softened at the sound.

  “I’m sorry,” Joel said. He looked sheepishly at Emmanuel. “Did I break it?”

  Emmanuel covered his mangled hand protectively and winced. “Is there a healer in the village?”

  “In the next room,” Synthia said. “Ana!”

  A middle-aged Acolyte woman appeared in the doorway, wiping blood from her hands with a towel that was almost completely red with the stuff.

  “What’s going on in here?” she said, frowning at the tension she sensed in the air.

  “A slight mishap,” Emmanuel said. He held out his injured hand. “Can you fix it?”

  Ana went about healing the broken bones, making it look easy. It probably was, compared to the mortal wounds of the groaning victims in the next room.

  When she was finished, she flashed an irritated look at Joel.

  “Contribute to the pain of others, Joel, son of Heathcar, and you’re as bad as those who attacked your little girl.”

  The man gave a solemn nod and took his original seat by the window. Ana returned to the other room to continue tending to the wounded.

  Genvella had stopped crying and was staring gloomily up at the ceiling.

  “Now,” Emmanuel said, flexing his restored hand, “tell me what happened to this girl.”

  Pris described the tragic event. One of the wraiths had knocked down a section of the town’s wall and gone after the nearest house. It tore through the front and grabbed Genvella, but Pris managed to fend it off. Luckily, only one wraith had gotten through before they managed to repair the break.

  Synthia added her own recollection. “We killed it the same way we do all the ones that get through—by covering it in oil and lighting it on fire.”

  “How much oil is left?” Emmanuel asked.

  She shifted uncomfortably. “Not much.”

  “You could have an entire lake of oil and it wouldn’t be enough.” Emmanuel shook his head. “As long as this storm keeps up, you’ll see no end to the onslaught. And clearly, our enemies have a Heavenswraith in their possession.”

  Synthia looked startled. “How can you be sure?”

  “The elementals are using tactics and working in groups. Normally, they attack only when provoked, and never like this.”

  “You’re right,” Pris said. “That means it can’t be far. A wraith has a limited range, not more than a few miles.”

  “There’s an old base north of here,” Emmanuel said. “It’s shooting a beam into the sky. Instructions for the storm. We have t
o kill that beam as soon as possible.”

  Pris nodded as he spoke. “So, you’ll go there and take care of it.”

  “Not alone. We can use the jet.”

  “No. I can’t leave these people. Not even for an hour. And Genvella…”

  They all gazed down at the girl. Asleep now, she twitched every few seconds at whatever nightmares the Blightsore was inducing.

  “That base is home to medical supplies,” Emmanuel said, “healing salves, herbs, and roots that can’t be found in these parts. I can probably find something there to help Genvella.”

  “Are you sure?” Pris asked him. “Because medicine is what we’re lacking. That would make it worthwhile to everyone in this village.”

  Emmanuel found it difficult to meet her gaze. “Trust me on this.”

  Joel stood up. “I’ll go with you. No sense in staying here like a wart on a rocktoad when I could be helping you save my daughter.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly,” Synthia said and joined the others standing around the bed. “My sword is yours.”

  Emmanuel gave them each a grateful nod.

  “Bring rope,” was all he said, making his way to the door. “And lots of it.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Emmanuel lowered the jet, now invisible, a mile away from the base. The cloaking spell he’d cast would hide the craft from both machine and sightstone. He left it cloaked in case they needed to get out quickly.

  Running on foot, Emmanuel struggled to keep up with the Sargonauts. Athleticism was a weakness of his, but he thanked the gods for magic—a quick Deflection Field spell wrapped invisibly around his boots and helped to clear snow from his path, making it easier to move.

  The storm thickened the night. Emmanuel had to constantly wipe frost off his face. The others, being Sargonauts, seemed only mildly uncomfortable in the cold, which had begun to seep through Emmanuel’s clothing. Another hour of this and hypothermia would set in, but he couldn’t risk any more spells this close to the base.

  “Are you going to make it?” Pris asked, appearing at his side.

  “Are you?” Emmanuel threw back at her. “Keep moving.”

  Pris waved dismissively and jogged forward, leaving him behind.

  “Why couldn’t we attack using the jet?” Synthia shouted over the wind.

  “Not powerful enough,” Emmanuel said. “And we need to see what they’re up to.”

  “Remember,” Pris said, “this isn’t a recon mission. We kill the wraith, grab the medicine, and get out. Understood?”

  Emmanuel kept silent. She couldn’t know the truth. Not yet.

  They stopped when they were close enough to see the magical blue fires of the base. Emmanuel crouched behind an Ankharin Oak and took a minute to study the layout. It was much like other bases the Forge had constructed around Ankhar—thick walls defended a central keep from physical attacks, this being the land of Sargonauts, but did little to protect against magic spells. The low mages who had taken over the place might have remedied that flaw, but Emmanuel sensed no presence of spell-woven shields, barriers, or traps.

  “Something doesn’t feel right,” Pris said, crouched behind a nearby tree. “Where is everyone?”

  The only sign of magic was the shaft of sparkling white light shooting skyward from the keep.

  “Are you listening?” Pris called to him. “There’s no magical barrier. The energy flow could have powered one easily.”

  She was right, of course.

  “I’ve got this,” Emmanuel snapped at her nevertheless.

  Synthia and Joel had taken cover behind a tree several paces ahead. Synthia spun around and made a hammering motion with a single fist, followed by a rotating gesture of her index finger.

  “Wraiths,” Pris translated. “Guarding the perimeter.”

  “I see them.”

  Emmanuel picked out the frosty figures patrolling the grounds outside the wall. There were probably more inside.

  Synthia and Joel ran back to join them. Both carried coiled ropes around their shoulders and looked ready for further instructions.

  “Okay,” Emmanuel said. “We get in without alerting the elementals outside. Once the Heavenswraith is dead, they’ll scatter anyway, so there should be no need to confront them. See that energy beam shooting up from the top? That’s the main line. We cut that and we cut the storm, along with any communication the mother has to its children. Then we go inside and find the supplies.”

  “How do you intend to cut that beam?” Pris asked him.

  “Let me take care of that once we get to the top of the central keep. I just need you to get me up there.”

  Pris peered at him suspiciously through the snow blowing against their faces. Emmanuel hoped to avoid any more questions, but he should have known better.

  “You’re hiding something. I don’t trust you.”

  Emmanuel smirked at her, fully aware that she hated it when he did that. “When have you ever?”

  “It’s just that you always go through a plan step by step before executing it, because you think no one else understands it like you do. Now you’re acting like the logic is obvious. I call wartpig shit on this entire ‘strategy’ of yours.”

  Emmanuel checked on the wraiths to make sure they were out of earshot. Then he winked at Pris.

  “A lady doesn’t curse,” he told her. Facing the others, he said, “Are you with me or not?”

  Synthia and Joel traded uncertain glances before finally nodding their assent. Pris sighed and shook her head.

  “We meet at the jet when it’s over,” Emmanuel said. “You’ve still got that rope?” he asked Synthia and Joel.

  Synthia frowned at him. “What is it with you and rope?”

  THEY WAITED for the elementals to lumber out of view, then crept to the tree line bordering the base. Snow covered the structure’s stone walls like frosting on a cake. Emmanuel tried to control his shivering, feeling slightly envious of the others with their hardy Sargonaut flesh.

  “Synthia, the rope,” he said.

  As she ran over, Emmanuel pulled out his short staff and blew on the charged crystal tip. Immediately, its surface began to ooze a bright yellow gel that expanded and squirmed like a neon jellyfish.

  “Spells and ropes and secrets,” Pris muttered. “I miss the old days when all you had to do was swing a sword.”

  “I second that,” Synthia said, holding out the rope. “I miss spells that actually look dangerous, and not like a trick from a street-side magician.”

  Emmanuel ignored them as he took one end of the coiled rope and dipped it into the yellow essence.

  “This magician’s trick,” he said as he twisted the rope’s tip in the magic, soaking it, “took me years to perfect, and it’s our only chance at getting over that wall.”

  He put away the staff and let the glowing rope tip dangle from one hand.

  “Get ready to grab it,” he said and blew on the yellow substance. The gravity pulling its weight toward the ground seemed to flip, and suddenly the rope was shooting upward. “Joel first, then Synthia. Grab it.”

  First one, then the other, took hold of the rope and were lifted past the dark boughs of the Ankharin Oaks. Pris went to grab it next, but Emmanuel surprised her by putting an arm around her waist. She flashed him a salty look before realizing what he had planned.

  “Put your arm around me,” he told her.

  She obeyed, still watching him in suspicion. The rope’s length was quickly receding and would soon be gone.

  “Now,” he yelled.

  Together, they grabbed on, and the rope lifted them into the freezing, stormy night. Emmanuel tightened his arm around Pris’s waist and kissed her cheek.

  “After all these years,” she said, shouting against the wind, “you haven’t changed one bit.”

  “I know,” Emmanuel said. “I’m still a handsome devil.”

  For the first time in centuries, Emmanuel heard Pris laugh—and it brought him more pain than joy. It would probably
be the last time he’d hear it.

  Though he had been somewhat absentminded as a professor, Emmanuel had never overlooked a detail on the battlefield. He especially took care when it came to proper attire, which is why it came as a surprise when he found that his hand—the one gripping the rope—had frozen almost solid despite his glove. Had he given his plan a little more thought, he might have used a spell to warm the glove first. But gazing into Pris’s eyes always did that to him—turned him into a complete fool. His frozen hand slipped off the rope.

  “Emmanuel!”

  Pris managed to grab hold of him at the last second. His coat shifted in such a way that his short staff managed to break free of its sling. Emmanuel felt it catch between the bottom of his coat and his belt.

  He was going to drop it.

  “Let go of me!”

  The force of his voice startled Pris, and she released him, then realized what she had done and reached for him again. This time, she was too late.

  The staff fell first. Emmanuel dove toward the spark in its crystal, the only thing visible in the raging storm. He prepared himself to hit the ground in seconds.

  The keep’s energy beam saved him. Emmanuel drew luminether from it and called out a quick spell, landing a moment later with enough force to pulverize every single bone below his waist. Luckily, the spell had absorbed the impact, and he managed to scoop up the staff seconds before the Berserkers on the rooftop noticed him.

  “Great,” Emmanuel said.

  There were four of them, armed to the teeth, wielding deathmaces and warhammers and wearing spike-toed, metal boots. There were even spikes on their helms for impaling anything in their way.

  “Raise it! The alarm!” one of them barked.

  “I got this one,” said another as he hunkered down like a bull, deathmace swinging at his side. His spiked helm was aimed at Emmanuel, and the brute charged.

  The impact would have killed Emmanuel had Pris not landed in front of him.

  More accurately, she landed on them.

  Pris’s sword punched through the Berserker’s neck, and Emmanuel knew the edges had to have been lined with Tiberian Steel to pierce the skin. The Berserker died instantly, and the combined weight of the dead Berserker and falling Sargonaut slammed Emmanuel into the ground, knocking the wind out of him and sending his staff tumbling away. He tried to focus, lungs crying for oxygen as Pris squirmed to get away.