Hidden Power

by Tracy Lane

  “I don’t think so,” he said, eyeing the dark forest as the sun seemed to fade with each new step. “In fact, I hope not.”

  24

  Lutheran crept around his old friend’s house, disappointed to find no one home. He had thought for sure that Hilliard would be back home by now, and Lutheran himself had even waited an extra day for the coast to clear before attempting to visit his old friend.

  His days as a tracker for the Marshalls were not so far in the past that he hadn’t been able to put them to good use on the trail. He’d not only found Hilliard’s farm in less than a day, but had stopped frequently, making sure he wasn’t followed.

  Now, alone on the quiet farm, he hitched his six-legged steed to a post outside the barn and poked his head in. A foul smell greeted him, the odor a mix of sweat, drool, blood and violence. The barn itself was empty save for a few clumps of leathery skin and black, wiry hair sticking from the shattered wood of bloody livestock stalls.

  Lutheran held his sleeve over his nose and ventured inside, noting huge gashes in the side of the barn, the roof leaning to one side along with the cracked and shattered walls. Sunlight streamed in the unnatural tears and it seemed, to Lutheran at least, as if some violent battle had been fought here.

  Between whom? he wondered. And why?

  Lutheran saw not a trace of the massive steed Hilliard had ridden to his cabin a few days before, but as he looked for steed sign he saw that the yard, as well as the family farm, had been trampled by beasts both hungry and massive.

  Every paw print was two or three times the size of his own hand as he knelt in the recently disturbed earth to study them. Most had claws inches long, and had dug deep into the dirt so that Lutheran could barely decipher where the heel began and the claws ended.

  They smelled, like the barn, of sulfur and sweat and blood and skin, a ripe and ragged smell that clung to his nostrils and made his eyes water with disgust and, he had to admit, the vaguest sense of fear.

  It was the same scent, he realized, that had hung in the air during the mage fight at his own ruined cabin. Lutheran surmised there was something magical at work here; dark magic, to be sure.

  The rows and rows of Hilliard’s beloved root plants and stalk vegetables, yellow and green and red and orange, lay in tatters on the ruined earth. Huge bite marks had torn entire goby melons in two, slashing through the thick rind like a knife through butter.

  The beasts had torn the crops up by the roots, digging deep into the dirt with their bloody claws, leaving husks and seeds and tattered rinds in a large swath heading in all four directions.

  Lutheran dropped a savaged rind, dripping with a glowing green goo, and looked toward Hilliard’s home with foreboding. He crept forward, uneasy, wary, unsure of what he might find inside.

  The door stood ajar, sun streaming through the open curtains, a half-empty mug on the table, the cupboards open but bare, foodstuff scattered on the floor as if someone had packed in a hurry. In Hilliard and his wife Majorca’s room, clothes had fallen in the closet, as if hastily packed and then discarded for lack of room.

  Hilliard had a daughter, if Lutheran remembered correctly, and so it seemed from the frilly curtains and half-empty closet full of girls’ clothes in the next room over. Here, too, hangers were empty and bent, while wrinkled pants and blouses covered a small single bed as if discarded at the last moment.

  Lutheran finished his search of the small cabin and leaned in the doorway, half-in, half-out of Hilliard’s house, unsure of how to proceed next. Something was amiss, that much was clear.

  But what?

  And when?

  The trail smelled cold, but there was no way Lutheran could simply ignore the facts before him: Hilliard had moved his family, or someone had taken them, mere days after he and Lutheran had watched two powerful mages wage war on one another.

  Coincidence? He didn’t think so.

  Lutheran sighed and untethered his steed. A small trough still held fresh water, untouched by the sour beasts that had destroyed the rest of Hilliard’s farm. Lutheran let the steed drink to his content while he scrounged a bowl full of oats from his friend’s pantry.

  The steed ate his fill before Lutheran leapt atop him, heading off into the early afternoon sun. His own farm was ruined from the mage’s battle, the soil shocked of its rich nutrients, crops already withering on the vine from the powerful balls of light and fire that had scoured the earth, the trees, the cabin itself.

  He had little to go back home to, and had but one thought in mind as he headed for parts unknown: find his friend, or at least his friend’s family, before it was too late.

  25

  Kronos soared overhead, black wings slicing through the air high above Synurgus as he scoured the forest for Kayne and Aurora. At this height his sense of smell was compromised, but he could see for miles and miles which, he felt, was more important.

  He could also cover far more ground in this bird-like form than as a black Growler or Mole Sniffer or mere Barn Rodent. He could also check on his minions to ensure they had not strayed from the path or turned on each other.

  Minions were powerful magic, but dull beasts. You could only make them bigger, angrier, uglier, nastier, or hungrier, but never smarter. For whatever reasons, their brains never grew in proportion with their bodies, leaving them big and bad but dumber than ever.

  Kronos cared little. If all the minions did was slow the two teenagers down, their time on Synurgus would be more than well spent. He needed but strong noses to find them, and a diversion to stop them. He would take it from there.

  He enjoyed the time as a winged beast, soaring over the tree line, snatching forest creatures from their roosts, snapping their necks and chewing their flesh and devouring their bones. He ate even when not hungry, if only to hear their startled squeaks and feel their warm blood splash against the back of his throat.

  Being a dark mage had its privileges, and human form was preferable to all others, but Kronos didn’t mind the quick vacation as a flying beast, eyes bright and wide and powerful as he scoured the forest for signs of Kayne and Aurora.

  He’d seen none yet, but then Kayne was no mere mortal. While youthful and inexperienced, he still had skills and, of course, innate magical abilities. It wouldn’t be easy for him to hide from Kronos, but it would be more than possible.

  And so Kronos flew, and soared and searched and… wait, there, down below, just off a beaten path: a steed. Not one of his demented creatures but an unadorned, mortal steed.

  Kronos circled, ever lower, not wishing to make his presence known. He flapped his great, leathery wings silently, using the air’s currents to spin and drop until at last he saw more details appear with each swoop toward the land Below.

  It was no mere steed, but a rider as well. A grown man, older, in his early 50s, and alone. He wore rustic clothing, brown pants and a blue shirt, a leather hat tipped back on his head to shield his eyes from the sun.

  He looked tired, and lean, but not furtive. He cast no glances into the brush, as if scouting the trail for two teens on the run. His pack was heavy but Kronos felt no magic in it, meaning the Orb of Ythra was far, far away.

  The mortal looked vaguely familiar, his features sun tanned and weathered, but then again… didn’t they all look like that this far Below? Though rich in minerals and resources, Synurgus was a crude planet. It boasted of patchwork farms and rustic villages and coarse mortals who smelled and ate and drank and frolicked their days away.

  Kronos flew past, making not a sound save for his fine black feathers slicing through the soft evening breeze. The mortal looked up once, then turned his eyes back toward the path ahead of him, as if noting nothing out of the ordinary.

  Kronos sailed on as well, for he too had a journey to finish, and an important one at that.

  26

  Iragos perched on a fragrant flower, regarding the landscape and listening with his super-pitched hearing. Bearing red and white stripes and powerful, if tiny wings, he had
morphed himself into a small insect known as a Stinger.

  Indeed, from his tail stuck a small, sharp stinger filled with a poison lethal to men, if not mages. The great light mage wondered, idly, if it would work on minions as well.

  He was following a band of them now: massive, loathsome creatures, great giant steeds with black, leathery hides and pulsing green sores and bony spikes sticking from their spines.

  They were munching on a field of daisies at the moment, their venomous drool turning the ground wet and mushy between great tearing bites of earth and grass and petals.

  Their eyes glowed red, their wet nostrils flared steam and Iragos knew they could be borne of only one dark and ruthless mage: Kronos. Their dark features and violent intent made it clear that he alone had summoned them, for all minions carried a part of their master away with them.

  Bored with the sight of the massive minions feasting, Iragos flapped his gossamer wings and took to the blue sky over the planet below, winging past the bulging, spiked steeds as he circled them carefully, wary but not overly so of the massive, if dumb, beasts.

  They paid him little mind as he soared high above, using the Stinger’s advanced metabolism to propel himself farther and farther every day. He had been traveling too long without sign or sensation of the Orb, and yet he knew if Kronos was dispatching such horrible minions, it had to be in search of the powerful crystal.

  He knew, too, that the powerful dark mage was not in pursuit of merely the orb, but whoever had it as well. Iragos desperately needed to find Kayne and the mortal, Aurora, before Kronos did. He’d seen squire tracks throughout the woods, half-prints due to the magical properties of those in possession of enchantment.

  True mages seemed to be floating above the earth, or even hovering. Squires had some of these properties, a lightness of foot, a distancing from the ground Below. As a Stinger, Iragos had noticed the half-tracks from high above, buzzing down to inspect them.

  There, next to a mortal’s tracks, the half-tracks moved in an ever westward direction. Even the mortal’s tracks were soft and light, making Iragos think it could be the girl who’d arrived in Ythulia. He’d lost the tracks in a mud bog, but that didn’t stop him from pushing on and watching the ground more closely.

  His magic was strong, but not all-powerful.

  If he could have seen through time, he would have. If he could have somehow melded his mind with Kayne’s, he might have. Instead he had but those powers he possessed, and while significant, they were not omniscient enough to find Kayne and Aurora out of thin air. Like Kronos himself, Iragos would have to track them through the land Below.

  He would have smiled to himself, if the Stinger had lips, as he winged back and forth in advance of Kronos’ minions. He would have to find the youngsters and the orb, the old-fashioned way: on a wing and a prayer.

  Still, he couldn’t give up. With Kronos on the hunt, Iragos alone was left to stop the powerful dark mage from growing all-powerful with possession of the Orb of Ythra.

  Its powers were untold, for only a few had ever wielded it – and with good reason: those who had possessed the orb had gone mad with power and greed, destroying entire races, even planets, in their madness and single-minded ambition to control all they desired.

  In fact, the Council of Bright Orders had formed solely to seize the Orb, keep it protected and safe from that type of power-mad mage. Iragos had always known Kronos was dangerous, but had assumed keeping him close on Ythulia would prove precaution enough. Instead, Kronos had forced his poor squire to steal the powerful Orb and unleash it on the poor, unsuspecting people of Synurgus.

  Now Iragos was a hunter, scouring the world far Below Ythulia for the frightened squire and his mortal friend, Aurora, trying to outwit the darkest of mages and do so in the form of a measly, mortal insect.

  But Iragos was no fool, for he knew all too well that the smallest in life were often the most powerful of all. He knew not what shape or form Kronos had turned himself into in his pursuit of Kayne and Aurora, but had no doubt that it was massive, giant and aimed at covering as much ground as possible in search of the Orb.

  Iragos was pledged to do the same, but focused his power inward. In the Stinger’s body, he could be anywhere and neither heard nor seen. He was as fast as a hawk but flew low to the ground, blending with the planet’s plants and flowers to hide or propel himself further, faster, in times of exploration or danger.

  And so Iragos flew, high and low, low and high, in search of the orb and those who possessed it. He felt small but knew if he was going to find two wandering teenagers on a strange planet, he must stay low to the ground and be ready for anything.

  As a Stinger, he was both!

  27

  Aurora poured fresh spring water on the glowing red embers of the morning fire and watched them sizzle to a faded, harmless gray. Sitting on a mossy rock, Kayne licked his greasy fingers after another morning of fresh Grass Rodent.

  His fair skin was ruddy and tan now from three days of straight hiking through the woods that surrounded Balrog on the way to the fabled land of Morgis. His rustic clothes looked lived-in and stitched to his body. They’d found a spring to bathe in the day before, and now his hair hung, soft and clean against his shoulders.

  He wiped the grease along his pants legs and stood, helping without being asked to break down the camp. There was little work involved, and yet it was a vast improvement over the way they’d begun their journey: him acting entitled and expecting her to guide him, hunt for him and carry his ridiculous orb.

  As she drew the strings tight on her pack he reached for it. “I know it’s heavy,” he said, almost shyly. “Let me carry it today.”

  Aurora rubbed one shoulder absently and asked, uncertainly, “You sure?”

  He grinned and slid the pack on his back. “I’m sure. Besides, you’ll need your energy for hunting dinner.”

  She snorted as they fell into step, clinging tightly to the bushes and the shrubs, the shadows and the hollows as they headed inexorably west toward the Land of the Oracles.

  “You know,” she said, “it wouldn’t hurt you to learn how to hunt, too, Kayne. More hands make the load lighter.”

  He gripped the walking stick she’d carved for him by the fire the night before and eased it to the ground with another step. “What fun would that be?” he chuckled as he avoided a low-lying branch. “The only good part of this trip is being brought breakfast in bed by my tour guide!”

  Aurora raised her own wooden stick to gently bend the young branch out of the way and said, “Well, it might not be fun, exactly, but it could prepare you for life. That’s why Dad taught me.”

  The thought of her father and mother, hiding out in some dark inn room, shuddering behind the curtains without any idea why, silenced her for a moment.

  A cloud passed Kayne’s face and she thought she knew why. Aurora asked, “Do you miss… your parents?”

  He looked at her, full on, before dipping his eyes to avoid her own. “I do. I haven’t seen them in years.”

  “They can’t visit Mage City?”

  He shook his head. “They couldn’t see it if they could,” he reminded her, regarding her more closely. “And I’ve been in Ythulia so long, I’m not sure what we’d say to each other if I could somehow visit them.”

  “And your life? Once you become a mage, that is? Will you have more freedom then?”

  Kayne shrugged, kicking at the ground beneath his feet forlornly. “Perhaps, but between squire hood and my apprenticeship, it could be decades before I’m given that freedom.”

  She shook her head. She’d always wondered what it might be like to practice magic or leave the ranch, but suddenly the family farm was sounding better and better.

  “So, what made you want to become a squire then?”

  He chuckled, snapping a vibrant red leaf of a Warming glow tree with his free hand. “I was like you, back then. I wanted to believe in magic, but had never seen any evidence of it. We all whispered of mage
s and Mage City the way children do, but never actually believed any of it. Then one day, on the playground during free time at my place of learning, a ball got stuck in a tree…”

  He looked at her skeptically then, his clean hair falling like a Growler’s mane around his handsome, chiseled face. “I volunteered to retrieve it, and climbed up the tree. But it was too high, several branches away, and I got scared.”

  He paused to watch her eyes and she blinked them, softly, encouraging. He smiled and continued: “In my fear, I held my hands out to reach for it and, like magic, the ball came to me. I scuttled down, thinking no one had seen. But someone did, and told my Instructor. They told the Headmaster and, well, there must be protocol for that kind of thing. The next morning Kronos was waiting for me in the head office. He took me to an empty learning room and gave me a series of tests. I must have passed because that day I left school.”

  “Just like that?” she asked.

  He nodded, looking away.

  “Did you get to go home and see your family?” Aurora realized she had slowed her pace out of concern for Kayne’s fragile emotions.

  “Only because I cried and screamed and begged Kronos to let me,” he admitted, adding, “I was younger then.”

  “Did you have a choice?” she asked. “I mean, about going to Mage City?”

  He paused near a tree, leaning against it to crouch and tighten his laces. “I never asked anybody but, I don’t think so…”

  His voice trailed off as she began to speak. He held up a finger, rising slowly from lacing his shoe and inching toward her. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I thought I heard—”

  Suddenly the forest erupted in an explosion of sounds, young saplings crackling under pressure and leaves flying through the air. A noxious smell joined the chaos as Aurora grabbed Kayne’s sleeve.