Spirit of Magik (The Dothranan Chronicles Book 1)

by Richard Cluff

  Before this insanity began two nights ago, she had killed one man. He was a horse thief trying to ride his stolen mount away. She'd taken him in the back with an arrow. They had run out of arrows yesterday morning. The wounded and those few brave civilians that had stayed to help worked as hard as they could to make more.

  Now... she had killed more than she knew. She had counted at first, but it soon became too much to try to count while she fought desperately for her life. Her muscles were ten times as sore today as they had been in her first week of basic training. She had been running, swinging and stabbing constantly. The others weren't any better off, but no one complained: that was useless.

  She did keep one tally though, the comrades she'd put down. Twenty-three so far. She wouldn’t let them change. Better for them to die human. She hoped someone would be left to do it for her when her time came.

  She knew she would never leave this place. But she would do her duty, as she swore to. Until the end came for her. She only desired two things of her death: one, that it was swift. The other: she didn't want to see it coming. When a person knew they were going to die, it was a morbid comfort to make a list like that.

  “ASSEMBLE!!!!” Was being called out down the lines, officers passed the order loudly. They were finally ready to begin, it seemed. She pushed herself up with her spear, which was little more than a sharpened sapling hacked down with a sword.

  “ASSEMBLE!!!” She called out, so the next officer down the line would hear the call. She’d been promoted to Corporal... things were that bad. The real Corporals were dead or promoted.

  She made her way to her column and checked her short swords. She had lost her long blade in the city before they'd run into the Quenton Guard column. It had been broken by one of the damned corpses when she’d stabbed him with it. It had almost taken her hand off with it, but Bryce had taken the monster down before it got her.

  She lined up with the ragged Legionnaires and House Guard. Beside her was one of the few civilians that had stayed, he was retired Legion. He wore the bloody armor of a fallen man.

  She saw Commander Korin Quedesham, walking down the lines and inspecting his ragged, starving army. The anger in her heart brought her new energy. She knew he'd been right to do it, but he'd put Bryce down. She would hate him until she died for that. It should have been her.

  Then she could have said goodbye.

  Commander Quedesham yelled, “Spears, set and ready. Archers, we don't even have a full volley. Aim for their legs. Nothing else will help. Make the bastards leading the charge fall, and trip up the ones behind. That way we don't have to fight them all at once. Trebuchets, fill those walls with as much fire as you can! We’ll light the sky with the flames of those damned corpses!”

  Sherie cheered in spite of her anger. It was a good plan, and anything to kill more of those undead fucks was perfect in her mind.

  “Trebuchets, call out ready!” The Commander cried. Officers began relaying the order. She wasn't responsible for that, so she held her tongue.

  The columns arranged themselves by platoon. The platoons were already with their companies: House guards of Great House Quenton and Great House Corun were on opposite ends of the line to avoid any fighting between them. The odd number of Legionnaires that would not make a full company had been assigned to reinforce House Corun's line. Only a few platoons of their guards had made it out of the city.

  Calls of “Ready!” began coming back from the fire teams.

  By the spirits, we don't even have a full army left. For every one still here, two have fallen. Sherie thought to herself.

  She formed up and set her spear. The second and third ranks of her column formed up behind her line. She was right out front: right where she needed to be to get the quick death she needed. She didn't give a shit about her life now: that was over. But she was going kill as many of them as she could before she went down.

  “All trebuchets, fire! Don't stop until you have nothing left to throw!” The commander cried.

  She looked at the walls of Vox, her home rising in the distance. She wondered if she would ever see her mother and brother again. She had seen her father. What was left of him at least. She closed her eyes and saw his mangled body clearly behind her eyelids. He died a man still. That was what mattered most.

  The sound of the trebuchets releasing came from down the lines to both sides of her.

  The old salt beside her spoke up: “So, do you have a man in your life?” Jirai was his name.

  The fireballs struck inside the walled city. “Are you serious? Now? You want to ask me that fucking now?!?” She exploded.

  “Just passing the time, ma’am,” he said with a dry smile. “So?”

  They watched the cities gates intently as fire streaked through the sky above them.

  “No. Not now, he’s dead. And by the spirits, you’re fucking old enough to be my dad, so piss off!”

  The trebuchets released again.

  He laughed heartily beside her. And in spite of everything, she laughed too. The strained laughter was as infectious as a cry for vengeance through the ranks of worn soldiers.

  “THEY’RE COMING!!!” a woman yelled. The laughter died, as more fire streaked over them towards the city.

  Spirits, there are a million of them! She thought. Some of them were on fire she saw. Men, woman, and children, they ran towards them as fast as a light cavalry. The white splotches on their skin were dimly visible in the moonlight. What she wouldn’t give for ten-thousand arrows or even better, just one fucking Wizard right now.

  “READY!!!” She called. Her column straightened their spears.

  They were closer now. Judge them as a horse. She thought.

  “Archers!” She cried. A pitiful number of arrows flew from her column, and the others. But they had an effect: they knocked down several of the forerunners tripping up the ones behind them. It would give them a bit of respite, but Sherie knew that would just delay the inevitable.

  “BRACE!!!” She cried. The ranks braced their legs and the makeshift spears left little gap for the Kryss to take advantage of.

  She yelled fiercely and shifted her spear to skewer one at the last moment as they collided with her column. She dropped it and pulled her two short blades and took its head with the draw. The others in the first rank did the same. The second and third rank stood to support the first thrusting their spears into Kryss while the first rank engaged them with their blades.

  She used to think about her sword work. That was three days ago though. All she did now was move. Friend and enemy were the only thoughts left. The adrenaline of the fight gave her strength and made her forget her aching muscles. She had learned to love the short swords. She would never wear a long blade again, it too long to swing. And taking too long in battle is death.

  She fought for who knows how long. In battle, time slows. The old salt that had asked after her went down right by her. A Kryss wearing Legion armor cut him with a long blade from shoulder to waist. The man fell apart, his hot entrails hitting the ground.

  The changed Legionnaires were the most dangerous. They were armed and armored and had the strength to drive a blade through plate. She dropped to one knee and took the back of his knee with her blade. He went backward slipping on the gore he’d spilled. She sprang up and nearly got his flailing blade in her face: she blocked it with hers.

  The block was bad; she couldn’t out-muscle a Kryss, and her sword broke. The bulk of the blade stabbed her lightly above her right breast, penetrating the scale she wore. Shards of steel flew.

  Hot pain flashed in her right eye, and she was blinded in it. She could feel the warm fluid running down her face. She screamed in an agony she had never felt and lashed out in fury. She took the Kryss’s sword hand off with her remaining blade.

  “Second rank forward! Relieve first rank!” She called out. She fought defensively until she’d withdrawn behind the third rank. She held her dirty mailed hand over her ruined eye for a moment, then grabbed the
nearest spear. She could worry about her eye if by some miracle she survived this.

  She sheathed her remaining blade and stabbed one of the changed children she saw climbing a man and biting him… that child had just killed him, with its disease. With her hands over her head she struck the spear into the child again and pulled it out for another thrust. The boy turned its head and snarled; black-pink eyes looked back at her out of her little brother’s bloody face.

  Sherie screamed. The weight her mind and heart had born over the past three days crashed down upon her at once. The spear fell from her nerveless hands, and she ran screaming into the woods. She ran until exhausted and kept running. She couldn’t see anything in the darkness except for her brother's black and pink eyes looking at her hungrily.

  Tuesday

  May 7th 1624th year of the First Great City

  Awakening

  She woke with a start in the hayloft of the barn she was in.

  “Fuck,” she said with feeling. Her breathing was fast and her heart pounded with the memory of her little brother’s eyes haunting her still. Even though twelve years had passed, she still had nightmares about that horrible night.

  I need more wine so I won’t dream anymore. She thought. This little town had a tavern... one anyway. Not far from here. It had taken a month for her to get out of Vallad with the wanted posters everywhere. Now she was nearly two-hundred miles from there.

  Good riddance. She thought.

  She peeked out from under the blanket she’d covered with hay and saw it was night still.

  She pulled herself out from under it. They can spare me a bottle... I’ll even lock up for them. She thought.

  The woman who had once called herself Jirai Sonom made her way stealthily to the tavern for a drink on the house.

  Date unknown

  The Crystal Palace

  She walked through the halls of the aptly named Crystal Palace. The walls, floor, ceiling, all of it had been carved from a mountain of crystal millennia before the founding of the First Great City. It had been a true wonder when she had first arrived here twelve years ago.

  But now, it had become her prison. She thought the gift of eternal life, and regaining her youth would be worth the sacrifice of never being able to go home again.

  Twelve years later, she knew she was wrong though.

  She maintained the freedoms she had earned due to her knowledge alone. The King intended to make use of her at some point he had promised. Only his word had kept her from being used in the war with the Humans on the western continent. Used as a disposable soldier, like the other unclean, as transformed slaves like her were called.

  The language of the Krysallia still gave her difficulties; even though in theory it was the same language as her own. In practice, their languages had changed a great deal since her ancestors had escaped their control.

  The stories about the rise of the Old Kingdoms were wrong, all of them. She had spent the last decade researching the truth, and even with all the knowledge she had arrived here with, it was nothing compared to the knowledge stored in the great library of the Crystal Palace.

  She bowed her head to each of them that passed. When she had first arrived, it had been difficult to remember: it only took one lesson from her new masters to make certain she never lapsed again.

  Here, she was the commoner. More accurately, there were no common people here.

  There were slaves, the unclean, and the Krysallia. That was all.

  She was unclean. One who had been raised from a slave to be more. To be closer to the glory of their masters, the Krysallia.

  She stopped in front of the double doors made of the strange black steel that was used here. A pair of the King's Guards stood tall on each side of it, holding their huge black blades with the tips resting on the crystal floor.

  She was so small compared to them. The woman in this squad of guards must have measured six foot two inches, and the men would average at seven feet tall. Their pure white skin stood out in stark contrast to the black armor they wore.

  Her skin was as white as theirs was now. But it wasn't always so. It took years before the white splotches of the virus melded into a consistent color. The unclean always stood out from their masters though: the Krysallia's white hair matched their skin while the unclean's hair would remain its original color.

  She was certain this was where the legends of the snow giants had come from.

  “What is it, woman?” One of the men asked, scrutinizing her with his black-pink eyes.

  “The King has commanded my presence,” she said, bowing her head to look directly at the crystal floor.

  They laughed together, and the woman said; “They must be running low on food then, little one. Pass, I will listen for your screams.”

  “Thank you,” she said, bowing her head again. Even though jokes like that were not uncommon, it had taken years for her to accept them as normal.

  When the doors opened, she could smell the warm blood. Her senses had grown much acuter after she had been changed. It reminded her of how hungry she was: she hadn't eaten for nearly six hours.

  That had been something else to get used to; consuming human flesh. It had been a bit easier to stomach than the jokes about being eaten herself though.

  The all-consuming hunger she felt when unfed had made it much easier.

  She entered the dining hall and saw that this was a feast, not a simple meal. There were at least twenty seated at the long table, with his Majesty at the head.

  Three people, two men and a woman, were hung naked by their ankles above the table. One of the men was one of the strange dark-skinned people of the western continent. Blood seeped from their carefully made wounds into the crystal bowls that were beneath them. They were gagged so their pitiful cries would not disturb the guests.

  “Come pet, join us. You may dine at my side,” the King said gesturing to the empty seat on his left.

  She dropped to the floor and touched her head to it. “I am not worthy Master,” she said with feeling. She knew doing less could easily end with her on that table as a part of the repast.

  “You underestimate what your knowledge has taught us, pet. Come and sit. I will not ask again,” he sounded almost kind the way he said it. She knew better than to think anything of the sort though. This man was ancient; he was easily ten times her age and she was eighty-one years herself now.

  “Yes Master,” She said walking quickly to the seat he'd indicated. She felt like a child sitting in the over-sized seat meant for the Krysallia. One of the slaves took her crystal goblet and returned it full with both hands and head bowed.

  She merely took the glass without acknowledging the woman. Slaves were the only people she was superior to now. There was no one here to address her as Mistress or Milady as had been proper in her former life.

  She scanned the repast and saw many delicious looking dishes. She had not been invited to dine at the King's table ever before, and it seemed he had quite the chef. In fact, it was difficult for her to identify which part of the human body most of the dishes came from.

  It was much different from a normal meal: standing in knee deep snow with a hundred unclean, and being given an old slave to share with five others. Having to stab someone, or being wounded herself by one who was stronger and greedier than she was. Trying to cut a limb from a screaming person and run quickly with it to keep it from being taken from her.

  She had become quite good at it, actually. If she could go back in time and tell her former self what lay in store for her here, she would never have betrayed her people.

  Not even for eternal life and the restoration of her youth.

  She took samples of each of the dishes, as much as she could heap on her plate. She never knew when she would go hungry, and hunger was a sure swift death for her now.

  She couldn't believe how good this tasted compared to her normal diet of raw flesh. She hadn't enjoyed a meal in twelve years.

  Not since she had been human.<
br />
  “I have called you here today because the last human stronghold has been taken on the western continent,” He said to her. “It is time for us to assemble an army, and reclaim our escaped slaves in the East.”

  A chill ran through her spine at his words. “I rejoice that you have won, Master.”

  He smiled, and his pink irises focused on her. “You will go with this army, and advise the General on the ways of your people. You will have a chance, this one chance to show yourself as superior to all other unclean, pet. We will take the city that you gave us, and fortify it. We will then bring our errant slaves to heel once again.”

  Her breath caught at that. Her homeland, the realm itself. She was going to return. She knew even if someone were to recognize her though, she would be slain as a Kryss. She would have no chance to explain the truth to anyone.

  She had never considered when she had made her choice that any of this could happen. She had only known that she was an old woman and had more years behind her than ahead of her. She never thought she would be called upon to betray more than a city.

  Now she was being called upon to betray her entire race. But she said the only thing she could say.

  “Yes Master. I will ensure our victory.”

  Appendix

  Characters

  *Ages are for Spirit of Magik, 1624th year of the First Great City

  Ari Dothranan (R-EE dOe-thron-en)

  5'11" 136# (The boots she often wears add 2")

  18 years old (17 in prologue)

  Birth date February 1st

  Sight age:?

  Arayan Dothranan 6'1" 240# (air-Ay-en)

  44 years old

  Birth date September 21st

  Sight age: 16

  Cirrus Eidelth 5'10" 181# (seer-us I-delth)

  34 years old

  Birth date January 7th