Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Sword and Highland Magic

by Jean Lowe Carlson

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  It was long past midnight when Elohl startled awake. The fire was nearly burned out, just wisps of smoke in the chill darkness of the highmountain spring. Elohl strained his ears and spread the sphere of his senses wide for intruders. But the space around the amphitheater was quiet, feeling only of solid trees and small, flitting creatures. An owl hooted up in the pines. A rush of wings buffeted Elohl’s senses as he felt it dive, and the swift shriek of a mouse confirmed a kill.

  Then all was quiet.

  He was about to roll over and cuddle close to Eleshen when he felt it. And suddenly, he knew what had woken him. A thrumming vibration rippled through the ground, then ceased. Elohl snuck a hand out from between his blankets and pressed it to the grit-covered stones of the amphitheater. The thrumming came again, but this time, when it contacted his palm, it shivered through the bones of his hand. Lancing up his wrist all the way to his shoulder, it seared into his fresh cuts on his back and chest. With a hiss of surprise, Elohl snapped his hand back. He waited a moment, then carefully unwound himself from Eleshen. Slipping from between the covers, he came to a ready crouch, one Brigadier longknife to hand from beside his bedroll.

  The shivering pulse came again. This time, it thrummed through the hand Elohl held pressed the earth as he crouched, and up through both legs. But it was more pleasant this time, like a rush of blood through his limbs after a good climb, or like sinking into a hot bath. He lowered his knife, confused, still feeling no malice in the night. Setting the blade down, Elohl pulled off his wool socks, crouching barefoot upon the grass-cracked stones, perfectly balanced upon the balls of his bare feet.

  The thrum came again. Elohl’s head snapped up, fixing upon its origin, the towering dark Alranstone. Which he saw was not entirely dark any longer. Bright moonlight illuminated its high peak, bared as it was in the middle of the encircling canopy. Elohl squinted upwards, to discover that the hulking column was no longer entirely inert. The topmost eye was slit open, its glassy red half-orb reflecting the light of the moon.

  Spreading the sphere of his senses to its furthest extent, feeling for treachery, Elohl kept low, scanning the surrounding foliage. Caution gripping him, he approached the column, hands ready, feet stepping quickly through the loam and grass. But nothing accosted him in the night, and indeed, the area around the byrunstone seemed empty even of wildlife. He gained the column, feeling the tingling of its Sight pass over him, then pressed one palm to its rough-hewn surface. Closing his eyes, tingling rushed through his body like a fire of ants. The Stone could see him, it was listening. The thrum came again, as if expecting him. More powerful now, it was like a roll of thunder in the night, and in its shivering pulse Elohl thought he heard a word.

  Climb.

  Limbs moving like a string-puppet in a mummer’s show, Elohl set his fingerpads to niches in the stone. Ignoring the searing in his back and chest, his bare feet and fingers found purchase. And as he had done thousands of times, he coordinated his movements, pushing upwards in a smooth, powerful flow. The stone was well-worn, chinks and niches aplenty to set his fingers and toes into. In no time, he was facing the great half-lidded eye right at the very top. Fire opal glittered through its iris, riven with fractured cracks of livid red and searing orange, as if made of living flame. As he watched, it seemed the lid retracted more, gazing at him, aware. And as the eye opened wider, he could see it was set with not just fire opal, but also deep black onyx for the pupil. Alive it seemed, like a man watching him, like an ancient King, searing and stern, judging him.

  The shivering pulse came again, rippling through his bare hands and feet.

  Climb.

  Shuddering from the insistence of that word, feeling its command bury in the depths of his soul, Elohl bunched his muscles and flowed upwards again. At last, he reached the pinnacle, now drenched in moonlight at the center of the amphitheater’s clearing. Folding his legs, he took a seat upon the top of the massive column.

  The entire campsite was spread out below, the amphitheater ringing the Alranstone. Determined grasses silvered in the moonlight where they punched up through ancient, well-fitted stone. Eleshen was safe asleep, nothing there to disturb her at the fire’s embers. The high mountain valley spread beyond through a gap in the trees. Austere glaciers lifted up behind him, along an impassable ridge. Moonsilver lit their white expanse, making them glow with a holy radiance, though Elohl knew the truth of those life-taking crevasses and sundering springmelt flows.

  But even though his wounds throbbed from climbing, the world seemed peaceful from his perch as a brisk breeze caught the pine boughs and rustled them in a spreading ring around the Stone. Like the peace he’d felt all night, something here was protective, fierce in its nature, loving in that vigilance. For the first time in years, Elohl felt he could relax. Nothing would accost him here, not tonight, not in this place. It loosened his muscles, eased the low burn that always gripped his throat, and he gave a deep sigh. Heights had always felt safe to him, being able to see far, to see any enemy coming. But this perch was particularly satisfying, as if it was the only place in the world he was supposed to be. Here, he felt alone but not lonely, released and expansive.

  You see far, Rennkavi, but not far enough.

  Elohl startled, alertness rushing through his body, his heart pounding. No one was near, nothing imprinting his sensate sphere, and yet. A feeling of awareness pressed him. Someone was watching, looking at him. The words he’d heard rippled through his mind, repeating, churning over and over like waves breaking against a high rocky headland. An image flashed through Elohl’s thoughts, of pressing his fingers to the stone. An urge filled him, like a command, that he should do it. Slowly, he set his fingertips down to either side upon the uneven stone. And as he did, a shock pulsed him, rocking his limbs. Searing with heat-lightning, a sensation like summer forest fires filled Elohl. Crackling with energy like logs popping in a blaze, it blistered through his sinews.

  The Alranstone began to pulse faster, moving waves of heat through Elohl. And then faster yet, acquiring the rhythm of a steadily-beating heart. Until he moved in an ocean of fire, pulled by its ebb and flow. And when Elohl thought he could take no more, it suddenly synched perfectly to his own heartbeat.

  A blaze of scalding heat flooded Elohl, obliterating. As it did, he saw in his thoughts a man standing before him upon the stone, strong and tall with corded sinew for muscle, his eyes like umber flames. He wore little upon his golden-tanned skin, leather breeches and soft kneeboots only, his lion-red mane braided back from his face in the Highlander fashion of thick cables. A long keshar-claw pendant with a golden tip, inset with gold sigils, dangled on a fine golden chain about his neck. Fur-lined leather bracers graced his forearms, and a small ruby set in gold was pierced into the lobe of his right ear. A complex pattern of sigils tattooed in red and white spread over his chest and up over his shoulders, a mountain and five stars in black at their center. But the form of the mountain was different, not the Kingsmount at all Inked upon this man’s chest, but some other mountain entirely.

  The man in his mind grinned, his umber eyes hard, a feral glint to them like a wildcat. His searing gaze was steady upon Elohl, holding all the command of a battle-lord, his face chiseled and ancient though still of middle years. White had begun to streak the bright russet at his temples, and though he had only a short stubble, white had begun to dapple that, too. His presence pressed into Elohl, undeniable, unforgiving, blistering. You have a lot to learn about the world, Rennkavi.

  Elohl furrowed his brow, fighting to reply through the ravaging heat that filled him. Who are you? What is Rennkavi?

  The man tossed back his head in a roaring laugh, at once cultured and rogue. He crouched before Elohl, reaching out battle-scarred fingers. Your community has not confirmed you. But I confirm you now. My confirmation is all you need. My name is Hahled Ferrian, Brother King of the Highlands. And you are Rennkavi of the Tribes.

  Rennkavi? What do you mean? Tribes?
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  The man pressed his palm hard against Elohl’s skin, right at his Inking. Elohl gasped, feeling fingers of blazing light pressing through his body. Directly into his heart, the light rippled and rolled, flooding his flesh, searing his wounds, not fire anymore but a heat that glowed. A heat that dove deep into the glaciers that filled Elohl, consuming them, evaporating them in a rushing of wind and steam that left nothing in its wake but illumination. Like he’d been filled by the power of the white spire he’d seen so long ago, bliss filled him, radiating. Lifting his mind, it caused his heart to crack open, shedding all ice from that, too, until he was nothing but peace.

  Elohl took a long, shuddering breath. Palms fallen open at his sides in ecstasy, his fingertips grazed the stone. Chin lifted to the night, all he could feel was expansion. Through closed lids, he could see the world, feel it for the first time, everything beyond himself. All the pain, all the pleasure. The beauty of the moon above pierced his heart so much that tears pricked beneath his closed eyelids. The wind that rustled the pines blew through his very pores, breathing, calling him to dance. The sweetness of Eleshen far below was a spear in his heart.

  Blue eyes surfaced, far away. Calling. Oh, how she called him. Rivers of light poured from Elohl, flooded from his very soul, reaching for her. Calling back to her as if he stood from the tallest peak of the most austere range, flooded by all the colors of the rising dawn and by the illumination of his own beating heart. And just as he felt he nearly had her, nearly touched that deep stillness of cerulean, his light was suddenly lanced by fire, snapped back to the column beneath him and the stern barbarian of a King standing tall in his mind.

  Focus! We have little time. I have been waiting for you, Rennkavi, searching for you, all throughout my long life. You didn’t come when we thought you would, when our hopes were so high and the time was so ripe. But you are here now, so now is where we must begin. Listen. The other has failed his Naming. He sunders all the Tribes when he should be uniting them. He had all the signs, the right bloodlines. I thought he was the one, when he came to me, but now I know I have made a grievous mistake. This must be repaired, and I can do little from here. You must correct my mistake, Rennkavi. Quickly. I have been waiting here, holding the Lineage for you like I did in life. Rennkavi is the Unifier of the Tribes. You must take it now… the other has failed and we have no time! You must take the Lineage…you must take your duty and the Goldenmarks!

  Elohl eyes blinked open. He shivered in the light wind atop the column. The man’s presence pressed in upon his heart, until Elohl’s blood thundered in his ears, compelled by a force beyond his understanding. Those wild eyes scorched him, urgent. Demanding that he take what was offered, like a feral lion snarling its prey into submission. The man’s touch pressed, deeper, reaching for something. And as it did, something began to rise. Elohl began to shudder, seizing with a monstrous bliss. This was raw power, wild and tremendous, not coming from the man’s touch but rising up from within Elohl’s own soul. Rising to the touch that commanded it to awaken. A leviathan of light, it surfaced with the power of a hundred burning suns, flooding Elohl with agony and ecstasy.

  The man pressed his hand deeper, his russet eyes searing. Accept it. You must accept it. Allow it to take you. For all our sakes…

  Elohl took the long, slow breath of his training. Obliteration beckoned. Tipping into it already, he could see nothing but light, plunging him, filling him, expanding to every horizon. And suddenly, Elohl felt how beautiful it would be. To give himself to it. Let it take him, completely. Take all his pain, take all his despair, take everything that had chilled his heart for ten ravaging years. Gazing into that light, he felt himself begin to slide, wanting it.

  Wanting such peace. Wanting obliteration.

  And with that thought, he let go. The leviathan rushed up, engulfing him. And plunged into an ocean of molten light, the illumination took Elohl, completely.

  CHAPTER 15 – OLEA