“What powers?” I ask with a scoff.
“I do not know,” Katrina admits.
“Hey! Still here,” I say with a wave. “What powers? I light up when things show up to kill us. Not very impressive if you ask me.”
“She really doesn’t know,” Tellen states to Katrina, sounding amused and baffled. Turning to me, he continues in a serious tone, “Vic, you’ve got Guardian abilities or something.”
“What do you mean ‘or something;’ do I, or don’t I?” I demand. My eyes seek clarification from Katrina, but she’s busy glaring at Tellen.
“Do not worry, Vic. We will find answers when we locate your father,” Katrina assures me. “We are all tired and cranky. Get some rest.”
Predictably, the accusation of being cranky annoys me, but I resist the impulse to throw something at Katrina. Instead, I curl over onto my side—deliberately turning my back on my idiot friends—and try to go to sleep.
My head barely gets down when I fall asleep and have an ultra-weird out of body experience. I can see myself sleeping, but I’m a white orb of light hovering over my own body. I can see in every direction simply by willing it so. I’ve heard Minders describe their experiences, but nothing in their tales sounds anything like this.
“Do not fear. You are not dead,” intones a woman’s gentle voice.
As her words touch me, fear I hadn’t even recognized slips away. My attention fixes on a figure hovering over our fire. I recognize the woman as my mother, though I’ve not seen her for more than a decade. A hundred questions crowd my head, but I don’t know how to voice them.
My mother smiles sadly and holds forth her hands. “My time is short, Victoria. I bear a message from The Lady. You already know the truth about the world. You will soon make many discoveries and face trials. You are the Chosen Redeemer. Listen to the prophecy, then choose your destiny. Beware betrayal, but do not fear to trust. When all else fails, look within. The Lady will grant you peace at your most desperate hour.”
With her speech over, my mother reaches out and touches the glowing white orb that is me. Instantly, I’m awake, cold, and confused. Tellen snores softly from his blanket on the other side of the flickering fire. Katrina’s blanket is empty. She must be off on her self-imposed watch duties. I briefly look around, but I’m not surprised when I cannot find her. If I call, she will hear, but I don’t want to disturb her meditative watch for something I can’t explain.
“Your mother is always with you, Victoria,” an ageless female voice says inside my head.
I bite my lower lip to keep from crying out.
“What do you want from me?” I hiss at the voice. “Who are you?” When nothing answers, I mutter, “Great, I’m seeing and hearing things. I can’t win.”
For reasons I cannot explain, I sense Katrina on the fourth branch up in the tree behind me. Concentrating hard, I know she’s in her beetle form and that her attention is methodically considering our tiny camp, having mentally divided it into sections. I call to her silently, but nothing happens. Focusing on her again, I try to see if anything else will be revealed to me, but aside from further conviction that I am correct in everything I’ve felt about her, nothing changes.
I want to say something profound, but the best I can do is a quiet, “Well, that’s … interesting.”
Chapter 7:
Breakthrough
The Lady
Combat Arena, Fort Medron
After visiting with Victoria, I turn my attention to the unpleasant task of seeing what manner of ills Jackson Castaloni has uncovered.
Unbidden, the memory of how brilliant a Conjurer Jackson used to be invades my mind. When he was Alec’s age, Jackson was entrusted with his first lesson in conjuring inanimate objects. The lesson on drawing bread from the air sparked an obsession.
August Polani repeatedly told Jackson to use the Conjuring Gift with great care, for the ability draws its raw power from the life energies of lesser creatures. Rather than deter the boy, the knowledge intrigued him. Soon, inanimate objects failed to satisfy Jackson’s craving for power. Day after day, he pleaded with his master to teach him the advanced arts of summoning creatures from beyond the Veil, deep in the Darklands. When August Polani flatly refused, Jackson stole his collection of ancient texts and fled.
Holding an image of the young Conjurer up beside the ghastly shell of a man that remains, I mourn what was lost. Both the past and present versions of Jackson have a bright spark in their deep green eyes, but whereas the young man’s spark indicates excitement, exploration, and discovery, the elder man’s spark points to madness.
“Quit standing there, boy!” Jackson snaps at Alec. “I’m ready to begin. Wake the slaves.”
The vision of Jackson’s former self dissipates as Alec hurries to obey. The child’s heart beats frantically with fright, but he channels the nervous energy into carrying out his assignment. Quickly, he makes his way around the tiny dungeon, waking each prisoner. Next, Alec offers each man a cup of water. Finally, he serves them some strips of meat. The task of feeding the three prisoners has the child scrambling back and forth between three of the four walls making up the arena area of this dungeon.
The three captives—well-muscled men—accept the sustenance from the boy’s hands. Metal cuffs and chains secure their feet, arms, and waists to the dungeon walls. Their expressions are blank, but otherwise, they appear unharmed, save for ample dirt from whatever travels brought them here and the brand marks of condemned men.
Though tempted to check each man’s mind for his name, I refrain for fear that Alec’s mind may shut me out should I leave. The child’s mind is already defensive. The ease with which Alec moves throughout the sandy pit tells me he has been here many times before. The thought weighs upon me. No child should face such a harsh side of life.
Once finished with his chores, Alec dashes up the stone steps and sits at his uncle’s feet.
Jackson nods approval then starts the conjuring ceremony. I ignore the words flowing from Jackson, for the horror of what’s happening becomes clearer with each passing second. At first, the prisoners appear weary, but then the weariness threatens their consciousness. One man rallies enough energy to moan a curse at Jackson before slumping against the chains holding him to the wall.
One by one Jackson drains energy from his slaves and channels it into the center of the arena. The sand in the middle begins swirling and shifting color from yellow to gray to black. Next, the circle of sand rises to waist height.
Sensing Jackson’s fierce concentration, I consider having Alec interrupt the ceremony, but that would only delay the inevitable, leave me dark to Jackson’s purpose, and possibly bring wrath down upon Alec.
The column of swiftly spinning sand rises even higher and swirls faster still. An errant sand grain spins out of the column and catches one prisoner across the cheek, cutting deeply. The room feels alive with energy as the black sand cloud continues spinning violently. As one, the three prisoners jerk against the wall, their chains straining to contain the invisible force holding them upright. A beam of energy escapes and slams into the wall above one prisoner.
As I begin to fear the swirling sand may cut the slaves to pieces, the sand freezes and collapses to the ground. Before the dust cloud can settle, two large gray hands grip the edge of the rift that has been created.
I expect the jerky movements of a zombie’s awkward entrance to this world, but instead, the arms smoothly haul their owner out of the rift as quickly as any human. Before I can study the creature, two more join the first. Then, the rift slams shut, sealing these creatures in the natural world.
Nobody moves or speaks for several long heartbeats.
My heart sinks, for I have seen such creatures and the destruction they bring. They are the Denkari, rogue spirit warriors who supported the Outcast’s rebellion against Kailon. Though often mistaken as a deity—as am I—the Outcast is simply a diminished immortal. He once held great position and power in the heavens, but he cou
ld not be content with himself.
The Denkari possess bodies much like humans, but they are not human. They are taller, stronger, and usually of a hue different than that typical of mankind. Those that possess a color closer to the pink or brown flesh color of a normal human tend to be very pale. They move with the grace and skill Kailon bestowed upon each spirit warrior. Most prefer to wield the ancient spirit swords they were given, but some have shunned these in favor of bows or spirit shards. In the rare event a Denkari is without an actual weapon, he or she can always rely upon retractable claws, poisonous venom, or their unique ability to mentally assail their enemies.
Does Jackson know what he has conjured? The glowing sense of satisfaction swirling about his spirit tells me he knows the Denkari have tremendous power, but I doubt he grasps the full measure of his folly.
The Denkari answer to no man. Only the Outcast can command them. I expect the Denkari to strike down the captives, but they simply stand at the arena’s center observing the situation.
“Release the prisoners,” Jackson orders Alec. “The creatures will not harm you.”
Though scared beyond the ability to speak, Alec does as bid. It takes the boy less than a minute to unlock the shackles binding the three prisoners to the walls.
As the chains fall from the last man’s wrists, the three Denkari focus on Alec. In a flash, the lead Denkari plucks Alec up by the neck and slams him against the wall.
A pained yelp from Alec almost disappears beneath Jackson’s outraged cry.
“She is here,” growls the lead Denkari.
“What are you talking about?” snaps Jackson. “Unhand my apprentice!”
“The Lady of Light,” explains the shortest of the Denkari.
Knowing I can no more hide my presence from them than they can from me, I leave Alec and form a ghostly avatar. A spirit shard sheers through the center of my form and shatters against the stone wall, narrowly missing Alec’s leg.
“Leave,” I say, though I’ve no delusions they’ll actually listen. “This world belongs to Kailon.”
“We were invited,” chorus the Denkari.
Forcing a smile, I make one last attempt to reason with them.
“You know your master loses in the end, perhaps not now or for a long while yet, but it is inevitable. Why continue this fight? What are these people to you that you would bring destruction upon them?”
“Go choose your champion, Lady. When we slaughter the champion, we will think of you,” says the lead Denkari. He follows this with a moderate, almost playful mental blow.
“Forget her. I summoned you. You must obey me.” Jackson’s voice holds a slight tremor, but he fights for control.
One of the Denkari not holding Alec steps forward and stretches a hand in Jackson’s direction. Both cry out in pain as the mental attack fails. The Denkari seem surprised at Jackson’s triumph.
After a silent battle of will, the lead Denkari puts Alec down.
“What is it you wish, mortal?”
Grinning, Jackson tries to hide his relief by speaking swiftly.
“Kill these men then come with me. I promised your master an opening, and he promised me a throne. We have plans to make.”
Chapter 8:
Unexpected Aid
Katrina Polani
Temporary Camp, Foot of the Karnok Mountains
Something has changed in Vic. I cannot pin down the feeling, but she looks at me differently this morning. I do not wish to give the impression that previously Vic was an empty-headed moron, but there is a spark of knowledge that was not present last night.
Before I can tactfully comment on the change, she bursts forth with the whole saga. “I had a dream last night, a dream of my mother telling me that The Lady has made me the Chosen Redeemer and that I should not fear to trust but I should watch out for betrayal.” She proceeds to describe the dream in detail, telling me not only the words but also the scene that unfolded around her. In predictable, straightforward Vic fashion, she ends with a stream of questions. “What prophecy was she talking about? What does it mean? Should I be worried? What’s this destiny nonsense? What’s the Chosen Redeemer supposed to do anyway?”
Though Tellen is present, Vic’s eyes search mine for answers. She must know that I know more than I let on, but how? Once again, I am torn between my father’s order to keep silent and my need to level with my young friend.
Oddly enough, Tellen solves my dilemma.
“Don’t worry about it, Vic. The legend and prophecy are a kid’s story. Your father must have told you the tale long ago and you’re remembering it now.”
“Tell me, please,” Vic orders in a half-pleading tone. She shifts her intense gaze from me to Tellen.
“We should probably get moving,” Tellen says, dragging out the first word. “I’ll tell you on the way,” he adds as Vic’s expression takes on a stubborn cast.
“Tell her while I pack up the camp,” I insist. “And do not spare the details.” My word to my father said nothing about somebody else telling Vic the prophecy, only that I would not.
The prospect of having no camp breakdown chores puts Tellen in a cheery mood. Sadly, there is not much to do since we escaped Vic’s place with very little. I roll the blankets, bury the fire ashes, check each pack, and try to erase any signs of our presence.
If we push hard, we can reach Coldhaven by nightfall, but I am very concerned that we have no food. We do not have much money either, but the villagers will not turn away weary travelers. We should be able to find work in Coldhaven while we decide which direction to pursue. Perhaps someone will know where to find Daniel Saveron.
I half-listen to Tellen’s version of the legend containing the prophecy—that may or may not pertain to Vic—to make sure he includes the important points. Frustration mounts in me as Tellen skims over large parts, but thankfully, Vic’s astute enough to call him on the vagueness.
“So, you’ve told me about a goddess who gave a man she loved a pair of magical bracers to save him during the last Great War. Big deal. I’ve heard the tale before. What’s that got to do with a prophecy?” Vic’s narrowed eyes are more demanding than her tone. I think she missed her calling to be a bratty princess.
Tellen levels a sympathetic look at Vic.
“If the prophecy’s right, the legend bracers are yours, Vic.” His tone reaches out to ease the revelation.
I almost forgive every annoying thing about Tellen for that gentle tone.
The notion passes when Tellen clears his throat to drive out the traces of sentiment.
“The prophecy says that when the Darkness comes again, the Chosen Redeemer will use the bracers to drive the undead back to the Darklands and destroy the link between the physical and spiritual worlds.”
“You mean there may never be walking dead people again?” Vic asks.
A chill runs through me. The idea of a world free of zombies and other Darkland nightmares seems unthinkable.
“So the story says,” Tellen replies. He shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s a good story.”
For once Vic keeps her thoughts to herself, but I know she believes the prophecy. Her innocent soul has latched on to the hope contained within the legend. I want to caution her that not every sign says the Chosen Redeemer will come soon but that would be a lie. The signs exist. I lose myself in thoughts about what we can expect upon reaching Coldhaven.
Will Vic’s father be there? What sort of clue will he leave if he is not there?
Despite my distraction, my instincts are as sharp as ever. Three things happen at once: Vic’s eyes light up, Tellen draws his twin daggers, and I turn myself into a dog. Suddenly, a massive wolf stands on the edge of our former camp. Easily a whole head bigger than my dog form and bristling with muscles, the wolf could probably tear us apart without really trying. Despite my fear, I admire the gorgeous blend of white, brown, beige, and black fur. Spotting intelligent, pale blue eyes, it occurs to me that this wolf could be a Shapeshifter,
but if he is, he’s a master.
I growl and brace for a terrible fight, but nothing happens. The wolf solemnly bows his head, yips once, and bounds away. Something in me reaches out to the wolf. I sense he is a kindred spirit, though I do not understand how I know him. The sense is like feeling part of myself completed. My legs carry me forward a dozen paces before I hear Vic calling me back.
“Wait! He’s not a threat! Come look at what he left us!” Vic’s voice rings with childlike wonder.
Fighting off the primal instinct to pursue the mysterious wolf, I lope back to Vic and Tellen. Whether friend or foe, I am certain I will see the wolf again.
***
Victoria Saveron
Temporary Camp, Foot of the Karnok Mountains
I have never considered myself blessed by one deity or another, but I must admit that this morning when I noticed we had nothing to speak of in the way of food, I begged The Lady for supplies.
I cannot explain it, but I know this boon comes from her. Father has always warned that the Ancient Ones are not there to fulfill the petty needs of lesser creatures, but in my dream The Lady’s agent promised aid at my most desperate hour. Though I hardly count low supplies as my “darkest hour,” I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.
Tellen has removed the string binding the bundle together and unfolded the leather sides. Katrina comes back and inspects the gifts brought by the wolf. The contents include three bags for water, three loaves of fresh bread, and three strips of dried meat. Still in dog form, Katrina sniffs carefully at the food.
I throw silent thanks at the departed wolf and wonder if I will ever see him again. He felt familiar, like an acquaintance one recognizes but cannot name. The brief glimpse of him has left a powerful longing in me. Not understanding the feeling, I focus on Katrina who has completed her inspection.
“Is it safe?”
“Only one way to find out,” Tellen declares.
Katrina takes on her human form to say, “Wait.”
Awakening (Redeemer Chronicles Book 1) Page 4
