The Chronicles of Avantia #1: First Hero

by Adam Blade

  WITH SPECIAL THANKS TO

  CHERITH BALDRY.

  TO JJ, A BIG FAN.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE: FIREPOS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  EPILOGUE

  TEASER

  OTHER BOOKS

  COPYRIGHT

  Deep in the belly of the volcano, my talons grip the baking rock. I sense liquid fire bubbling, heat rising: This is my birthplace.

  Dawn is near. An event long awaited is about to begin. I must act; I feel it from my talons to the tips of my shimmering wings.

  I take to the air. My powerful wings lift me into the swirling hot currents and I rise out of the crater in a burst of flame. I hover in the cool night air, letting the breeze ruffle my feathers. I look out over my homeland: Avantia. Out there is my destiny. My Chosen Rider. At last it is time to find him.

  I open my beak and let out a cry that echoes between valleys and trees; my signal, sent out to trusted friends. It is many moons since we last met. I settle on the volcano’s crater to wait.

  I spot a tiny shape in the distance, far above me, moving swiftly against the lightening sky. Excitement races through me. The shape grows larger, until it takes the form of … a gray wolf. He dives toward me. At the last moment he opens his leathery wings and lands gently on four strong legs. He paces around the edge of the crater. I nod my head in recognition. Gulkien has come.

  An eerie yowl cleaves the air. From the shadows pooled at the volcano’s foot appears a huge, pumalike cat, lithe and agile, bounding over boulders toward the summit. Sparks fly as her claws rake the rocks. Her fur is golden and her amber eyes flash in the volcano’s fires. Here is Nera. I know her of old — her fierce courage will be needed in the testing times ahead. It fills me with pleasure to see my friend return.

  From the other side of the crater comes a slithering sound. I turn to see the great serpent, Falkor, emerge from a vast fissure in the rock, his forked tongue flicking the air, tasting it. The flames from the lava-filled crater reflect on his scaly form as he winds his way toward us, his body pulsing with muscular energy. Colors swirl on his flanks, like spilled oil in water. His wide head, bristling with spines, bows in greeting. Nothing — neither stars nor fire — reflects in his black eyes. Falkor, alert and waiting, folds his shining coils around a boulder.

  My feathers blaze more brightly. This is a momentous day: We have come together again. I open my wings to their widest extent. The Beasts come closer, bowing their heads to listen. The air crackles with energy, as if a storm is about to break.

  It is time, I tell them. Our enemy of old, Derthsin, brings danger to the kingdom. War is brewing. We must each find our Chosen Rider.

  Gulkien throws back his head and unleashes a howl that reverberates around the volcano’s slopes. Nera joins in with a thunderous growl — I feel the rocks beneath us creak and shift. Falkor hisses and tightens his coils around the boulder, causing a crack to spread. My own exultant cry erupts from deep within my throat.

  Gulkien leaps into the air, beating his wings savagely. I watch him speed away. Nera bounds down the rocky slopes to disappear into the shadows. Falkor stretches his body out to its full glittering length, bows his head to me in farewell, and slithers into a fissure.

  Good luck, my friends. My thoughts are with you.

  Last of all, I spread out my wings, feeling their power, and take to the air.

  I am Firepos, and my Chosen Rider is waiting ….

  I fly, watching the land as it speeds beneath me in a blurred patchwork of crop fields and dark woodlands.

  Rolling hills stretch far ahead — hulking shadows beneath the predawn sky. At their feet, undulating in the breeze like a black sea, is a vast pine forest. Beyond the trees lurk bleak, fog-shrouded moors, and then a wide, grassy plain. Smoke curls up from the villages that are scattered over the land like seeds. The ocean is like a silver thread to the west.

  All seems quiet in the world ….

  I smell smoke. Smoke, and something else … My feathers glow in anguish: It is the odor of charred flesh. Human flesh. Ahead I spy a flickering orange glow.

  Fire.

  I swoop down, gliding over the dense forest. My talons brush the leaves of the tallest trees. I see cornfields bathed in an angry wash of flame, and thatched huts billowing smoke. The village of Forton is under attack!

  Screams rend the air over the inferno’s roar. Invaders in battle-scarred armor storm the streets, scattering villagers before them. Spear tips and swords glint, many dripping with blood. I see a few villagers turn to fight, but they are cut down without mercy. The streets are littered with bodies.

  Deep in my core, my senses stir. He is here somewhere: my Chosen Rider.

  I should have come sooner. What if I am too late?

  I hover over the woods near the edge of the village, bristling with anxiety. All I can do is wait, and watch ….

  A sweat-streaked warhorse canters down the track from the village. On its back rides a giant of a warrior. His body is encased in close-fitting black armor, adorned with spikes. A cloak the color of dried blood hangs over his broad shoulders, and at his hip hangs a bronze-hilted sword. His face is obscured by a leathery mask — misshapen and ugly. My feathers tingle.

  That mask. I know it ….

  Spikes jut from its dangling jowls, and its gaping jaws are lined with pointed teeth. Two horns curl up from its temples, ending in wicked barbs like fishhooks. It is the face of a Dark Beast, a near-mythical creature called Anoret, which stalked the land many years ago. The mask is an artifact of great power.

  The Face of Anoret, also known to the people of Avantia as the Mask of Death.

  And the rider — it is Derthsin!

  I tip my wings and swoop down with a cry of fury.

  Derthsin twists around in his saddle to face me. I channel flames toward my talons — a fireball gathers in strength and intensity. Soon this enemy will be a heap of smoldering ashes ….

  I see his eyes glitter through the holes in his grotesque mask. With a casual flick, he waves his hand at me.

  It feels as though I’m caught in a hurricane. An invisible force smashes into me and hurls me off my attack course. The ground rushes up. Too quickly …

  With a screech, I crash into a cornfield. The fireball in my talons bursts around me, scorching the corn and lighting up the night. My wings buckle, bones at breaking point.

  Through the haze of pain, I understand: The myth of the Face of Anoret is true! It bestows power over the Beasts of Avantia to the wearer.

  My fear grows — I am unprepared for this fight. I try to move, but I cannot: Derthsin still holds me in his thrall.

  As I lie helpless and hidden from view, a man runs along the track toward the warrior. Dressed in rough woolen jerkin and leggings, he carries a farmer’s thresher: two pieces of wood joined with a chain. Behind the man chases a small boy, his tear-streaked face framed with brown hair.

  My senses blaze. It is my Chosen Rider! I struggle to get up, but still I cannot move.

  The boy grasps the man’s hand and tries to pull him back. His face is stricken with fear. The man shakes him off. “Go and hide in the woods, son!” He turns toward the warrior, who has dismounted and drawn his long, wicked-looking sword.

  With a cry of rage, the man charges at Derthsin, raising his t
hresher and aiming a clumsy swipe at his head.

  Derthsin neatly sidesteps, allowing his attacker to pass by. A noise like laughter comes from the mask, the sound distorted and ugly. With the speed of a striking snake he closes on the villager and raises his sword to strike ….

  The man ducks beneath the swinging blade, and as he stands up he swings the thresher — more by luck than judgment — into Derthsin’s head. Derthsin bellows in anger as the mask is torn from his face. He falls to his knees and drops his sword. The villager kicks it away.

  I feel Derthsin’s hold over me fade, but I am still too weak to move.

  I can see his dark features: thin, bloodless lips, a heavy brow looming over deep-set black eyes, and a strong nose. A thin trail of blood trickles down his cheek. He stares at the farmer. One more swing of the thresher will kill him.

  “Think carefully,” Derthsin says. His voice is soft but commanding. He glances at the boy. “Do you want your son to see you kill an unarmed man?”

  The man turns and shouts back to my Chosen Rider. “Get away! Hide! Find your mother ….”

  Derthsin’s hand creeps to a sheath on his belt. He draws out a long dagger.

  I struggle to get up.

  In two long strides Derthsin closes on the man. Moonlight flashes on steel. The man groans as the blade slides between his ribs. The thresher hits the ground.

  Someone else approaches, stumbling down the road from Forton. A woman, crying in anguish. She bends over the stricken villager, cradling his head in her arms. A band of jeering soldiers follows in her wake.

  “Put her in the cart with the rest,” Derthsin orders. The soldiers drag the screaming woman back to the village.

  Derthsin picks up my Chosen Rider by his collar and stares into his eyes. The boy struggles, legs and fists flailing.

  “I sense strength in your soul,” Derthsin growls. “But death is stronger than you.” He raises his knife, pointing it at the boy’s heart.

  I turn my feathers the color of coal and silently take to the air. I circle once and swoop at the murderous warrior.

  The boy’s mouth opens in a silent scream.

  I plunge my talons into Derthsin’s shoulders and lift him off the ground. He drops the boy and roars as I carry him up into the air. I feel him writhing in my grasp, but I will not let go. Not yet.

  Over the forest and plains I fly. Ahead I spy the glow of my volcano. He must know now where I mean to take him, for his roars become screams. Over the crater, the heat blasts us. In the depths, the pool of molten rock bubbles.

  “You’ll pay for this!” Derthsin roars.

  With a victorious screech, I let him go. His hand grips one of my feathers, but I twist, and the feather tears away. It doesn’t slow his fall. His body tumbles and spins as he plunges through the air. The lava swallows him, cutting off his screams.

  I soar back to Forton, which is still ablaze. The soldiers are scattering, searching for their leader. Dark smoke billows across the road. The boy leans over his father. The smoke sweeps past him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Beside him is the Mask of Death.

  I land on the road and gently nuzzle the boy. He throws his arm around my neck and sobs into my warm feathers. He can feel our bond. He is young and fragile and his future is uncertain. Is he strong enough to face it?

  I must do all I can to help him. But for now we must heal our wounds.

  Stay strong, I will the boy. Your destiny awaits you. From the dark, a hero must rise.

  Angry skies and the clash of swords filled Tanner’s dreams. A harsh cry sounded out and he felt himself being torn from sleep, rushing up to the surface of consciousness. His eyelashes fluttered open. He realized that the cry that woke him had come from his own lips. Moonlight flooded through the window. He sat up and dragged a weary hand across his eyes. His dream lingered in his thoughts, threatening and deadly.

  With a sigh, he threw off his blankets and scrambled out of bed, wincing as his feet touched the cold floor. He pushed his long hair out of his eyes and splashed cold water from a tin basin onto his face. Feeling more awake, he pulled his tunic over his head and tugged on his battered old boots.

  He looked out of the window. Light gathered on the horizon, glowing on the rough track that led to Forton. To the north, in the direction of Harron, he saw a faint orange glow. A bonfire, perhaps? Tanner wondered. He gazed at his reflection in the dirty windowpane. Long brown hair framed his pale face. Above high cheekbones, his dark eyes betrayed last night’s troubled sleep.

  I’m late for work, he thought. No time for breakfast. He creeped past his grandmother’s room and smiled as he heard her soft snores. Quietly opening the front door, he stepped into the cold morning. The air misted as he took a few deep breaths. Tanner smelled mint drifting from the well-tended herb garden. The plants had been crushed by something large, and some of the leaves were charred at the edges. “That won’t make Grandmother very happy,” he muttered, smiling. He knew who the culprit was!

  His route to the bakery in Forton where he worked led down the path behind a row of thatched cottages, not far from the edge of the woods where his father had been killed and his mother abducted. It was hard to believe that eight years had passed since that terrible day. The memory of it was as raw as ever: the anguish of his dying father’s face, his mother’s screams as she was dragged away.

  Tanner shook his head and ran to the bakery.

  Heat blasted over Tanner’s body as he sucked in the scorching air. Sweat poured off him, even though he was stripped to the waist. Although not yet fully grown, Tanner was lithe, nimble, and stronger than he looked.

  Using the long-handled paddle, he took the last loaves from the oven and laid them to rest on the cooling racks. He put a couple of loaves under his arm, waved good-bye to the baker — who still had a day of selling bread ahead of him — and stepped into Forton’s village square. In the hours since he’d started work, it had filled with people. The sun had risen over the rooftops, and shutters were opening to the smell of fresh bread.

  Tanner stood for a moment, raising his face to the sun. A washerwoman hurried past with bundles of clean linen under her arms. A fisherman and his son, Ben, balanced a pole strung with trout across their shoulders.

  “Stop by our stall later,” Ben called to Tanner. “I’ll have some fried fish for you, in exchange for bread.”

  Tanner grinned at Ben and lifted a hand in acknowledgment. After the loss of his parents, he had thought there was nothing to live for, but time had gone some way to heal the wound. He had many friends in the village. And his grandmother, although grumpy and short-tempered, looked after him. Life could be worse, he always told himself, when he felt sad.

  Tanner looked at the stout wooden palisade topped with sharpened stakes, and at the shallow, dry moat surrounding Forton. Defenses had been added when Forton was rebuilt after Derthsin’s attack. Despite the protection, fear of violence remained — Avantia was a dangerous place, with no ruler. War bands roamed the lands, raiding villages, and bandits prowled the quieter stretches of road.

  Forton was prepared for invasions. Everyone was expected to know how to fight. Over time, an uneasy calm had settled over the village — people remembered Derthsin, but his presence had not been felt for years. Everyone assumed he was dead.

  Tanner made his way home, striding through the stockade gate, over the moat bridge, and onto the track. His day’s work was not over; he still had to look after his beloved grandmother.

  In the kitchen, Tanner prodded the embers of the fire into life and hung a huge black kettle over it. When the kettle was singing, he made his grandmother’s morning herb tea and took it to her with a plate of the fresh bread and some butter.

  Grandmother Esme was already sitting up in bed, a multicolored shawl around her shoulders. She eyed him impatiently as she tied up her unruly gray dreadlocks with a scrap of scarlet linen. Tanner set the tray down on the bed and kissed her on the cheek; her skin felt paper-thin, and the circles under her eyes
were darker than ever.

  “Bring me my box of oracle bones, boy,” she said.

  Tanner groaned. “Fortune-telling again?”

  His grandmother’s face clouded. “Change is coming to Avantia. I must read the bones so we can prepare ourselves. Now, do as you’re told!”

  Tanner felt a chill crawl over his skin. As he went to fetch the box, he thought back to his troubled dreams.

  Something was brewing. Could Grandmother Esme’s pieces of bone spell out the future? Her fortune-telling was renowned in the village, and she made a small living reading people’s palms. There’s no denying it, he thought grimly. One way or another, they always seem to help her see what’s coming.

  As Tanner returned to his grandmother’s room and set the box down on the bed, he heard the sound of hooves coming from the north road. Esme looked up with watery eyes.

  “Wait here,” said Tanner. He snatched up his sword from the rack at the front door and walked into the road, shielding his eyes from the sun. He saw a cloud of dust coming along the track. A single horseman. Tanner let out the breath he had been holding: It was Drew, a farmer who worked the land farther outside the village boundary.

  But as the horse drew closer, Tanner’s anxiety returned. Drew wobbled in the saddle, and his head was bowed forward. His horse’s flanks were slick with sweat. Twenty paces away, Drew slumped against his horse’s mane. Tanner gasped when he saw the black-fletched arrow protruding from his back. The horse came to a halt and Drew slid from the saddle.

  Tanner rushed to help him up. He cringed at the sticky red blood staining Drew’s tunic, stark against his deathly pale skin. Tanner heaved him up onto his shoulder and dragged him to the cottage.

  Esme appeared in the doorway. “I’ll get water,” she said, “and bandages.” She disappeared back into the gloom of the cottage.