Prophecy of the Flame

by Lynn Hardy

  Knowing Szames has my left side covered, I turn to the right. A second demon is barreling toward us in a swooping dive. The wyvern is so close, I don’t have enough time even to bring up my staff much less cast a spell.

  I watch in fascination as a battle ax appears out of nowhere, lopping the head off of my attacker. Jerik’s dashing pace carries him through the inky spray spewing from his decapitated foe as he charges toward the orc. One down, three to go.

  If I move too far without Szames, the force field spell will be disrupted. The backlash could incinerate our party along with half the city. I am immobilized. This staff sucks! How can I hit these giant flying bats? What I need is a shotgun or even better, my laser spell!

  “We are under attack. The situation is dire.

  What will even the score is a little laser fire.

  When I am in need, all I must say

  Is ‘laser’ and start blasting away.”

  I smile in anticipation as blue light envelopes my hands, disappearing under the skin.

  “Where’d you go, you ugly S.O.B.?” I scan the area for a target. Looking back to, Northgate I see one of the creatures hurtling toward Craig, who is standing guard over Merithin’s prone body.

  Extending my right hand I whisper, “Laser.”

  A bolt of light shoots from my fingertips. The beam catches the wyvern in the side, exactly as I picture. The creature’s swoop turns onto a nosedive. Two down, two to go.

  I check on the progress of the sun. Better hurry. Night’s almost here.

  A battle cry echoes in my ears.

  Szames rises from a crouch, leaping over four feet straight up. Holding his sword in both hands above him, he slices at the underbelly of the demon plunging toward us. Veering to avoid the blow, the demon cripples itself as the sword catches its wing. The flier’s downward spiral ends in an audible thud.

  Dusk has arrived. Panic puts a sharp edge in my voice. “Szames, there’s one left. Do you see it?” My head swivels, searching.

  I glance ahead to check my comrades’ progress with the orc. My mouth falls open as I see Jerik standing in the crenellation between two merlons. The dwarf has a hold of the edge of the upper parapet with his fingertips. He heaves himself over the side in a single fluid motion. Taking off at a dead run, Jerik jumps across the gap formed by the teeth of the battlement. He’s trying to get behind the orc!

  “There!” Szames points to the paladin’s right. “Charles, behind you!”

  The swordsman glances over his shoulder while parrying the orc’s two-handed swing. The wyvern is plummeting for his head. He leaps to one side, warding off the orc’s next strike.

  Stretching out my hand, I shout, “Laser!”

  The beast goes down, but the bolt is seconds too late. The beam nails the wyvern squarely in the back as claws sink into Charles’s shoulder.

  An inhuman roar tears from the paladin’s throat. He drops his sword as he is hauled bodily to the ground by the demon’s dead weight.

  The orc lets out a throaty, almost childish giggle. Smiling, the giant reveals a row of jagged teeth. Raising the spiked club over its sloped forehead, the monster brings the weapon down for a bone-crushing strike.

  The dark warrior pulls himself free of the flier’s claws, rolling to the side seconds before the club takes a chunk out of the wooden floor. Snatching his sword with his left hand, Charles springs to his feet, thrusting upward with the blade. The Neanderthal is faster than its size suggests. It snaps back, standing straight. Charles etches an oozing scratch across its midriff.

  I extend my hand to release a laser bolt with the creature’s name on it. Jerik’s battle ax swipes through the orc’s thick neck, felling the giant like a redwood. I clamp my jaws shut on the destructive word.

  Battle For the Wall

  “We have to finish this spell now! I’ll pull extra energy from you, enough that you will feel drained.” I hold out my hand to Szames.

  “Take what you need to keep the demons at bay.” Szames seizes my hand. “Set the quickest pace you can.”

  Making a six-minute mile look like a leisurely jog, we reach Westgate in record time. Dark is now upon us. I motion the others to the stairs, and put my staff on the ground beside me.

  “Szames, please, just do what I do,” I instruct in the seconds remaining before the sun sinks below the hills. Retaining his right hand, I begin by holding my arms out to either side.

  “The circle of power I have completed,

  And my powers are now much depleted.

  I command you to take form and roam,

  Over our heads, making a protective dome.”

  Pulling Szames’s hand with mine, I raise both arms, clasping my right one with our two joined ones. When I feel the prince’s other hand joins the one I hold, I intone the next line.

  “Your form is now a good halfway done,

  But this last verse is an important one.”

  I envision blue light spreading in an arc across the city. Every nerve vibrates with power. I am barely able to move, I ease my right arm back to our sides. Fighting a wave of euphoria that threatens the hold I have on the harnessed energy, I chant as I continue to lower our joined arms.

  “To protect us from enemies who abound,

  You must also travel far underground.”

  I bring my hands together below our waists. A firm thrust from within completes the massive undertaking. Disconnected from the ocean of power, the world spins. Gritting my teeth, I manage to stay on my feet as my vision dims around the edges. I squeeze my eyes shut against the stab of fire slicing through my skull. I sway on my feet, locking my knees to stay erect.

  Minute by minute strength returns. My legs stop trembling. I notice Szames has his arm around me, supporting my elbow to keep me from falling. Grateful that the sun is below the horizon, I crack my eyes open. I pull away from him, reaching for my staff, leaning on it for support.

  “You okay?” Jerik voice rumbles, making me wince.

  “I will be,” I whisper.

  Jerik nods, turning to Charles who is leaning against the guard station wall. The pair makes their way down the stairs. Craig stumbles past us, half-carrying a pale Merithin.

  Turning to Szames, I let out an exhausted sigh, huffing with each word, “Well, that should keep us safe for the time being.”

  “What… exactly… will the spell… do?” Szames sucks in air as if he has run a marathon.

  “Any evil presence or anyone who poses a danger to this kingdom will be turned to ash if they come into contact with the barrier. Unless you harbor a traitor among your guards, they should be fine.” Minute by minute I feel steadier, and minute by minute I begin to ache. The spiking pain in my head is echoed throughout my body. My head, my muscles, even my bones ache.

  “That is some spell. I have never heard of an enchantment powerful enough to protect anything as large as a city.” He shakes his head as if to clear hazy thoughts.

  Entering the guard station, a pain-filled cry echoes up the stairs. I will myself to run, stretching out my legs. My foot catches the edge one of the steps. Szames is beside me, supporting my arm, rushing with me downward. The close embrace causes my thoughts churn. Kyle holds me like this so I won’t slip on the icy cement.

  We turn the last corner as Jerik’s voice books, “Hold still, you bloomin’ idget, I need to get this mail off.”

  Charles is seated on the bench. His breast plate is beside him. Even with his “natural tan” he looks pale, ashy. Jerik swings the shredded chain mail over the paladins head. The warrior’s lips thin with a grimace. Remnants of a blood-soaked shirt lie underneath. Jerik eases that aside as well, exposing a puncture the size of a half-dollar on Charles’s upper back and three parallel gashes on the front of his chest. I stumble to Jerik’s side.

  “Charles, can you move your arm?” I brace my head with one hand, trying to contain the pain my voice causes. “Is that the only place you’re hurt?”

  “I think my shoulder is either broken or
dislocated, I’m not sure which…” In agony, Charles lapses into English. “Man it hurts like a … ” The string of explicative’s he uses turns my cheeks crimson.

  “The wounds should be washed clear by the blood you’ve lost: I can stop you from losing more.” I mumble, barely above a whisper, “I don’t have much healing power, but I can ease the pain a bit.”

  Charles grunts through gritted teeth, “Stop jabberin’, woman and heal the thing!” Each word makes my head feel like it is a water balloon filled with tacks being used as a punching bag.

  Tears gather in the corner of my eyes a pain slices into my skull. I squeeze my temples between my hands, whispering, “Charles, healing the wrong thing could cripple this arm. Give me a moment to organize my thoughts.”

  My hands tremble as I place them above each side of his shoulder, I focus inward, ignoring the pain stabbing through my head. I concentrate on my healing gift, focusing the veins damaged in Charles’s shoulder.

  My eyes overflow, tears stream down my face as a stream of acid reverberates through my head. I force the energy to my hands. A cry escapes me. I stare at my fingers that feel like are in boiling oil. It’s only in my mind. I focus on Charles. Energy flees my aura in agonizing waves. Darkness crowds my vision. I bite my lip, tasting blood, pushing the energy into hands that feel raw and blistered.

  The ground gives way beneath my feet. I tumble into a black abyss.

  Chapter Seven

  “Nekte Laure, lisse’ lle amael yulna,”

  The nasally song eases into the darkness around me. Where have I heard that song before?

  “Naikelea dol, kaivokalma ona ripa,”

  I fight to open my eyes.

  “quel maranwe ten’ naikelea dol.”

  My eyes flutter open. Allinon leans over me. “The filk worked. She’s awake.”

  I wipe gritty eyes, pushing him back, so I can sit up. “Wha… what happened?” The meeting room in the barracks comes into focus.

  A worried looking Szames hands me a cup of silvery liquid. “One minute the wound on Charles’s shoulder stopped bleeding, the next you were collapsing.”

  Note to self – don’t cast spells when using magic feels like flossing with shoestrings laced with acid! The tepid liquid tastes like water as I chug the contents of the glass.

  “Charles, we’ve been here—what?—less than a day and already you’re dancing in the limelight?” Jamison jokes, easing the shirt aside. His face betrays nothing as he examines the wound.

  “Thanks,” I give Allinon a brief smile, swinging my legs over the edge of the table so that I can stumble over to where Charles is seated a few feet away.

  “Yeah. Glory, that’s what I’m after. How can I be Prince Charmin’ if the babes don’t swoon at my feet when tales of my valor are told?” Charles makes a valiant attempt at banter. “Reba stopped the bleeding, but it hurts like a mother. Give it to me straight, snowflake. How bad is it?”

  “Oh, not too bad. Whatever hit you, it could have done a lot worse. It’s a good thing Reba didn’t attempt to do more. With her level of skill, this would be tricky work. No offense, Reba.”

  “None taken.” We exchange smiles. Szames brings a chair over. Gratefully I sink onto the hard wood.

  The master healer focuses on the job at hand. “Those lacerations on your chest look messy, but I will be able to heal them right now. Your shoulder on the other hand, well, it’s going to take some time. The scapula, or shoulder blade, has a hairline fracture on the top edge. Even with the healing, it will be a couple of days before you have full use of your sword arm again.”

  Relief washes through me. “Two days we have.” I pull up a chair across from the patient, determined to add to my knowledge of the healing arts.

  “You completed the spell? Thank God. Within a week, all of the men who are going to achieve a full recovery should be there. Unfortunately there’ll still be almost a score of them that will never be whole.” Charles moans. Jamison turns back to him. “Let’s get you taken care of; then I’ll brief you on the rest.”

  “In a case like this, you need to heal the internal injuries first and make sure those are stable,” Jamison narrates for my benefit. “Reba, you will be able to see those injuries if you can achieve a full healer’s sight, not merely magesight. Bones need to be healed and back in their proper position before you move on to any other tissue damage. The outer muscle tissue will act as a support for the restored skeletal structure.”

  Jamison holds his hands inches from the paladin, hovering over Charles’s upper back. An emerald light, visible to magesight, emanates from the outstretched fingers. The glow penetrates the mangled flesh until it narrows to a thin beam of green. “Charles, it looks like some of your paladin skills are still intact. Knitting a bone usually requires a bit of energy, even for someone of my skills, but healing you took very little. Your blessing for quick recovery is still active. Now for those cuts.”

  Still silent, Allinon pours a generous amount of the potion from the plastic canteen. It soaks the puncture wound as Jamison activates his gift. The liquid draws into the wound. The energy absorbs the potion like a dry sponge in a fresh, spring puddle. Jamison incorporates the fluid in the regeneration process, putting it to use to rebuild the tissue.

  “Ah…” Charles sighs as Jamison moves on to his front shoulder.

  Prince Charming’s spirits rise as the pain ebbs. He elaborates on his encounter, “Yeah, I’d say my paladin skills are in effect, or my shoulder wouldn’t be attached. The shield my aura emits slowed down the attack, softening the blows. As it is, my sword arm went numb with the first strike.”

  Paladin shield— that may be a good defensive spell defensive spell.

  Gulping air like the wind has been knocked out of him, Jamison completes the healing. The wounds on Charles’s shoulder are reduced to faint, pink lines.

  “That feels great.” Charles flexes his arm, testing its strength. “Are you sure I need to knock off at sword practice tomorrow?”

  “Even though the pain is gone, bone takes a while to heal.” The master healer wipes sweat from his brow. “If too much tension is placed on it before it is fully recovered, you might pop that bone apart. One more healing session, and it should be as good as new after a twenty-four hour integration lag.”

  “Here, Jamison, take my chair.” I jump up to retrieve another one. Once again I am too slow for my escorts. Szames and Jerik are retrieving extra seats for those of us without one. “Would you like to accompany us back to the castle for dinner?”

  “All of the patients have been stabilized as much as possible, but I’ll feel better if I’m here in case complications arise.”

  “How successful were our healers at learning your healing magic?” Szames asks.

  “Seventeen men died before we could even get started on the healings. We lost twelve men regardless of the power we poured into them. Another fifteen aren’t yet out of the danger zone; five of those I don’t expect will see the sun rise. As I said earlier, almost fifty will retain some disability, either limited use or loss of a limb. That leaves over three hundred men who will be ready for battle within the week.” Jamison pauses, his eyebrows knitting with his reflection.

  “Tupper tells me there are additional students at the Consortium. If any of those possess the gift, we will have most of the men up and around sooner, providing Reba is up to another awakening.” I give my immediate assertion and he continues. “The more healers we find with even a trace of talent, the better. I never dreamed the gift would prove to be so limiting. As it is, I need food and rest before I can perform even another minor miracle.” Is losing patients taking a toll on his optimism? I’ve never seen him like this. I shake my head in denial. I only met the man this morning, but I know he feels down.

  Szames clears his throat. “Jamison, you are truly a master healer. I had not believed more than one hundred of the wounded would survive. Now you say that all but fifty will recover with merely a minimal amount of loss. Many of
those I counted as dead are now expected to have a full recovery. You have worked a miracle that will be talked about for generations to come. This is truly the time of the prophecy. Is there anything you need to aid you in your work?”

  Faint pink flushes Jamison’s face as Prince Szames praises his work. When he speaks, his voice is clear and steady, and no sign of lethargy remains. “Since you mentioned it, there are a few supplies we need. Another two tubs of healing potion, more containers, and some sterile bandages; the latter we could use right away. Due to the limited amount of healing power, we weren’t able to close all the wounds. That will have to be done in stages.”

  “You shall have them. If there is anything else, please do not hesitate to bring it to my attention.” Szames acknowledges the master healer’s request before signaling for Harold.

  I snag Jamison sleeve, whispering, “Any idea what happened? I have magical and healing energy left. Why did I collapse?”

  “Weren’t you listening?” Allinon snorts from the other side of me. “Merithin said you had to be practiced the using energy in this world.”

  I lower my voice, hoping he will get the hint. “But I know how to use magic, that happened in the transfer.” At least he’s talking in English.

  “Reba,” Jamison leans over to whisper, “The membranes in your head seem to be affected by use of magic – like they are dehydrated.”

  “I’m the aura expert.” Allinon interjects, “and I can tell you that using your aura affects the same area in your head that drinking does; that’s why drinking and magic don’t mix.”

  Jamison nods his head. “So, using magic must somehow strengthen that part of your anatomy – like exercise strengthens your muscles.”

  “You’d better start casting a lot of spells,” Allinon orders, “I want you to send us home as soon as possible.”

  I roll my eyes at the audacity of the man. The healer looks to me. “Can you stop by in the morning to convert the wineskins?”

  I nod. He looks tired. His aura is nearly transparent. Seeing Szames is occupied with his squire, so I ask, “Do you have any meditation techniques to help you recuperate faster?”