Mark of Fire (The Endarian Prophecy Book 1)

by Richard Phillips

  ALSO BY RICHARD PHILLIPS

  The Endarian Prophecy

  Mark of Fire

  Prophecy’s Daughter (forthcoming)

  Curse of the Chosen (forthcoming)

  The Rho Agenda

  The Second Ship

  Immune

  Wormhole

  The Rho Agenda Inception

  Once Dead

  Dead Wrong

  Dead Shift

  The Rho Agenda Assimilation

  The Kasari Nexus

  The Altreian Enigma

  The Meridian Ascent

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Richard Phillips

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542046862

  ISBN-10: 1542046866

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  I dedicate this novel to my wife and lifelong best friend, Carol.

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  PART II

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  PART III

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Kingdom of Tal―Outside of Hannington―Eastern Tal Year of Record (YOR) 390

  The sound of pigs squealing outside the woodcutter’s house on the outskirts of Hannington brought five-year-old Arn Tomas Ericson’s head up as his father leapt from the dinner table. The inhuman laughter that accompanied the noise stood Arn’s hair on end.

  “Carl,” Arn’s mother said, her eyes wide with fear, “what’s wrong?”

  Arn’s father grabbed his woodcutter’s ax from its place beside the door. “Marie, bar the door behind me and close the shutters. Do not open them until I tell you.”

  Without another word, the man stepped out into the night, slamming the door shut. Marie immediately rose, dropping the door’s bar into place and rushing to the lone window to close and bar the shutters.

  Arn remained frozen, his fork full of mashed potatoes and gravy still halfway between his plate and mouth. His mind struggled to grasp his mother’s terror. He wanted to ask her what had made the sounds, but when his father began screaming, Arn knew that he did not want to know.

  Then his mother grabbed him by the arms and pulled him to his feet, sending the fork flying from his hand, splattering her blue dress with gravy. Too startled to speak, Arn felt himself being dragged across the room and lifted into the partially filled wood box beside the hearth. As sharp sticks poked his side and back, he opened his mouth to cry out but felt his mother’s palm cover his lips.

  “Stay silent,” she whispered harshly. “Do not make a noise.”

  She shoved him down and closed the lid. A small shaft of light penetrated through a narrow crack but did little to push back the darkness that enfolded him. A tremor spread from Arn’s hands and up his arms until his entire body shook. Outside, he no longer heard his father. There was a sudden blow against the cottage door. He heard the bar crack as the door crashed inward, followed by heavy footsteps.

  Arn did not want to look but could not stop himself from pressing his eye to the crack. He blinked to clear the tears that blurred his vision. His mother stood against the far wall, holding a butcher knife, facing two men whose backs were toward Arn. The one on the left wore a black cape that swept to the floor, its hood pulled over his head. The other man was much bigger, with black hair hanging to his shoulders.

  Arn’s mother suddenly lunged forward, but she froze midstride at a gesture from the hooded man. Red bands of light wrapped her arms and legs, a glowing tendril reaching up to pluck the knife from her right hand. The hooded one gestured again, and Arn’s mother floated up off the floor and back to the wall, as the tendrils spread her arms as if her palms had been impaled.

  When the bigger man stepped up beside her, he turned to look back at his companion, and Arn suffered another shock, this one robbing him of his breath. The man was a woman but not like any woman he had ever seen. Her brown eyes looked human, as did her muscled body. But her jaws jutted an inch from her face, and when she opened her mouth, Arn saw teeth more like those of a wolf. His father had told him tales of these beings, the ones he had called vorgs.

  She ran a very human-looking tongue over her lips and grinned.

  “Well, my lord,” she said in the rasping voice that matched the laughter Arn had heard from outside, “do you wish to go first?”

  The hooded figure merely shook his head. “Be my guest.”

  When the vorg turned back toward Arn’s mother and opened those jaws wide, Arn could watch no more. Instead he pressed himself away from the crack, again feeling a sharp branch poke him in the back. When his mother began screaming, the echoes formed an invitation to the pits of the deep.

  PART I

  Most believe that Endarians possess two forms of magic, time-shaping and life-shifting. In truth, these are both aspects of a singular ability: Exchange Magic.

  —From the Scroll of Landrel

  1

  Hannington Castle, Kingdom of Tal—Eastern Region

  YOR 412, Late Winter

  The torches lighting the king’s private audience chamber cast shadows across the table, the darkest of which came not from the king but from his magic wielder, Blalock. Earl Coldain despised Blalock even more than he detested his young king. Unlike his mighty father, King Gilbert was little more than Blalock’s tool. Nevertheless, despite his monarch’s many failings, Coldain would support him. The earl was, above all else, a man of duty.

  “What of High Lord Rafel?” King Gilbert directed his question at Coldain.

  “Sire?”

  “What do you think of High Lord Rafel? Specifically, his loyalty to his king.”

  “Unquestionable.”

  The king leaned back in his chair, his pale hands clenching his royal scepter as his gaze traveled to the wielder standing by his side. “There are those who question it.”

  “High Lord Rafel?” said Coldain. “The hero of the Vorg War, commander of the king’s armies? For over thirty years, he has served only the throne. He’s the finest man with whom I have ever served. He saved this kingdom, and the people of Tal still adore him.”

  Blalock leaned toward the king, the scowl on his face drawing his lips into a tight line. “Perhaps even more than they love their king.”

  A sudden constriction seized Coldain’s throat. So that was what this was about. Judgment was about to be passed on his oldest friend and mentor.
<
br />   Gilbert’s eyes locked with his. “It is what I have feared. I can feel it in your voice. Your own words condemn Rafel.”

  “Sire, reconsider! High Lord Rafel will meet any action against him or his people with extreme violence. His keep is second only to your castle here in Hannington in its impregnability, and his personal command numbers more than two thousand battle-hardened soldiers. A siege would last months and spread dissension throughout the kingdom.”

  “Consider your words carefully, Earl Coldain, before I begin to question the depth of your loyalty to the crown.”

  Coldain straightened in his chair. “Majesty, I know my duty, part of which is to give you my best counsel, then to execute your ultimate decision with complete commitment. My duty is my life.”

  “Well said.” The king turned once more to his wielder. “Blalock, you have heard Earl Coldain’s counsel. What say you?”

  “The earl’s concerns are valid. A direct assault on Rafel would indeed be disastrous.” The wielder’s eyes flashed beneath his brows. “But there is a better way to rid yourself of this problem and cow any other nobles whose loyalties to the crown may have died with your father. Send Blade.”

  Again, Coldain felt ice slide through his veins. Only a handful of people knew the face of the king’s assassin, but everyone knew the legendary killer’s name. “Blade was saved from the gallows and raised by Rafel.”

  Blalock’s laughter echoed through the chamber’s semidarkness. “Yes. And Blade turned his back on Rafel and everyone in his keep six years ago. Hasn’t bothered to go back since. Blade is a dark soul. He will do what his king commands and, as always, he will be well rewarded.”

  “A most excellent solution,” said Gilbert. “Earl Coldain, I want you to deliver the order to Blade in person. Tonight.”

  Coldain rose to his feet, forcing his body into a stiff bow. “As you command, sire.”

  “One more matter,” said Gilbert. “Since Blade and Rafel were close, I want you to task Dagon to follow up, in case Blade is not as heartless as we think. If Blade fails me, Dagon is to kill Rafel and his spawn before assassinating Blade.”

  With a foul taste filling his mouth, the earl turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  Kragan, known as Blalock to the people of Tal, left the king’s chamber without bothering to ask Gilbert for permission. They both knew where true power lay. After Gilbert’s father, King Rodan, had died in a riding accident seven months ago, his title had transferred to his nineteen-year-old son. Although Rodan had been strong-willed, wise, and widely respected, the populace held his paranoid weakling of a son in barely veiled contempt. Little wonder, considering the delight the young king took in having anyone who he believed disloyal publicly executed.

  Kragan did not begrudge Gilbert this last vice. But the king’s incessant tantrums robbed Kragan of any shred of respect he might have developed for the lad.

  With Rodan gone, Kragan was easily able to convince Gilbert to remove from power Gregor, the former king’s gray-bearded magic wielder and chief advisor. Despite the furor Gregor had raised upon his dismissal, Kragan had moved easily into the graybeard’s position as the power behind the young king. As long as the puppet monarch remained useful, Kragan would allow him to live. The day when Kragan would summon his vorg army to take this kingdom for his own lay on the not-too-distant horizon.

  Turning to his right, Kragan placed both hands upon the wall, the large blocks of granite cold to the touch. His mind reached outward, grabbing the earth elemental, Dalg, and snapped it to his will. He stepped through the wall, releasing control of the elemental as he reached the other side.

  An ancient stone stairway spiraled downward before him. The darkness was complete, yet he could see clearly. He descended the stairs slowly, caressing the wall with his hand as he went. Old Stone. Ancient stone. Very much like Kragan himself—frigid, hard.

  The stairwell ended at a rectangular opening carved into the rock. He walked through and turned right, his long strides carrying him down the hall. He eventually turned left and climbed a short set of steps to an ornately carved ivory door, opened it, and entered a large chamber.

  The floor, walls, and ceiling were of white marble. The torches that burned on the walls cast shadows that seemed to crawl within the stone. A four-post bed covered in red satin occupied the left wall. A chest-high pedestal with a small crystal vase stood beside the hearth.

  In the center of the room stood a life-size statue of a young woman. The left sleeve of her blouse had been ripped away to reveal a shoulder that bore the red image of a fire elemental rendered in such detail that the flames seemed to flicker beneath his gaze.

  He found himself staring at the intricately carved woman, the image of the one who had haunted his dreams since that day, centuries past, when he had killed the Endarian wielder, Landrel. He had taken the scroll that contained the prophecy and the drawing of this woman from Landrel’s lifeless body. And the ability to create statues in her image had come to him unabated, sometimes feverishly.

  For all these centuries, he had searched the world for her despite not knowing her name. Landrel had intended for his prophecy to torture Kragan by denying him such a vital piece of information.

  Kragan glanced at the statue’s perfectly carved face. Her name did not matter. He would know her by sight when he found her.

  2

  Rafel’s Keep—A Week’s Ride Southwest of Hannington

  YOR 412, Late Winter

  Carol stood in her nightgown, looking down from her balcony at the flickering torches spaced along the castle’s dimly lit western wall. Their light barely penetrated the thin veil of snow that floated down from the darkness above. The guards moved slowly back and forth between the watchtowers, in a pattern designed to maintain alertness during the night’s wee hours.

  She left the overlook, returning to her bedroom where a fire blazed on the hearth, shivering as she turned to present her back to the warm glow. The room was high-ceilinged and open, lit by a candle chandelier and hearth flames. Bookshelves stretched across the far wall, the upper half accessible via the sliding ladder mounted on its grooved track.

  Carol loved books by the scholars and great political thinkers of the age, many of which were outlawed in the kingdom of Tal. Some of the men who had written items in her collection argued that all people were born with basic rights, while other authors maintained that privilege was rightly granted by a king to those he deemed worthy. The former proclaimed that a king was no different from any other, that a ruler governed at the behest of the people, and that government’s sole function was to serve the public. Carol thought that their ideas represented the coming world order.

  These scholars held a far different vision of government than what existed within Tal, where land ownership was the result of direct grants from the king to men who had been given the titles of earl or lord. Chief among these noblemen, the title of high lord was given only to those who commanded the army of the kingdom of Tal. Even though a member of the royal family would technically outrank him, the high lord’s authority was second only to that of the king.

  Women of noble birth were referred to by the honorific title lorness, yet were denied direct participation in the government, forced to rely on wit and wile to influence the men who wielded raw power.

  Carol’s father had obtained these books for her. She was still amazed that she had been able to talk him into the seditious act. For her father to violate the law for his only daughter bespoke of the strength of his love. Despite his title, she knew that High Lord Rafel shared many of her views regarding a woman’s place in society, having seen a true meritocracy in practice during the time he had served as emissary to the Endarian ruler, Queen Elan, during the Vorg War. Carol’s fondest dream was that one day she would lead a movement that fully affirmed the rights of women in Tal.

  The strength of her disgust for Tal’s patriarchal system of government had been the chief reason that her father had only taken her to Han
nington Castle once, when she was much younger. His fear that she would accidentally reveal her treasonous inclinations by reacting to life in the capital was too great a risk. That was fine with Carol. She had personal reasons for avoiding that place.

  A knock on the door interrupted her reverie. Her father poked his head in the doorway. “May I come in?”

  “Certainly,” said Carol. “I was just looking over my books.”

  “Ah,” he said. “If you’d been born a man, you’d be a force to reshape the world.”

  “Only a woman can do that.”

  A broad grin spread across his lined face. “If any woman could, it would be you. You have always been as strong-headed as Arn.”

  Carol’s mood soured. Her thoughts immediately turned to Arn, who as a troubled, twelve-year-old orphan had knifed a minor lord in Hannington’s central square for beating a peasant woman. At the time, the local magistrate had sentenced Arn to death, but on the day that he was scheduled to hang, Rafel had watched the boy use his last words to curse the law that allowed a lord to beat a woman senseless only because he was of noble birth and she was not. Having uttered his condemnation, Arn stood defiantly as the noose was placed around his neck and drawn tight. Standing in the square that day, Rafel had seen something in the lad that caused him to step forward to intervene. At Rafel’s request, King Rodan granted Arn a pardon, but only on the condition that the high lord take the boy into his house and assume responsibility for his training and behavior.

  From the first day that he had arrived at Rafel’s Keep and been placed under Battle Master Gaar’s harsh tutelage, the high lord had informed Arn that the stay of his death sentence only remained in effect at Gaar’s pleasure. Seven-year-old Carol had observed Arn’s training from afar, developing a fascination for the slender boy with the curly brown hair and brown eyes that flashed with fury. The battle master had set out to test the depths of Arn’s character, rotating him among a trio of trainers in the martial arts, each seemingly determined to break the urchin’s will to continue.

  Whenever she got a break from her own studies, Carol had slipped away to watch this strange, raging orphan. If he failed to perform to expectation, which was generally the case, his trainer assigned him after-hours duty, lifting heavy stones from one pile to another. Often Arn would stumble to his knees in exhaustion, but he always struggled back to his feet, forcing himself to complete the assigned task no matter how he bled from his falls. Sometimes he would glance up to see Carol watching him, his eyes unreadable. And in those moments, she found herself longing to go help him, though she could not have lifted even one of the stones or defended him from the blows he received on the training grounds.