Mark of Fire (The Endarian Prophecy Book 1)

by Richard Phillips

  “That’s all for tonight,” said Hawthorne, rising. “We’ll take it up again tomorrow evening.”

  Carol walked back to her tent, realizing she was beginning to associate mental exhaustion with the practice of magic. She crawled into her bedding, the thought of what lay ahead leaving uneasiness in its wake.

  For the next several days, strange breezes whipped around the wagons, kicking up small dust clouds that danced back and forth, blowing hats off heads. Carol continually practiced, improving her control of Wreckath. As the line of wagons neared the Sul River, Carol had acquired such skill at controlling the breezes that she could tie a knot with freely hanging strings.

  The people of the caravan were not overly impressed, having had lifelong familiarity with wielders, most of whom had minor abilities and demonstrated them in the towns that their carnivals passed through. Nevertheless, Carol felt proud of her accomplishments.

  She had also begun working with a minor fire elemental, Golich, which had the ability to create small lights, like fireflies or that of a distant torch. This time, she was much more careful on her first attempt and managed to cast a spell without inflicting damage on Hawthorne or his tent. The elemental struggled, but she maintained firm control, creating a pair of lights and moving them around the interior of the tent together and then in opposite directions.

  The Sul and Rake Rivers formed the western boundary of the kingdom of Tal. Rolling along, brown and muddy from the spring runoff, the Rake River appeared before them as the wagons topped a gradual rise. On the far side, the borderlands began. With the river not particularly wide or deep at this point, Rafel’s outriders had determined that this was the best crossing site for many leagues.

  On the opposite side of the Rake, the ground rose in a series of brush-covered hills that gave way to the snowcapped mountains in the distance. A broad plateau rose to the northwest. Rafel planned to stay south of the plateau country, avoiding towns like Rork, not wanting to invite trouble despite the large size of his force.

  Carol rode Amira across the river in advance of the lead wagons. The water flowed swiftly but was shallow, only reaching up to the mare’s belly. Climbing out beneath the leafless branches of an overhanging cottonwood tree, she trotted on up the hill, halting next to where Alan sat atop his warhorse, Charger. She loved her brother, who had been beating all of Gaar’s trainers in contests of arms since he was sixteen. The only reason her father had not promoted him to captain and given him a company to command was that Alan lost himself in battle, becoming so involved in his personal fight that his leadership was diminished to the equivalent of, “Follow me!”

  “Hello, sister,” Alan said.

  “Hello yourself, little brother.” She turned to watch the line of wagons.

  She talked to Alan for two hours as the wagons crossed the river. When the last one emerged on the bank to begin climbing the gradual rise, Carol urged Amira off the hill, waving a hand at Alan as she rode down to see her father.

  Rafel rode alongside the rear wagon, talking with Gaar. She pulled Amira to a walk as she came up beside her father. “I want to ride out with Alan and the outriders tomorrow.”

  A look of concern settled on the high lord’s features. “I don’t like having you and Alan out at the same time. If something went wrong, I could lose you both.”

  “Tomorrow is our first full day in the Borderlands. It will send a signal to our people that you’re not sheltering your own children from the dangers we all face.”

  The warlord glanced at Gaar, who nodded his approval.

  “Very well, then. You can ride out with Alan’s group tomorrow morning. It’s rough country. Carol, I implore you, be careful.”

  She inclined her head and spurred her horse forward along the line of slow-moving wagons. As the day passed, the countryside through which the caravan traveled changed, the gently rolling swales giving way to rocky foothills. Rafel kept the wagons in a broad valley that wound to the west, a route necessitated by the rugged country on either side that made wagon traffic impractical. The snowcapped mountains loomed ahead, close enough now that they had begun to lose their blue tinge.

  As the wagons climbed, the air grew colder, forcing Carol and the other travelers to don warm jackets by evening. With the sun sinking below the Borderland Range, they made camp next to the stream that wound its way along the valley’s center. Showing his eternal vigilance, the high lord ordered guard posts manned in groups of three instead of the twos that they had maintained up until now, positioning listening posts out beyond the guard line.

  Flakes whirled around the cook fires as the morning broke with a hint of snow. Wrapped in her warm coat, a bow and quiver of arrows strapped over her shoulder, Carol felt comfortable in the saddle atop Amira as the mare moved out with the rest of her team at a ground-covering saddle gait. Alan rode beside her, wrapped in his own heavy coat, his battle-ax hanging from his saddle.

  The riders split into groups of four; Carol and Alan made up half of the westernmost group. The four riders traveled in a varying wedge formation with one out front, two off to either side, and one in the center. Alan was in front with Carol slightly behind and to his right. The ground had become rocky and steep, the loose shale making the horses slip and slide although they managed to keep their footing with no spills. An hour out of camp, Alan rode up a wooded ridge followed by the others.

  By now, a thin blanket of snow covered the ground and draped the tree branches. The snow, soon falling heavier, muffled the sound of their horses’ hooves, cloaking their passage with an eerie silence.

  7

  Hannington Castle

  YOR 412, Winter’s End

  After weeks that had yielded no success in his magical search for High Lord Rafel and his border legion, a breakthrough sent a thrill through Kragan. Rafel’s son and daughter had just passed outside the wards that Hawthorne had placed to prevent Kragan from locating the caravan.

  Locating Rafel’s kin was one thing. Doing something about them was quite another. Although Kragan was able to sense their location, it was not as if he could scry on them across the leagues. Nor could he cast a direct spell upon them. And eventually they would once again disappear within the boundary of Hawthorne’s wards.

  The king’s army would be no help whatsoever, as Coldain still struggled to gather a large enough force from the noble estates scattered across Tal to take on Rafel’s legion. Only the high lord, as commander of the army of Tal and protector of the kingdom’s western border, had a large force supplied and ready to march on short notice. Due to the frequent skirmishes along the border that he guarded, Rafel’s soldiers and rangers were combat elite. To prevail against that legion would require an army several times as large.

  That did not mean that Kragan was without options. The vorgish wielder, J’Laga, possessed one of Kragan’s scrying vases, all filled with water Kragan had taken from the same basin. He had distributed almost all the vases to key followers in the Borderlands and beyond, with the last vase resting on a pedestal near Kragan’s hearth.

  To this clear crystal vase Kragan now strode. Smaller than his fist, it sat on the circular top of the black marble pedestal, the water within as still as glass. As he gazed into its interior, his mind reached out for the water elemental that he had used to fill these vases, Boaa. And as he did so, the water within the vase began to move, climbing the sides of its container, forming a lens to match that formed inside J’Laga’s vase.

  The image shifted, then steadied. J’Laga, dressed in buckskin, sat cross-legged within a tent, lost in his study of a manuscript, unaware that Kragan had activated their link. When Kragan spoke, the water within his vase picked up the vibrations of his voice, as did its distant counterpart.

  “J’Laga.”

  The vorgish wielder raised his head and shifted his gaze so that he looked directly into Kragan’s eyes, showing no sign of being startled. His eyes sparkled with an intelligence that was exceptional among the vorg, who were known for their cunn
ing.

  Not surprising, considering how the vorg had been created by Landrel, the ancient master of the Endarian life-shifting and time-shaping magics. Not that Landrel had intended to create the species. He had merely been trying to cure his son by stealing the life essence of a wolf and funneling it into the boy. But Landrel had delved too deeply with his cure. Although his son had not been physically altered, Landrel’s grandchildren had become the first vorgs. Despite his horror at the deformity, Landrel had taken his family and fled from Endar, lest they be euthanized.

  J’Laga’s raspy voice pulled Kragan from his reverie. “You have a task for me, Lord?”

  “There is a small human patrol a few leagues east of Far Castle. Tell Commander Charna I want them captured or killed.”

  “I’ll inform Charna.”

  “And if anyone should escape, make sure it is to the west. Herd them to Far Castle.”

  J’Laga’s lips curled just enough to reveal yellowing fangs. The vorg knew what awaited the humans within those ruins.

  As Kragan released control of Boaa, the water spilled down the sides of the small vase to pool again in the bottom. Turning away, Kragan felt confident. When he declared that he had killed Rafel’s only children, the warlord would return to Tal to extract his revenge. And then Coldain and the gathered army of Tal would put an end to the warlord who posed the lone threat to Kragan’s plans.

  8

  Far Castle—Southern Borderland Range

  YOR 412, Winter’s End

  Carol, Alan, and the two outriders continued west until late afternoon, eating dried meat and drinking water as they rode. As the sun sank toward the horizon, they swung back to meet the wagons. Alan dropped over the side of the ridge into the next canyon. Carol turned north of a rock ledge and began to descend into the canyon a short distance from where Alan had gone down. Dale and Griffith, the other two riders in the group, rode down the ridge a hundred paces to the east.

  With such suddenness that Carol had no time to react, a huge vorg leapt from the thicket above and to her right, landing on Amira’s neck. The mare plunged sideways, losing her footing on the shale and throwing Carol clear. She struck the ground and rolled down the slope. As she crashed into a cluster of bushes, she reached out to arrest her slide and felt long thorns rip her hands and body. Rising to her knees, Carol saw the vorg repeatedly stab Amira with a long knife. Then the vorg raced down the slope, running straight toward her. As he neared the thicket, Carol reached out with her mind, sending forth a sudden gust of wind that blew a cloud of dust into the vorg’s face, leaving him clutching his eyes. Carol fired an arrow into the attacker’s stomach. A look of surprise settled on his wolfish face as he slumped forward.

  The air sang with the yells of the living and screams of the dying. Carol looked up to see vorgs running down the hill, clubs and swords raised for the kill. Dale and Griffith spurred their mounts toward her, slashing vorgs as they came. A spear pierced the chest of Griffith’s horse and the animal fell, throwing its rider into a group of five vorgs who were upon him before he could rise, hacking with fury. Dale’s horse plunged through this group, his sword sending a vorg’s head spinning into the air.

  Carol worked her bow as rapidly as she could fire, dropping three vorgs that rolled to rest within a dozen feet of her position. Glancing left, she saw Dale dragged from his horse, a war hammer caving in the side of his head as he hit the ground.

  Eight more vorgs raced across the distance that separated them from Carol. The number dropped to seven as her arrow caught one in the face, sending him flopping across the ground. She wondered why the vorgs had not returned her fire.

  Understanding dawned. They wanted her alive.

  Into the midst of the vorgs a lone rider plunged, his battle-ax rising and falling as its wielder leaned recklessly forward in the saddle. Alan’s ear-splitting yell echoed off the hills as he split the head of the nearest vorg, while a second vorg spun away through the air, his chest caved in like parchment by the flying hooves of Alan’s warhorse. Another vorg raised his spear only to have his arm removed at the shoulder. Carol loosed her last arrow, depositing it in a vorg’s back, sending him toppling into one of his comrades.

  Alan’s horse burst through the vorgs and into her thicket. Leaning down at a dead run, he grabbed Carol’s arm, sweeping her up and onto the horse behind him. The two of them crashed through the brush and down the ridge, Carol’s heart leaping into her throat. Alan had Charger running down a slope where a horse should be led, not ridden. Wrapping both arms around his waist, Carol hung on as tree branches slapped and gouged her. Charger stumbled and lurched, but somehow managed to right himself as they hit the ravine bottom and began running up to the west.

  Carol wondered why Alan was heading west, away from the wagons and soldiers. Looking back, she found her answer. Dozens of vorgs swarmed into the canyon from the east, cutting them off from the caravan.

  “We have to warn Father,” Alan yelled back at her.

  “If you can find us a place to stop safely for ten minutes, I will try to contact Hawthorne,” Carol replied.

  “It’ll have to wait, then.”

  Carol saw a dozen vorgs on horseback less than a tenth of a league behind them and coming hard. And the vorgs were not riding double.

  Alan spurred Charger on, Carol’s extra weight seeming to trouble the warhorse little. Together they thundered up the canyon floor, leaping over rocks and plunging through thickets. Alan reined the horse to the right, sending it up a steep trail on the north side of the canyon. Ducking left and right to avoid being swept from the saddle by overhanging limbs, Carol clung to Alan with all her strength.

  As they reached the top of the ridge, the big horse was breathing hard, its sides heaving. Alan urged it along the ridgetop, heading west at a dead run. A bug slapped Carol in the face as she peered over Alan’s shoulder, and the whistling wind stung her eyes.

  The weight of two riders was beginning to tell on the warhorse. Carol could see that the vorgs were gaining on them. Alan rode off the top of the ridge and down a ragged slope, counting on being able to outride the vorgs in rough terrain. Horse and riders plummeted off a small ledge, landing five feet below. Charger slipped and almost fell in the snow, but managed once again to stay upright. Alan spurred the animal directly down the steep incline and then up the other side of the arroyo.

  As they topped this rise, Carol could see that the maneuver had gained them some ground. The horse was now laboring hard, his breath coming in gasping pants. Sweat formed white foam where the saddle blanket ended, the animal’s eyes wide and distended. Carol realized they would run Charger to death before much longer.

  Rounding a bend, she saw a pinnacle looming before them. Atop its sheer rock walls, the skeletal remains of a crumbling castle perched like a vulture surveying the surrounding terrain.

  As Charger reached the base of the cliff, Alan turned him along the bottom of the rock wall. She saw what he was heading for. A steep trail led up the side of the cliff, so narrow and worn from lack of use that no horse could climb the incline. Alan pulled the stallion to a stop, he and Carol swinging to the ground in unison. Slapping its rump, he sent Charger galloping off and then followed Carol up the treacherous path.

  The going was hard. What had once been a good trail had fallen into ruin, large sections of the rock wall having sloughed off to plunge to the ground far below. The path rose steeply and, at the crumbled parts, narrowed to less than a foot wide.

  Looking down, Carol saw the vorgs reach the trail’s base. One attempted to ride up the path but plunged off, not to rise again. The remaining vorgs tied their horses to trees a short distance away and walked back toward the trail. Alan and Carol steadily worked their way up the cliff.

  As day gave way to night, the two emerged at the top of the trail to confront the exposed ribs of the ancient fortress, moon shadows creeping around the rubble like specters. The castle walls had fallen in several places, forming piles of broken stone. Bare wooden t
imbers and supports jutted upward where roofs had been. For obvious reasons, the builders had felt no need to construct a moat.

  Alan scrambled over debris from a fallen wall and Carol followed. They found themselves in a dark courtyard fifty paces across. The inner castle still stood.

  “So, this is Far Castle,” he said.

  Carol shuddered. The legend of Far Castle whispered from her childhood memories. In ages long past, it had been the kingdom of Tal’s proud western outpost. Baron Rajek, the lord of Far Castle, had gone mad, leading his vassals in revolt. Legend said that an evil wielder named Draken had clouded his lord’s mind, enticing him into rebellion.

  Rajek had been defeated and Far Castle thrown into ruin. But Draken, in his desperation, had performed a summoning. In doing so, he had allowed a being from the netherworld to enter his body, replacing his form with that of the creature. Unfortunately for him, the thing that was rumored to still lurk within the bowels of these ruins had consumed his mind as well.

  Carol forced the old story from her thoughts. Since they had nowhere to go but inside, she and Alan made their way carefully through the main entrance, the doors having long since rotted and fallen off their hinges. What little light remained in the night sky failed to penetrate far, bringing the siblings to a halt in complete darkness.

  Carol concentrated, producing the light of two weak torches. It was the best that Golich could manage. In a perfect world, she would have acquired far stronger spells before attempting to escape from vorgs into a haunted ruin. Alas, she had yet to make perfection’s acquaintance.

  Here, among the overturned chairs and bits of rusty armor, she saw old bones lying in piles scattered about the floor. Luminous wisps of torch-lit fog dripped from the edge of an ancient blade, still clutched in the bony grip of the dead.

  Carol deeply inhaled and immediately regretted it, the smell of mold and dust so thick that breathing was a challenge. Each step sent up a cloud of decay, the specks of which swam through the dim light like a horde of tiny gnats, only the missing buzzing in her ears giving lie to the illusion.