Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening

by Von Werner, Michael

  Stacy couldn’t help feeling a tinge of fear creep over her. “What was it?”

  The seer appeared quite disturbed. “Clyde…he’s not alone.” He looked and pointed at the Elf. “I think we should take his advice and just go home, I, I’m too young for this, I don’t know anything about how this magic works, I’m just…”

  The botanical mage with the mustache and small beard gripped him by both shoulders. “Who was he with!”

  The young seer appeared as though he didn’t know what to say. “I…I”

  “Who?” He repeated sternly.

  He looked aside as though wanting to avoid their leader’s gaze. “…p-people,” he said at last, starting to shake. “People who are d-dead. I saw people who are dead!” The eyes of the man with the scar widened while he stared at him, and his hands let go. The seer stepped back, using his staff to keep his balance. His eyes glistened. “Slaughtered villagers. Men, women, and children, who are all dead!” He whined, “there’s too many of them!” He buried his face in anguish “…so many.” He looked like he wanted to turn away and run.

  Even though it had healed over, Stacy’s hand found her neck where she had been bitten, rubbing it absentmindedly. “What about Clyde?” She still asked, not feeling the same shock as the others. “What was he doing? Where did he go? Was anyone else over there with him? Besides them?”

  “I…I saw black hooded forms on top of horses. They were dead too.”

  Stacy found this unusual at first. “You mean the horses?”

  “And the riders.”

  Her blood chilled and she struggled to think of why this might be. Her impression of the cult so far was that they raised the corpses of their victims to do their god’s bidding, not their mounts, and certainly not themselves. What was going on?

  She quickly asked the seer another question. “Of the people wearing black robes, did you see any others that were not dead?”

  “No,” he answered fearfully, shaking his head, “Clyde was the only one not dead. The others…they had no flesh, only bone.” Stacy’s eyes widened.

  The botanical mage saw her reaction and decided to draw upon her experience. “Is this different from before?”

  “Yes,” she replied worriedly, continuing to stare while lost in thought.

  He stood tall and straightened his clothing, letting out a breath. “Alright, let’s have our seer take another look, let’s have our cerebist give Master Anthony precise directions to them, and then we’ll find ourselves a reasonably concealed vantage point to wait for reinforcements to arrive.”

  “What! Are you crazy!” The Elf protested. “We should stay right here!”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere near them!” The seer added.

  The mage seemed to understand their fears and came to put a reassuring hand on each shoulder. “Part of our job is to make sure that the masters at Gadrale Keep always know where evil like theirs is lurking,” he looked first at the seer, whom he could tell understood this part, and then to the Elf in red robes. “If this army begins to move, we must keep them within our seer’s non-symbolic range. Accurate monitoring of the enemy is what it means to scout.”

  “I’m scared,” the young seer confessed.

  “Then help us find a place to hide that’s close enough to watch them but far enough not to be found. Because we’re all scared.” He released their shoulders and turned to the cerebist woman perfunctorily. “Inform the masters.”

  “Already done,” she said. He nodded.

  As they trekked through the woods, the seer stopped often to survey the terrain surrounding their destination. At one point, he insisted that they go no further while he searched for the vantage point their leader desired. Once he found a location that he thought might work, he led them off course, now going north and somewhat to the east.

  In the night’s darkness, they walked through thick groves and grassy meadows until at last the seer took them to a thicket close to the top of a rise. Though the area where he told them they could spy down from was surrounded by trees and thick bushes, he still scolded the pyromancer Elf to douse his small flame. Stacy didn’t see him but heard the man with the scar tell them all to lay flat.

  She went slowly at first, holding up the hem of her dress and bending down to try to feel for the ground with her other hand. Her hand found pine needles which seemed soft and spread out enough, but when she tried to put any weight on them, a few laying at off angles poked her on the sides. She took a few steps and felt around again until she found a spot that was more suitable. The solid ground was painful on her knees and so she tried to set herself down quickly. As she lay down, the cold hard forest floor pressed firmly against her breasts in an uncomfortable way that prompted her to support herself on her forearms.

  She heard whispers from the plant mage saying that they should inch forward so they could see past the cover. The seer refused, claiming he didn’t need to, and the other didn’t press the issue. Stacy tried not to ruin her dress and moved carefully to avoid getting it snagged on anything. She was about to go further past the next bush at the top of the rise when her eye caught a distant torch flicker from down the slope on the other side. It was really no more than a speck, as were the others.

  Stacy peered cautiously down the vast and shallow rise to survey the scene below. What she saw in the beginning as one torch soon became many, her eyes gradually beginning to find others that were less conspicuous. The expanse was largely treeless except for a few to either side. Far downhill from where they were, on nearly flat terrain, there was in fact a number of undead she thought could pass for an army.

  There were few torches, not all of the corpses carried them, yet she could make out enough that there must indeed be thousands assembled. They were in no way uniform either; there were figures in dresses, women; smaller forms, children among the masses; and some appeared elderly too. She noticed black forms atop horses in the distance, standing in a row. Strangely, there didn’t appear to be as many cult members as she would have expected. They must have gone somewhere else. Far off to the right, there was a farmhouse and a barn. The barn door faced her and she saw it swing open suddenly, and a figure she thought must be Clyde go in.

  In the next instant, there was a loud boom in the distant sky. Stacy jumped and then looked to see where it had come from. Her heart caught in her throat when she gazed left and saw a small red cloud of flame rise over the tree tops. It looked small but Stacy knew it was not. It was set off from a city that was far away, meant as a warning. It was a flare.

  Not every town had one. Those that were too small or were established late as a thin collection of only a few households did not. Flares were red spherical objects created by wizards with the gift for crafting and were used whenever a city came under attack. Everyone knew about them, but more importantly, anyone was capable of activating one. All you had to do was touch it and wish for it to work, even a normal could handle that. Even better, flares had spells on them that helped them deploy themselves. They could fly through the air until they found an opening, regardless of what it was, and escape to fly high into the sky. The large fiery explosion could be seen and heard for miles. Their use was rare, and Stacy had never before seen one set off.

  Until now.

  Another went off and then another, turning an otherwise tranquil forest night into a restless and tense one for them all. Stacy heard someone crawling on the ground next to her. “Why are so many flares going off!” The frightened voice of the seer whispered.

  “Our quarry has gotten more ambitious,” she answered, stating the obvious to the worried young man.

  She then heard the botanical mage whisper to the cerebist woman, “tell the masters what has happened.”

  “I already did.”

  “Good,” he whispered back, “now we wait for reinforcements, and pray those poor souls can last until they arrive.”

  Anxiety crept over Stacy even more succinctly when another flare went off.

  It was go
ing to be a long wait.

  Chapter XIX

  Vincent awoke partway through the night, his nose still in the pit of his bent arm. It had been a highly unpleasant night like all others in his infernal cell, sitting with his back to the wall near the gate and his knees pulled up. A pile of his leavings had accumulated in the corner opposite where he sat and still made the place smell terrible.

  In a vain effort to maintain his edge over this past week, he had done push-ups and other exercises while trying his best to ignore the smell. It had worked to an extent, though there was simply not enough room for him to practice using his sword. He had tried magic instead, mostly heating or freezing the blade of his knife or sword for as long as he could before exhaustion claimed him. Since he did not have his whetstone, he spent many hours using his power to sharpen each blade beyond what he had achieved before and beyond what he thought possible.

  He even tried once placing the very tip of his knife at the edge of the puddle of urine and sending an extreme wave of cold to freeze it and his other waste. This worked for a time until it inevitably thawed out and he was left to suffer once more. He then decided that it was better to just let it dry out: that way it released most of the odor it would and then became somewhat less of a nuisance.

  It was the morning of the day he was to be released, the end of his punishment, yet Vincent’s patience for it had ended a long time ago. He wanted out. He didn’t know if the night was all the way over or if it was only partway into the earliest hours of the morning when all still slept, but didn’t care. He wanted out now.

  “Guard!” He yelled out angrily. “My time is up! Let me out!”

  A distant call came back from the detention area’s main room. “It’s not yet sunrise outside.”

  Vincent hadn’t seen the sun or the outside for over a week. “Close enough! Let me out!”

  “I’m not allowed,” the voice came back quietly from the other room.

  Frustration seared through him. The masters had already proven their point, and he had suffered more than enough. “No one’s going to check between then and now!” He shouted back. “Just do it!”

  Several moments passed. At first Vincent thought the guard was considering it and then he thought he was just going to ignore him. Before Vincent could repeat the demand, his voice sounded back. “Alright, I suppose it couldn’t hurt none.”

  Vincent heard his steps making small clanks on the stone of the hallway and his keys jangling. The jailor on duty hid his nose in his sleeve the same way Vincent had. When he approached the gate, blocking some of the light from the orb on the wall just outside, he held his breath while he fumbled for the right key. Vincent stood and waited, watching the other plug his nose, insert the key, and give it a twist.

  As soon as it was unlocked, Vincent pushed it open, just missing the jailor as he stepped back. “Thank you,” Vincent said in pronounced relief.

  The jailor replied with a nasal, “you’re welcome,” as Vincent strode past.

  Each swift and widely spaced step felt strange and good at the same time. He was finally free. Though it was only a week, it had felt like an eternity, and a measure of bitterness had seeped into his soul as a result.

  Terrible as the things were that had happened, which in turn contributed to his incarceration, he now couldn’t care less for what the masters saw as outside of procedure save for trying to avoid future punishments. He had tried to do the right thing, and they didn’t like it. Unexpected and unavoidable consequences had come about, and they didn’t like it. Well that was just fine, he decided. Next time, they could take the risks; they could bear the responsibility when things didn’t turn out well. If they even tried to do anything at all. Now he would focus primarily on doing what they told him to. That’s what they really wanted after all, wasn’t it? They couldn’t stand him doing otherwise. How dare he take matters into his own hands. Well, no more.

  What had hurt Vincent even worse during this past week was when he requested to be the one to write the letters to the parents of Stan and Craig. He had asked to be the one to send his tearful regrets at how their sons had been slain in the defense of the keep and all it stood for, only to be denied. After receiving word of what he desired, the masters responded by having a guard deliver a note to him saying that his request was refused because they felt he obviously didn’t have enough concern for their well being in the first place. He had crumpled that note in the tightest fist he had ever made, so much that his hand had bled from his own nails biting into his palm. That was fine too, he decided. The masters were in charge. So be it.

  Vincent bounded stiffly up the dark stairway lit by intermittent light orbs, trying to put everything behind him in more way than one. When he reached the hall at the top, near the dining area, he took an immediate left. The place was deserted. It was so early that it was perhaps hours before anyone would be cooking, eating, or even waiting.

  He went across the empty dining hall toward the wall on his left and went down a staircase to the common area used for laundry. There he dumped one of the empty half-barrels of its soapy water, and took it along with its washboard and a bar of soap back up the stairs. He left the keep, explaining only once to the soldiers atop the towers near the gatehouse what he was doing, and then passed through the campus and left through the outer gate. The fresh air was wonderful.

  Vincent walked a ways in the dark to a small stream that lay two miles west of the keep. It did not flow all year round, only in early and late spring, and was now hardly wider than the bucket he brought. It was deeper than he would have thought. After filling up the half-barrel, he took everything off and began washing his clothes. He supposed he could have changed or tried this back at the keep, but right now he wanted to be away from there.

  He kept things simple and somewhat quick. He soaked his clothes a little in the soapy water, scrubbed them a little on the washboard, and then rinsed them in the stream before setting them aside on top of some grass. Afterward, he cleaned himself up as good as he could with the stream’s water and the soap he had brought with him. He finished by filling up the bucket and dumping it on himself. Not wanting to waste any time on hanging his clothes to dry, he wringed each article tightly to get the water out. This didn’t work quite as well as he would have hoped, but he was beyond caring. He still felt refreshed as he put it all back on, including his dark blue cloak, and the sun finally began to rise.

  Taking advantage of the light it provided, he filled the bucket, pulled out his knife, and shaved using his reflection in the still water as a guide. When he was done, he splashed some water in his face, cleaned off the knife, and returned it to its sheath. Before gathering everything up, he took out his sword and swung it several times, in everyway possible, testing its weight on his arms. Surprisingly, every technique was still fresh in his mind, and his body responded more or less accordingly even if at some times he felt a little stiff. He sent his sword home in its scabbard and used his hands to take several generous drinks from the stream. Lastly, he swept up the three items he borrowed, tossing the bar of soap inside the half barrel along with the washboard before starting back toward the keep.

  The view was amazing and stretched his eyes in a way that they hadn’t been for days. In front of him in the distance, he saw Gadrale Keep rising mightily from the grassland at the top of a rise, the sun hitting its flat, planar rooftop and its crenulated towers. From high in the air, the crystalline pointed roof to the Tower of Prophecy glinted in his eyes. More dimly lit around these were the keep’s defensive wall and the smaller perimeter wall surrounding the campus. At his left, he could see the sunlight shining on the green mountains fading to blue in the distance, and on his right, he could gaze for a vast stretch into the northwest edge of the Badlands. Along the ground, grass and brush swayed lightly in a gentle breeze and he heard faint bird calls. He was relieved in many ways, but his nose seemed to feel it the most profoundly; everything smelled fresher than he had ever known it to.

  As
he reached the corner of the perimeter wall on the outside, he heard the deep, even-patterned beating of drums, dun dun d-dun dun, dun dun d-dun dun, and noticed something unusual happening at the campus gate. Both iron bar doors were swung outward as far as they could go, and he saw a figure in blue robes walk out carrying a wooden box with a dark polish in the crook of his left arm. It was Master Anthony. Immediately behind him was a portly middle-aged man wearing the gray robes of a cerebist and a pretty young woman with dark brown hair and a light blue dress who Vincent recognized as a seeress. She carried no staff, and he took this to mean that she was a more advanced student who did not require one. He had even heard it said that the Master Seeress did not even need to close her eyes. Close by walked a number of wizards wearing red and blue robes.

  And then came the soldiers.

  They marched in five columns with their commanding officer walking out in front, wearing half-plate armor adorned with a red tabard and a pointed helm. A dark handlebar mustache was below his nose, and a battle horn hung from around his neck. He wore a sword at his side and a red-trimmed black cape that billowed only the slightest bit behind him as he walked. In his left arm, he held a shiny kite shield made of steel.

  In the center of the first row following him was the flag bearer, holding high the king’s banner, a wide red flag with two triangular tails flapping in the wind at its end, the bold black lion crest undulating in its center. At his side and behind him, swordsmen marched, carrying round wooden shields adorned with a shiny metal cap in the center and a band of metal around the outer edge. They wore their red tabards atop suits of chain mail, keeping their heads protected only by the chain coifs that covered them. Without raising their knees much, they marched with short strides. One loud mass of simultaneous metal clanks followed each collective step.