Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening

by Von Werner, Michael

  “What about you?” She countered. “Do you think you’re being heroic?” Tears started welling up in her eyes though her voice held. “Do you think you’re saving me by doing this?” She wiped them away with her hand before looking in his eyes again. “What makes it okay for you to go? What makes it okay for you to…” she couldn’t say it.

  “There’s nothing okay about it. Because of what happened, fear doesn’t paralyze me anymore. I wasn’t prepared the first time. You can’t do anything to prepare for the first time. I got lucky, but luck doesn’t last. In a battle as big as the one we’re about to fight, I can’t even guarantee that I’ll live through it.” He felt his own eyes glisten. “If something minor happens down the road, go ahead and fight in it. Gain the understanding I wish I didn’t have, if it’s that important to you. But not by doing this. I beg you, stay out of this. You can’t go. If you do, you’ll die.”

  “So you should just die instead? Is that what you want?”

  Vincent stared at her more intently.

  His voice was subdued. “I would die for you.”

  “I can’t accept that.” She tried to move past him again. He moved to stand in her way.

  Vincent tried to be patient with her as he resorted to the last thing he could think of. “Jessica, I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve tended these gardens with you, and I even risked my own life just for the slim chance of returning your brother. I’ve never asked you for anything before. I’m asking you now to grant what may be my last request: stay behind.”

  “But I can help!” She insisted.

  Vincent shared a long look with her. He moved forward and gently caressed the side of her face with his right hand. He put his hands on her waist and drew her near. His face was only a few inches from hers. “I know,” he whispered softly. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I don’t want to lose you either,” she whispered sadly, unable to keep back the tears.

  “You won’t.” Then he found himself smiling. She frowned in confusion. “With your love to come back to, I’ll be more careful and alert. I’ll want to live even more. I won’t let them take me.”

  “Vincent…” she breathed out worriedly, pulling him into a tighter embrace.

  His head rested over her shoulder. He turned and kissed her neck. “I promise I’ll come back soon.”

  * * *

  Vincent finally entered the city of Gadrale, hot and winded. His feet thudded on the cobblestone street, and his dark blue cloak billowed out behind. It then occurred to him that he didn’t know which of the three things Master Anthony’s company had decided to do first or where they were. He slowed himself to a walk.

  He asked around politely several times on the street until a hunched-over old woman was able to tell him that she saw troops moving east down Bennings street, a good while back. He thanked her, took a right at it, and dashed past people to go find them. When he got there, he found that the street was on the other side of a busy market square and had only shops housing saddles, tack, and other utilitarian goods. He asked around again until he learned which of the stores they had gone to. Only a boy remained watching the store, claiming that the owner had gone to the city hall to seek reimbursement for a king’s voucher signed by a wizard. Apparently they had just made some sort of large transaction for supplies and equipment. Vincent asked which way the wizard and his men had gone, and was told that they headed south, toward the corner of the city.

  He went down the streets, scanning with his eyes for signs of their passing until he finally saw a huge mass of soldiers in red tabards. He came closer and saw a smaller group of wizards off to the side, including the pair of healer women that had twice treated him. The soldiers and many of the wizards all seemed to be wearing packs with straps across their shoulders. The sound of several people in their midst talking, filled the air. Having found them at last, Vincent slowed somewhat and walked over to join his fellow magi.

  As he got closer, he immediately noticed Karl, who stood out as the only one in the crowd wearing green robes, and approached. Karl was standing with his back to him, talking to Rick. He wore a pack on his back as did many of the others.

  “Vincent!” Rick greeted as soon as he saw him. “We told them to get one more because we knew you were coming.” He tossed a pack to Vincent, which he caught in both hands and continued walking toward them. Karl turned around.

  “Thanks,” Vincent said, starting to take off his dark blue cloak so he could put on the pack. After he did, he put the cloak back over it and let his left hand rest on the hilt of his sword.

  With a finger, Rick scratched an itch on the side of his face. “We’ve already spread the word of what happens if you don’t remove their heads.”

  “Good. What are we doing here anyway?”

  Karl answered him. “Master Anthony is trying to recruit some Edmarian mercenaries.”

  “He’s been at it for a while,” Rick put in. “Maybe we should go to the front and find out what’s taking so long.”

  Vincent walked with Rick and Karl a good distance toward the head of the company. The soldiers in red tabards were not standing as perfectly lined up as he had seen before, and many with the war axes resting over their shoulders were talking idly with their neighbors. The drummers all waited silently.

  At the head of their wide column, the flag bearer continued to stand at attention, holding high the Rygan Banner. Beyond him and his fellow soldiers was Master Anthony’s entourage: a portly cerebist man, a young woman with dark brown hair who was a seeress, a couple of pyromancers wearing red, and a few atmomancers in their usual blue.

  Master Anthony, who still held a wooden box in his arm, and the black-caped Rygan officer were standing in front of a curious site. In a part of the town where most buildings were made of wood, stood this single taller building made of stone that had three floors and many rooms inside. It was made with smooth gray bricks and built with flowing, circular designs around the edges and shuttered windows. The top was built with crenulated parapets and appeared more a fortification than a roof.

  The curious architecture appeared Elvin, mixed with some local Rygan traits. The door was made from such solid slabs of oak that it appeared as though a battering ram would be needed to break it down. Everything about it seemed to give the impression that the owner was not content to trust its safety to the city garrison.

  The only thing left unprotected was a collection of bones outside on a bench near the door. They were from different creatures, but many were distinctly Orc skulls, and there was even an open bag of teeth. No one wanted these items, and so they didn’t seem to fear them ever being stolen.

  Above the door was a wide rectangle carved into the stone surface. In its center were strange letters that he couldn’t make out. Vincent had learned to speak Elvish fluently, but he had never learned the complex patterns that the written form took. Thankfully, just below it on a metal support that jutted out into the street, there was a wooden board flapping slightly in the wind: It was a sign stained with three words written in his own tongue.

  Deralon’s Edmarian Mercenaries

  Vincent immediately saw that to the left of Master Anthony there were around twenty of them standing in a row in front of the building, off to one side of the door. They wore light tan leather clothing that was almost like his own except that the sleeves were missing on many, revealing dirt-stained, muscular arms. The clothing looked far more suited to hiding in the hot, arid wastes of the Badlands than in any forest. Vincent thought that was where they must spend most of their time.

  None looked like what one would expect from upstanding or affable Elves. They had short-cut hair of blond, black, or brown. Some had even shaved their heads bald, which made their pointed ears look even bigger, and their overall appearance more demonic. A few of these wore a single braided horsetail off the back of their heads. There were many old scars on each face, some across their foreheads, noses, cheeks, and a few were near their strange pointy eyes of y
ellow, green, or blue. They carried long light yellowish-brown bows, and a few bent over them to spit.

  They wore numerous, wicked-looking knives on leather straps and wide full quivers hung across each back. The types of swords they carried were in no way uniform like the weapons seen in the Rygan Army; they each appeared custom-made by blacksmiths to each owner’s preference. Some carried pairs of curved blades that were only slightly longer than the biggest of their knives. One carried a black metal-hafted mace, and one of the larger Elves carried a two-handed long-sword over his back that looked thinner than expected, apparently meant more for speed coupled with long reach. Others had many Elvish blades of different kinds with curved handles from the ornate to the purely functional, and there seemed to be no pattern to where each of them kept their weapons.

  Their commander looked no less savage. He had black paint all around his burgeoning, wolf-like yellow Elf eyes, his eyebrows, nose, and upper cheeks. Sandy hair hung just down to his neck behind his pointed ears and numerous scars. He appeared to be having a heated discussion with Master Anthony.

  At first, Vincent had only heard some of it above the white noise of the surrounding city and talking soldiers. Now that the three of them had gotten closer, he paid more attention to it. “…the sum you’re offering is too small, Human,” he heard Deralon insist in a snide, arrogant voice that was more refined-sounding than Vincent thought it had a right to be.

  Ever so slowly, Master Anthony made a motion with his head toward the rest of the force he had gathered. “As you can see, your men would only be cream on a cake. Your contracts out here can’t be many. You need this job more than we need you.”

  He seemed offended by this and his tone became imperious. “For your information, wizard, we’ve just returned from a reconnaissance mission into the badlands two days ago. A mission paid for by the king. He hires us to track Orc movements quite regularly. Without my men, your academy would have been clueless about that shaman’s uprising sixty-two years past.”

  He then paused and squinted at Master Anthony, inspecting him without losing his irreverent tone or demeanor. “I think I recognize your face. You’ve aged a bit, but you’re still a stripling in my book. If I’m not mistaken, I believe you were one of the young wizards sent to assassinate him.”

  “I was,” Anthony remarked, not mentioning anything about Deralon’s disrespect for his young age. “You do have a long record of reliable service. But this time we face something significantly more dangerous, something that requires more skill than needed for hunting Orcs. Your men will have to be more accurate than usual. I don’t want them hitting any of mine.”

  “I already told you before: if you want results, you have to pay my fee.”

  The caped Rygan officer stepped forward, gesturing with a low swipe of his hand not carrying the shield. “The foe we face is great in number-you are only twenty. Archers are usually unreliable cowards who flee when overrun or get ground up into carrion by cavalry.” He looked around at the brutish Elves with a sneer forming at his dark mustache. “Your band of misfits look little better.” He brought his attention back to their leader. The mercenaries’ reactions were as odd as everything else about them. Some glared, some smiled in crazed delight, some let out loony sounding giggles, and others just looked bored. “How can we justify the exorbitant price tallied to our king if we can’t be assured of your professionalism?”

  The Elf commander did not appear as angry at this as Vincent would have thought. “Under the bench over there,”-he pointed-“I keep a sack filled with only the right front fang”-he held his thumb and first finger to show the small, half-inch length-“of each slain Orc. My men and I make a sport of killing them by having our arrows cut it off before piercing the back of their skull.”

  Vincent regarded the open sack again for a moment. It displayed many sharp whitish teeth in a pile inside. He found himself wondering if they had actually accomplished this impressive feat or if they had only collected the fangs afterward. The Rygan officer shook his head with a sigh of disgust and took a few steps away, tiring of the negotiation. The Elf commander ignored him and continued to stare at Master Anthony.

  What Rick seemed more incredulous about was the number. “That’s all?”

  The Elf didn’t look his way when he spoke to his mercenaries. “Show them, men.”

  The twenty others, one by one, some with a groan of disapproval, went back inside the building and each came out carrying two heavy sacks, tossing them in front of the group of wizards. As the officer turned his head to see this, he made a point with two gloved fingers and flicked it toward the bags. A few Rygan soldiers responded to this by breaking rank to go inspect them, testing their weight and opening them to see inside.

  Each man had a shocked expression and stared a moment at each bag’s contents before moving on to the next. A few reached gloved hands in to make sure there were teeth and nothing else. When finished, they looked toward Master Anthony and the Rygan officer and nodded their heads before returning to their places. Vincent was astonished; there must have been thousands of Orc fangs. The number killed was quite impressive, even if there was doubt as to whether or not it was done in the manner described.

  The Elf commander lifted his head back slightly, arrogantly eying Master Anthony with his strange pointy yellow eyes. He furled his lips, revealing his teeth. It, among other things, had given Vincent the distinct impression that these Elf men were not mentally stable.

  Master Anthony calmly sighed and opened the wooden box in his arm while holding his gaze. From inside, he pulled out a parchment, ink bottle, and quill. He shut the box and rested the parchment on top of it, using his inner arm for support. The stopper for the ink bottle came loose, and he began penning the company’s name and contract price on the royal voucher at the top, providing his name as the endorsing signature at the bottom.

  Afterward, they moved out, the drums continuing to sound. They paid a brief visit to the city hall, a fortress-like building, and spoke with the magistrate. When Master Anthony told him about how they were hunting a powerful throng of necromancers, whom as such were in violation of the king’s law, he agreed to help their cause. Unfortunately, he could only spare a hundred men from the city garrison, any more would weaken their defenses. Master Anthony accepted, and their combined force marched on to rendezvous with the scouts.

  * * *

  As a breakfast, Vincent ate a few strips of dried meat from his pack while they plodded on through the forest. Along with Karl and Rick, he stayed close to Master Anthony at the front of their force. The Rygan officer had the men change to a wide, more box-like formation to fan out in preparation for battle. They kept more or less to this with the woodland terrain forcing many irregularities in their ranks, and the footsteps were now a series of random, unsynchronized, softer clanks.

  They still made a lot of noise, but their purpose this day was not to sneak up on their enemy-their purpose was to crush him with brute force. The red Rygan banner was still held high, and the black crest of a lion standing on its hind legs in an attack posture seemed eager to pounce this day. Drummers continued to drum more for the sake of keeping discipline and letting everyone know that a fight was close than to time their steps. Dun dun d-dun dun, dun dun d-dun dun. The mercenaries preferred to remain in the rear so as to provide support without entering any melee.

  To Vincent, everyone was focused. Everyone except for the seeress that Master Anthony had brought along. She kept sneaking glances at his cousin Karl when he wasn’t looking. From overhearing conversations she had with others from the keep, he learned that her name was Amanda. There was nothing wrong with her liking of Karl, he supposed. Before the battle started, she and the cerebist would have to seek shelter far in the rear anyway; her preoccupation with his cousin was not detrimental.

  Around midday, the sky had become overcast, and they encountered the group of scouts who had located Clyde and his undead thralls. They were at the top of a gently falling rise.
Stacy stood with a group consisting of his two former guards, a blonde cerebist woman, a young seer with a staff, and a pyromancer Elf. All looked quite tired, as though they had spent an entire night without any sleep, but Stacy appeared even more fatigued and had dark rings around her eyes.

  Karl greeted her with his flippant tongue. “Wow, Stacy. What did Master Anthony punish you with?” Her mentor ignored the jest.

  “It’s nice to see you too, Karl,” she replied.

  The mustached botanical mage spoke next after eying Vincent and Rick. “So,” he said in a drawn out tone of recognition, “he brought your other friends. Looks like your little club of delinquents is complete once more.”

  They were all silent for a moment. Stacy folded her arms under her breasts. He looked toward her but only found a glare of annoyance. He was undaunted by it, and gestured toward her with his head while looking at the others. “Well, I suppose she’s alright, but I don’t know about you three.”

  Master Anthony returned things to the business at hand. “The six of you have had no sleep. If you wish it, you may refrain from joining the battle and return to the keep.”

  “We’ll stay,” Vincent’s two former guards voiced as one, glancing at each other afterward because of the strangeness of having been so timed.

  The old wizard looked toward Stacy. “I’ll stay too,” she said.

  Everyone then turned their attention to the pyromancer Elf who wore red robes and had long black hair. He looked around oddly as though he were being incriminated in some way. “Alright, alright, I’ll stay too!” No one had said a single word to pressure him yet that’s how he seemed to interpret their temporary, silent, gazes. The blonde cerebist woman and the seer said nothing.