by Ben Hale
The Last Oracle
By Ben Hale
Text Copyright © 2013 Ben Hale
All Rights Reserved
To my family and friends,
who believed
And to my wife,
who is perfect
The Chronicles of Lumineia
By Ben Hale
—The White Mage Saga—
Assassin's Blade (Short story prequel)
The Last Oracle
The Sword of Elseerian
Descent Unto Dark
Impact of the Fallen
The Forge of Light
—The Second Draeken War—
Elseerian
The Gathering
Seven Days
The List Unseen
—The Warsworn—
The Flesh of War
The Age of War
The Heart of War (Dec 2015)
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Apprentice
Chapter 1: The Dream
Chapter 2: Awake
Chapter 3: Stranger
Chapter 4: Unreal
Chapter 5: Auroraq
Chapter 6: Tryton’s Academy of Magic
Chapter 7: Down the Rabbit Hole
Chapter 8: The Guildmaster
Chapter 9: Iris
Chapter 10: The Captain
Chapter 11: Inferno
Chapter 12: The Key
Chapter 13: The Weight of Fear
Chapter 14: Water and Rox
Chapter 15: Revelations
Chapter 16: Tempest
Chapter 17: Conflicted
Chapter 18: The Swordsman
Chapter 19: Excursion
Chapter 20: The High Council
Chapter 21: Night Run
Chapter 22: The Magic Melee
Chapter 23: Chained
Chapter 24: Valiant
Chapter 25: An Unexpected Friend
Chapter 26: Plummet
Chapter 27: Truth
Chapter 28: The Library
Chapter 29: The Heart of Fire
Chapter 30: Tipping Point
Chapter 31: Seeking the Sword
Chapter 32: The Harbingers
Chapter 33: Remnant
Chapter 34: The Master of Flesh
Chapter 35: Hawk
Chapter 36: The White Mage
Chapter 37: Death of an Oracle
The Chronicles of Lumineia
Author Bio
Prologue: The Apprentice
Day 6
The Second Draeken War
Enchanted chains bit into Draeken's flesh as he strained against them. He gave no thought to their sting as he stared into the pit. The emptiness to his prison paled in comparison to the scent of freedom. So few lives remained, and when they perished he would be released.
Hatred surged within him, bitter and hard. He drank it in like a potent liquor, and relished the flavor. It caused his whole frame to tremble. The races of Lumineia had earned their fate. His lip curled as he felt his chains weaken. It wouldn't be long now. These petty mortals had fought well, but to no avail. This time their suffering would end in death. This time . . . he would be triumphant. His army was on the verge of victory, a victory that he had been denied ten thousand years ago—
—But how had he failed on his first attempt? His twisted mind grappled for an answer, but it had eluded him for centuries and remained out of reach. His magic flared with his rising anger, and crackled across his arms like coarse lightning. The explosion of energy was siphoned off by the chains almost the moment it appeared. Their growing weakness caused him to sneer at the darkened opening in the opposite wall.
"I will be free, human," he growled at the empty corridor. "And my vow will be fulfilled. Every member of your race will bleed to their last breath, and it will be your doing."
Draeken snarled when his voice echoed into silence. "They would have been slaves!" he bellowed. "But they would have survived!"
I would rather be dead than a slave.
The words were seared into Draeken's memory. The voice was that of a dead man. Draeken argued anyway, unwilling to admit that a mere human had trapped him. Alone, he screamed at his foe . . .
—The lapse in sanity caused the tactical part of Draeken's mind to reassert itself, and the madness reluctantly ceded ground. His eyes narrowed as he regained control over his consciousness.
His fingers clenched into fists. When had Solitude become so strong? In the beginning it had been nothing more than a fragmented whisper of his mind—but thousands of years by himself had changed that. Now it was like a rabid lion, seething with rage and hate. Draeken vowed to keep it at bay, but even as he made the promise he heard its cackling laughter. Draeken gritted his teeth. After everything he'd endured, Solitude would not be his undoing.
He clenched his fists and drew in a deep breath. The scent of sulfur and brimstone filled his nostrils, and their familiarity focused his mind. Like a caged beast Solitude withdrew—not far, but enough. Draeken turned his attention to his forces. He could not allow himself to fail. Not this close. Three of his generals had been killed, leaving only War, the last and the greatest.
How much more can the races withstand? He thought. Even gathered as they were they should have fallen days ago. His gaze fell on his shackles. Enchanted with the hope of the races, they were impervious to anything but the destruction of their source—
Rend their flesh—
Draeken clenched his jaw against Solitude's maniacal howl, and then forced a twisted smile. His victory was at hand, and nothing could be allowed to mar it. Then a distant sound caused him to look upward. The rumbling of battle came from higher in his citadel. His eyebrows tightened as he heard his fiends screaming in pain and the sounds of death. A moment later the conflict spilled into the corridor opposite him. Black bodies writhed and twisted as they fought . . . each other?
Draeken sent a mental order for them to hold, but the fiends refused to obey. In seconds the losers were torn to shreds, and the victors prowled closer. Then another figure appeared. Striding between the placid fiends, he reached the lip and stared across the gap at Draeken.
The man's skin was the color of ash, and boasted numerous tattooed symbols on his torso and arms. His hair and eyes were black, but his hands held no weapon. Sheathed, a sword hung on his back. Draeken blinked into his mage sight and examined the man. What he saw surprised him . . . for he saw a kindred spirit. Solitude smiled, and that alone was enough cause for him to hesitate.
"I am Ducalik," the man began.
Draeken regarded him for a long time. Then dismissed him with curt, "Kill him."
A thousand fiends heard his voice, and came flooding down from the upper levels of the ancient forge. They collided with the subverted ones like an avalanche, and forced them toward Draeken's prison. Ducalik had nowhere to go. Without hesitation he jumped into the pit.
Fifty feet he plummeted downward, but he landed easily. Draeken elevated his opinion of the man. He evidently bore a natural talent when it came to body magic. The fall would have broken the legs of a common man.
In seconds the subverted fiends followed. Black forms shrieked and jumped, trying to land beside their newfound master. The shape of the prison made that difficult. Designed to hold the most powerful criminals, the pit's walls were sheer.
Shaped like a giant cylinder, the floor of the prison did not touch the walls. Rather the floor was a suspended circle of stone with a gap on all sides. Some of the unsuccessful fiends fell into it. Their shrill cries reverberated upward as they fell into the molten la
va of the volcano. Draeken and Solitude smiled in unison. The screams of the dying was something they both missed.
The remainder of Ducalik's force gathered around him, but the Draeken's loyal fiends far outnumbered them. They poured from the opening in a cascade of twisting black flesh. The moment they landed they fell on their previous allies in a frenzy of teeth and claws.
Blood soon slicked the stone, but Ducalik fought with discipline. Sword in hand, he directed his forces into a phalanx that repelled the first fiends that tried to attack. Bellowing in rage, he held the center of the line.
Draeken looked down on the battle with no attempt to hide his pleasure. Chained to a prison wall yielded few entertainments, and he couldn't let this one pass him by.
Fiend fought fiend, and claws tore through black skin to reach quivering muscles and bone. Ducalik swung his sword with desperation fueling his arm, but there were too many, and one by one his allies died. He tried to convert others, but time was against him.
Claws tore into his shoulder, and then his leg. He howled in agony and cut the attackers down as he retreated. In seconds he was surrounded, and only Draeken's desire to prolong the spectacle kept him alive.
The man's chest heaved with exertion as he swung his sword, killing and maiming the fiends that lunged towards him. Blood poured from a gash in his skull and numerous places on his body, staining his clothing.
Draeken's enjoyment was marred by Solitude.
Remove his hands and watch him beg, it said.
No, his tactical mind replied. We might be able to use him. What if the races defeat the army?
Solitude issued a cackling laugh that Draeken hoped hadn't been audible. If the unthinkable occurred and his army was imprisoned for another sentenium . . . He shuddered, and for the first time felt a sliver of doubt penetrate his mind. Seconds passed as he argued with his fragmented mind. Should he kill him . . . or use him. In the end his unease won out. In an instant the fiends retreated, leaving the tattered man in the center.
"How did you control my fiends?" Draeken asked. He kept his tone languid, as if the answer was beneath him.
The man clenched a deep wound, but forced an answer. "Two weeks ago your creatures killed my companions. I was the last, and on the verge of death I commanded them to hold . . . and they did."
He was a barbarian. That much was obvious. Only the mountain people possessed body magic, yet body magic had its limits and control was one of them. Despite himself, Draeken was intrigued.
"A master of flesh, then" he said. The man's smile was more of a wince. "Why did you come here? Controlling a few hundred of my creatures is powerful by human standards—but not by mine."
Ducalik's smile evaporated, and his expression hardened. "I led my people to glorious victories. Many times I called on the bodies of my enemy to hasten our triumph. Instead of praise, my people exiled me because they were afraid of my magic."
"You wish to make them suffer."
Ducalik's eyes glowed with hate. Draeken stared him down, considering the choice. The man's raw talent had potential, perhaps enough to surpass Draeken's currently disappointing apprentice. But that very power could be problematic in the future, so part of him was inclined to let Solitude have his way.
"You are not powerful enough," Draeken said, and the man growled. "—Yet," Draeken finished. "But I believe you could be."
Draeken swept a hand at the dark shimmering oval that hung beside him. In response to his motion, the portal lowered to the floor. Then he took a book from within his robe and tossed it towards the black and purple vortex. It came to a stop at its center and hovered.
"Take the book . . . and step through the portal."
"What's on the other side?" Ducalik asked. His black eyes had become wary.
"The fiends' home." Draeken didn't elaborate. There was no need to frighten the man.
"What power will I gain?" he asked. Anticipation twisted his features and he took a step towards the portal.
"Darkness," Draeken replied. If you survive.
"What if I say no?" Ducalik asked.
Rage rippled through Draeken, and he jerked a hand at the complacent fiends. Like a fire had been extinguished, they whirled on him. Snarling and tearing at the air, they were only held in check by Draeken's will.
Ducalik swallowed as sweat blossomed on his features. "It appears I have no choice."
"You have a choice," Draeken said. "Take the power I am offering and live to claim your revenge. Or die . . . and let your enemies be the victors." He didn't add that Ducalik's former clan was probably dead already.
Ducalik bared his teeth, but nodded.
Draeken motioned to the portal. "When the Dark obeys you, return to me."
Ducalik limped to the shimmering vortex and cautiously accepted the book. On the threshold he looked up at Draeken. "Will I have my revenge?"
"To my new apprentice . . . I swear it," Draeken replied.
Ducalik stared at him before bowing his head. "Master," he said. Then he stepped through.
In minutes the barbarian began to scream. Draeken merely smiled and moved the portal back to its former position. If Ducalik succeeded where Draeken himself had failed, then he would become a true asset. He doubted that would occur, but the possibility of him doing so was still intriguing.
He listened to Ducalik's shrieks of agony as they grew more and more distant. When they were gone he turned his mind to the war. Every death marked a weakening of his chains. He licked his lips at the expectation of freedom . . . and waited.
Forgotten, Ducalik screamed in the Dark.
Chapter 1: The Dream
Present Day
For months Tess's dream had been the same, and it always began with her standing in a field of grass. The green strands swayed in the breeze, rippling to the horizon in every direction. Several figures stood around and behind her, their faces bland and featureless. Like her, they were dressed in jeans and t-shirts. Each of them stood as if waiting for someone to arrive.
Materializing in the wind, Sara from Tess's biology class strode toward them. The girl's brown hair hung free of restraint, moving in sync with the grass at her feet as she approached, forceful and determined. The behavior was at odds with what Tess knew about her, but she expected that. The person might vary from night to night, but the dialogue and attitude did not. Once again, Tess had the sense that the person was a stand-in for someone else.
At school Sara was shy and quiet. Here she was brusque and to the point. “Welcome to flight school," Sara said. "Safety is our primary concern, so the instant you don’t do as instructed, you will be excused. You will have to wait until next term to repeat the course.”
Her unflinching gaze carried the threat well, and Tess had no doubt that many had regretted their choices in the class.
Sara then went on to describe how to manipulate gravity, warping it to form a bubble around you . . . until your body began to lift off the ground. If any of them got that far she would help them learn to curve gravity further. More than once Sara warned the class of the inherent dangers of flying—and that injuries were common. She finished by informing them that one in ten would pass her course.
No one around Tess blinked, and she wondered if they were too excited to care.
Following the teacher's cue, Tess looked at her feet, concentrating on the energy that bound them to the ground. She felt oddly confident as the lines of energy became visible. The teacher’s instructions lingered in her mind, and she willed gravity to bend.
At first it resisted, holding its shape as if fashioned of steel. She focused harder, and felt a sense of triumph as the lines stretched sideways. The force holding her down weakened, causing her heart to stutter in her chest. Her power faltered at the wave of nervousness, but she pushed it aside. Drawing a deep breath, she pressed on.
She fought to ignore the thrill of anticipation as more bands moved away from her body . . . until the pressure on her feet faded. The last thread of gravity moved—ever
so slowly—until it joined the crystal shape that had formed around her . . .
She rose into the air.
The panic surprised her—but couldn't hold. Flying was the apex of freedom, the pinnacle of independence. She left worry and fear behind, shed like a heavy cloak as her body climbed skyward. Joy and hope took their place, surging forth with unprecedented might, inspiring an unquenchable desire to go higher.
The earth had relinquished its grasp on her body, bending to her willpower. She closed her eyes, basking as the clouds touched her heart and soul. Without a thought, she swept her hands wide and turned her face to the heavens, reveling in her newfound power. On a whim she banked to the side, and felt the wind's embrace. Twisting and soaring, she flew until she got tired and began to descend.
The dream always ended in regret.
Until she awoke in the air . . .
Chapter 2: Awake
Tess crashed into her bed, filling her face with a pillow. Unwilling to move, she tried to convince herself of the absurdity of what had just occurred—but couldn’t quite do so. Then images of comic book characters came to mind, causing her to laugh at the notion that she had been airborne. When it subsided she heard the soft patter of rain and raised herself to look out the window. Although the touch of morning should have been prevalent in the sky, she saw only blackness.
With a sigh she rolled over and stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Her mother had attached them the day she'd broken up with her first boyfriend. Distraught, Tess had raced home after school, angry and confused. That night she'd turned off her lights and discovered the stars.
"I don't know why," her mother had said, "but the night sky has always brought me peace. Perhaps it can do the same for you."
The gesture and the subsequent embrace had soothed Tess's heart, reigniting her confidence. The next day, Jason had made a joke to his friends about what he'd tried to do with her. She'd dumped her lunch on his lap . . . and then punched him.
