Glimpses: an Anthology of 16 Short Fantasy Stories: An exclusive collection of fantasy fiction

by Kevin Partner

  "First, gather an emotion of confident hope. For it to work, believe it will work. Second, open your dominant hand and imagine that confident hope resting there. If you make it that far, move your hand in the same motion I made, and push it toward the pine cone. Let me know when you want to begin."

  Winthrop approached the tree and thought of something he hoped for, and almost knew would happen. He imagined himself coming home to his foster parents, bringing them the good news of his magical abilities. "Ready." Winthrop opened his hand but knew at that moment, that he lacked confidence. No white ball materialized. The pine cone dropped with a thud and rolled a few paces away. Winthrop looked at the ground, avoiding the master's eyes.

  "Don't despair, Winthrop. Let's try the next test," Knilin said. Darius led him fifty feet to a campfire. The flames reached a foot higher than the tallest piece of wood. He felt the heat on his shins and the fire cackled with delight. Darius’s stature made him look taller. His muscular chest added to the image of a strong, fierce beast. Darius reminded Winthrop of a soldier, but his red robes declared he hailed from the Order of the Lion.

  "The second type of magic revolves around power and greatness. It can create and manipulate fire and lightning. Focus on thoughts of loyalty or devotion. Copy the motions I show you to move the flames."

  Darius created a sphere like Knilin's, but red in color, and performed his magic. The flames moved as if a strong wind blew them to one side, but the air around him remained still. Winthrop slumped over. His mouth tasted bitter. He had no strong loyalties yet. His parents died over a decade ago, his two friends would move on with their lives after today, and he didn’t know if he’d pass any of these tests. Regardless, he shot his hand out before him and focused. Nothing happened.

  "Before we move on, how do you know that without more practice, I won't succeed?" Winthrop asked.

  Knilin approached and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "When we lend you assistance during each test, it is enough to bring about any power you possess." Winthrop nodded and took a deep breath of burning wood.

  Zyadrin waved her fingers, and he followed her to a small dam in the river that provided water to their village. The wooden dam leaked in several places, defeating its purpose as a barrier. "The Order of the Ox provides strength and stabilizes things. Focus on your resolve and copy my hand motions."

  Zyadrin filled both hands with blue light and moved them in a mirror image of each other. The wood made creaking and snapping noises as her magic reinforced one of the holes. The water ceased flowing at that point, but other spots remained damaged.

  Winthrop’s body tingled with excitement and his mouth watered. Ever since his childhood, he dreamed of magic. He'd slay monsters and protect the kingdom. He'd help the unfortunate and bring peace to all lands. He'd save Linette from her father and shower her with love and gifts.

  He’d fulfill his goal of honoring his father.

  This emotion felt strongest to him. Winthrop opened his hands and two blue spheres formed. His hands vibrated like lightning bolts striking him again and again. Tears dripped down his face, redirected by his smile. He felt powerful. He pushed the ball toward the dam and it made similar noises. He closed off one of the leaks. Refusing to release his magic, he reinforced the rest, making the dam functional again.

  "I did it!" Winthrop exclaimed and let the spheres disappear.

  The three magicians beamed at him. The Order of the Ox would invite him to train with them, to learn real magic. Zyadrin smiled at him, momentarily forgetting about Linette. The conflicting emotions threw him off balance.

  "Winthrop, you still must take one more test," Zyadrin nudged.

  "But why? I thought people only claimed one power. I've shown my ability in one."

  "For completeness, we test all four powers. Come this way."

  This last test determined ability in dark magic, which caused decay and death. Both were part of the natural order of things, but the Decayed perverted it, using their magic for selfish reasons and evil purposes.

  She led him down a path to the carriage. They jumped in and took off, leaving the other two masters behind. It seemed odd that Zyadrin left them behind when they planned to let the Decayed out of his cell soon. He looked back and saw them taking a short-cut through the forest, calming his fears.

  "What do you know of your father’s death, Winthrop?" Zyadrin asked

  ”The Council of Light told me that he encountered a group of Decayed on his journey home. As they ravished a village, my father formed a defensive shield around them. It protected the villagers long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Yet the spell cost him his life, turning him into a statue. One day I’ll travel there to see him.”

  "I see. Did the Council mention why your father traveled to that village?”

  “No, just that he was passing through on his way home.”

  “Did you know that magic users sometimes show some ability in a second form of magic?"

  "No, Knilin mentioned we could become proficient in one."

  "Proficient in the stronger of the two, but you may have an ability in another."

  Winthrop felt like Zyadrin was trying to lead him somewhere besides the next test. "You think I'll pass this next test." A statement.

  "Yes. The Council of Light lied to you, Winthrop."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your father wielded dark magic as his dominant form."

  Why did she tell him this? His father saved a village of people. The King included his story in the Book of Legends. In a seated position, the movement of her hips could no longer hypnotize him. He saw cracks in her skin and a darkness in her eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. Her smile turned from seductive to stern.

  "Let us finish this, son. We have others to test," Knilin said, when the rest of the group caught up with them.

  "Is it true? About my father?" Winthrop asked.

  Knilin looked at him and then shot a glance at Zyadrin. "What are you filling his head with?"

  "Nothing, I thought he should know his family history, given what I expect will happen during the last test," Zyadrin said.

  "It's not passed down from father to son," Darius said, moving behind the carriage. He made a wheezing sound with each breath.

  Zyadrin's comment irritated Winthrop like a splinter stuck in his hand, blood flowing around and through the piece of wood like a broken dam.

  Zyadrin bated him. "Even now they fear to tell you the truth, Winthrop. Your father belonged to the Order of the Decayed, not the Ox."

  Her comments hit him like a mallet in the chest. "You lie! My father saved a village from the Decayed, and he used magic from the Order of the Ox to do so."

  He spared a glance at the other two masters. They glared at Zyadrin. Their bodies faced her and away from him. Did Zyadrin speak the truth?

  "But the Council of Light told me to my face that he belonged to the Order of the Ox," Winthrop said.

  Darius turned to him after another nasty glance at Zyadrin.

  "Child--."

  Before Darius managed an explanation, dark energy crashed into him, his face shriveling until only bones remained. He slumped to the ground, dead. His bones broke apart, no longer connected by muscles and skin. It sounded like a pile of logs falling over. He heard a creak of ungreased metal.

  Winthrop jumped back. The smell and taste of vomit filled his senses. Zyadrin moved her hands in an intricate pattern and a protection spell replaced the magical bonds on Atwix. Dark spheres formed in his hands and blue light filled Zyadrin’s palms. They both attacked Knilin, who became a blur of light, dodging everything that they aimed at him. He threw a volley of knives at Zyadrin and followed it with a sphere of his own. One of the knives landed with a loud thud. Her shield blocked the knife, but the sphere hit her square in the chest. She flew backward, like she fell off a mountaintop, landing against a tree trunk hundreds of feet away with a loud thud.

  Winthrop lacked the experience to know if her shield would hold
up, but she didn’t move, and Atwix lost the magic that guarded him, evaporating like morning dew when the sun rises.

  Knilin bolted away, dodging several shots aimed at him by Atwix. Each missed sphere hit a tree, weakening it until it broke and collapsed. Winthrop stood there dumbfounded. When a tree fell toward him, he jumped out of the way, landing in a pile of pine cones. He grimaced and clutched his chest. When he managed to look back at the scene, he saw Knilin shoot more spheres at Atwix, managing to hit his mark.

  Knilin’s magic forced Atwix sideways toward the mountains that lay behind the forest. Atwix adjusted his body so that it stayed parallel to the ground until he landed on a tree trunk, stopping his momentum.

  Winthrop hopped over the tree that almost crushed him, putting something between him and Atwix.

  Knilin pulled a pair of throwing knives and flung them toward Atwix, who fought them with his magic, corroding the metal so that when they reached him, they shattered. He leaped from tree to tree, trying to escape the effect Knilin's magic.

  Knilin called out to Winthrop, "Use your magic. Reinforce yourself for protection. I’ll need your help capturing him."

  Winthrop tried the same spell as before, but it refused to work. The news of his father fractured his resolve.

  "Join us, Winthrop," Atwix called, "Make your father proud. His power nearly matched Gnash the Destroyer, the greatest of our order. Help me finish off Knilin and come with me." His voice grated on Winthrop's soul.

  His resolve lay in following the light and honoring his father, yet this new information shook that foundation.

  "How can I trust you, Knilin? The Council, your council, lied to me. Were you ever going to tell me the truth?"

  Winthrop clenched his fists in anger at Knilin, but also in frustration that the little talent he claimed had vanished in an instant.

  Knilin continued to throw knives at Atwix as he fled. The knives flew faster and with extra force than Winthrop would expect. One managed to stab Atwix in the shoulder, locking him against a tree. "Help me, Winthrop. Continue your father's legacy," Atwix moaned.

  "Winthrop, there’s no time. We need to stop him," Knilin exclaimed.

  Atwix ripped the knife free and threw three more balls of darkness at Knilin, who continued to dodge them. As Atwix became more desperate, he threw the spheres at faster speeds, but Knilin moved like a gazelle running from a lion. Several more corroded knives struck Atwix, and his blood leaked at several points along his body.

  "Winthrop, try your magic again. If we don’t stop him, he’ll kill everyone in the village," Knilin said.

  He still had questions about his dad, but his resolve returned. Winthrop formed the spheres in his hands and began the motions. Atwix managed to pull free of the knives locking him down and escape Knilin’s spell. He formed two spheres the size of sacks of grain and directed them at himself. He laughed maniacally and then exploded into a ball of magic the diameter of a person. It shot toward Knilin with alarming speed. Winthrop dared not release his magic and cover his nose even though the stench of the dark magic was unbearable.

  Instead, Winthrop changed course with his hands and shot a reinforcing ball at Knilin that reached moments before the darkness did. Knilin fought the ball with his own magic, slowing its forward momentum. Winthrop continued his stream of power, strengthening Knilin. Winthrop’s muscle screamed out in pain, his might nearing the point of exhaustion.

  Knilin yelled at the top of his lungs. He struggled to stop the dark magic. He managed to step backward, giving him more room. The muscles on his forearms flexed and his veins bulged like they would burst. Knilin jumped to his left while pushing the sphere to his right. He landed out of its reach, and it continued to fly parallel to the ground towards the mountains.

  Winthrop released his magic. He spared a glance in the direction of the dark energy. It flew away from him, crashing through trees breaking them like toothpicks. He fell to the floor, tasting blood in his mouth. An explosion that rung in Winthrop’s ears clouded any other sounds for several minutes.

  Winthrop lay on the floor, unable to move. A light wind carried smells of ash, pine, wood, and decay. After some time, he heard Knilin make his way to Winthrop and fall next to him. He continued to catch his breath. "You...did...good...Winthrop," he said, a word each breath.

  After some time, they managed to walk to the carriage and direct the horses back to the village. The sun had risen and revealed the destruction caused by them and the traitors. Trees laid in every direction and splintered wood littered the floor. Animals began to venture back to the area, their habitats ruined by the events that took place.

  Winthrop sat back and let repeated sounds of horses walking lull him to sleep.

  When Winthrop and Knilin entered the village square, Winthrop fell more than stepped off and allowed Markus to support him. He imagined a lion picking up one of his cubs. Linette ran over to them, lines of worry filling her face.

  "What happened?" Linette asked as she poked his wounds.

  “Ouch,” Winthrop shouted.

  “Sorry,” she replied as she continued to hurt him.

  "Atwix and Zyadrin attacked us," Winthrop replied.

  Markus led him to the steps outside of the village town hall. Winthrop sat down, closing his eyes as he wondered why that hurt so much. Knilin remained by the carriage and spoke with the villagers.

  "Why?" Markus asked, crossing his arms.

  "They wanted to recruit me."

  "I don't understand, why?" Linette asked.

  "Zyadrin said my dad joined the Decayed first. I think they hoped I’d be as strong as he."

  "What? That can't be true. Why did he save a village from the Decayed if he was one of them?" Markus said.

  "Knilin couldn’t explain during the attack. I think it’s true.”

  "Do you have the dark talent?" Markus asked. Linette elbowed him in the stomach, causing him to lean forward.

  "No, it's okay. I passed for the Order of the Ox. They attacked us before the dark magic test. What about you two?"

  "I'm the Order of the Eagle and he hasn't tested yet," Linette said. Winthrop sighed.

  Knilin stumbled over to them. Gray lined his hair and wrinkles near his eyes stood out.

  "Say your goodbyes. We will leave for the King's castle at first light tomorrow. The Council of Light will have many questions and will explain the details around your father’s death. Markus requires testing, and your test isn't complete. Linette's training starts soon."

  Markus carried Winthrop home. He changed out of his clothes that contained several smells he preferred to avoid. Then, he fell onto his soft bed and several thoughts and emotions vied for his attention. His resolve hardened. He'd demand the Council of Light give him the full truth about his father. He was happy that he passed the test for the order his father chose before he died but sad that he and Linette would part ways. He hoped Markus might follow the same path as him, providing companionship. Before he succumbed to slumber, his mind turned to his encounter with Atwix and Zyadrin. Winthrop chose to push that thought away and not digress into something that hindered his much-needed sleep. The sounds of his siblings filled the small house, but nothing could stop him entering his dreams.

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  For more from Shawn Robert Smith, visit his website: http://shawnrobertsmith.com/

  Victoria’s Grave

  Craig A. Price Jr.

  In a lone field of charred ashes a warrior stood alone, his battered silver and crimson helm wedged between his elbow and ribcage, his claymore secured in its scabbard, and tears cascading down his grimy face. He tossed his thick brown locks away from his eyes, fell to his knees shouting, his hands turned purple as they clutched at the ruby gemmed hilt, and he stared unblinkingly at the fresh tomb standing before him. The names were chiseled with his now dull dagger that lay on the ground in front of the grave. Memories of the fresh deaths tormented and haunted his thoughts, making him unable to concentrate on anything else, lost in thought
of chaos and misery.

  His name was Searon, and he was once a great warrior that everybody feared. That was in simpler times, back when it was only humans opposing humans. He often remembered the battles that had been won by his hand. People often praised him for his skill and soon claimed him as their captain. He did not wish for them to, but he didn’t deny the position. Back then he led many to victory against man and creature, but that was before he met her.

  A single tear fell from his eyelash onto his cheek and he quickly wiped it away. It was an old tear, one that had lingered, and not a fresh one. He had shed all the tears his life was meant for on that day. It was the first tears he ever experienced. Searon never knew he could hold so much pain. The agony of it was unreal, and he had never experienced anything so brutal before. He had endured his share of cuts, scratches, and even sprained bones. Those flesh wounds were nothing in comparison to the emotional wounds scarring him now.

  His gaze didn’t move from the grave before him. The shovel lay next to it, still full of fresh dirt. He had dropped it after filling the deep hole he had dug. At least the fresh smell of wet dirt outweighed the smell of freshly dripped blood. He shivered at the thought; it was a rare occasion that he ever shivered. His green eyes full of swirls and dread, closed tightly before opening again. Still, no more tears fell. It seemed that he was dried up. He still felt the pain and memory haunting at him.

  Searon shook his head at the memories, fearing they would bring more tears to his face. He had promised he would take care of her and protect her, but he had failed. He looked miserably at the grave and sighed before turning away.

  He stared at the ruined ashes of what used to be his cabin. Once it was a glorious home for him and Victoria. He remembered the day he had built it with his large axe. Searon never cared much for axes in battle as he preferred his sword, a claymore, but for handcrafting his home, an axe proved to be perfect. It was perfection he was seeking for his home because it had to be good enough for Lady Victoria. She deserved only the best. Anything less wouldn’t do.