Prophecy of the Seer

by K.N. Lee

  He was king of Raeden—king of a fallen kingdom.

  As he learned to hold his sword properly, he watched the other soldiers, saw the fear in their faces, the determination, the pain. How many of them had been forced to fight for the emperor was unknown, but it didn’t matter.

  There was nothing any of them to do now.

  Death was the sentence for abandoning the army.

  The man who’d given him his new sword had been sure to drill that fact into his head. That—and the decapitated bodies being held on display on the outskirts of the camp.

  Wilem stood in the lineup of young men. He would no longer stand by and allow others to determine his fate.

  Looking to Jorge, he could see it written on the lad’s face that he was coming to the same conclusion.

  He would absorb his training, and use it to his benefit.

  Then, he would escape. Somehow, he would find Liam and the others.

  Somehow, he would be free.

  At supper, he and Jorge were left to eat with the others, around a fire.

  From his spot beside two other boys around the same age, perhaps older, Wilem peered at Sona from behind the fire.

  She lingered around the camp, observing, and seemingly waiting for something while he and Jorge trained. She warmed her hands by the fire, and wiped at her forehead. Sweat had beaded on her face, giving her a sickly sheen.

  While Wilem chewed the roasted rabbit, he noticed something peculiar about her. She seemed somewhat depleted, less bright and glowing than when she’d been in Kyril at the start of their journey.

  She paced back and forth, hands folded behind her, and brows knit together.

  Then, every so often when it was time to eat, she'd venture a bit further into the woods where Wilem was certain he heard her vomiting.

  As expected, she hurried off without a word, crunching leaves beneath her boots.

  He exchanged a glance with Jorge.

  "Do you think she's sick?" Jorge asked.

  Wilem shrugged. "I don't know. But, I'll ask her when she returns. Can't be normal to do that every time food is prepared."

  "Oh," Jorge said, and scratched the back of his neck. His eyes narrowed as he looked after her. “Drat.”

  "What?” Wilem asked.

  Jorges mouth twisted and he set the rabbit bones he'd picked clean onto the ground before him.

  "Well, it was the same story once when we had a scullery maid back in Raeden Palace," he said, making a hole in the dirt to bury the bones. "Cook always said the silly girl had roving eyes and loose morals."

  Wilem frowned. "What does that mean?"

  "Means Sona might have a babe growing inside of her," Jorge replied. "The moment Katie started sporting a rounded belly, Cook sacked her, and sent her sobbing back to her Ma and Pa in the hunting village."

  Wilem's jaw hung as he absorbed Jorge's words.

  Could it be true?

  “The lad responsible is a lucky sod,” one of the other soldiers, Rohan, said. He grinned after Sona, and gave Wilem a wink. “Who is she to you anyway?”

  For a moment, Wilem contemplated the question. Then, he shrugged and finished his supper. “No one important.”

  The sound of crunching leaves emerged from the trees.

  With it, came a foul stench that Wilem had never smelled. He tensed, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “Goblins!” Trev said, shooting up from his spot on a fallen log on the opposite end of the fire.

  Though afraid to look, Wilem dared to do so, and the sight left his blood cold.

  Emerging from the forest were dozens of creatures with dark green skin and beady black eyes.

  With them, was something unnatural, and it pointed a glowing arrow right at his chest.

  12

  Wilem stared at the end of a glowing arrow with widened eyes.

  One word erupted from his throat.

  “No!”

  His voice boomed and echoed through the frigid night as a single arrow raced through the forest. Before anyone could utter a word, Jorge leaped across the space between them and shielded him.

  Time stood still as the arrow slammed into Jorge’s chest. The arrow glowed a florescent green and sizzled with sparks that crackled in the air around them.

  Magic.

  Stunned, and frozen in his spot Wilem held Jorge to his chest, blood on his hands.

  Soldiers came racing from the fortress, and the battle between the goblins began. They ran from the trees, sharp teeth bared and weapons raised.

  This is not real.

  The scream of pain that came from Rohan’s mouth was real enough.

  Wilem held onto Jorge, and watched as Rohan slid to the ground, an arrow protruding from his back.

  Two cloaked beings led the goblin army. One carried a bow in its gloved hand, and the other had a sword. Both of their weapons emitted a dim light. Who they were was a mystery, but Wilem would not let them escape.

  Teeth gritted, he flew looked to Jorge, who clung to him.

  “I’m sorry,” Jorge said, and one of Wilem’s tears dripped onto his face.

  While the chaos ensued all around, Wilem fought his need to fight, and his duty to stay by his friend’s side.

  He took the arrow into both hands, and Jorge stopped him.

  “No,” he said. “If you pull it out, it’ll be worse.”

  Wilem wiped his face, and only served to smear Jorge’s blood across his cheek.

  A cackling laugh filled Wilem’s ears as the soldiers walked right through the figure who had shot the arrows. One of the soldiers ran and crashed into the ground at full speed and tumbled across the hard, forest floor.

  Wilem’s jaw hung as he caught sight of what was under the hood of the archer. It didn’t have a face. All he saw was black under the hood of the cloak. Still, it laughed at the bloodshed and mayhem at its feet.

  The laugh sent shivers up the back of his neck. It was not from this world.

  “Undead,” a soldier cried. “They are from the Underworld. There’s nothing we can do against magic like this.”

  Another glowing arrow flew through the air and ripped through the soldier’s head, sending him flying back a few feet.

  “Shadows,” Captain Sandleruss called out.

  “Run,” Jorge said, clutching Wilem’s hand. The life from his eyes started to fade, and panic settled into Wilem’s throat.

  “No,” Wilem hissed. “This is not the day you die, my friend.”

  Not today.

  While the fighting continued, he dragged Jorge away from the camp, and into the darkness of the forest.

  Not today.

  Goblins came from all sides, but Wilem and Jorge went unnoticed as they hid in the pocket of bushes alongside the fortress wall.

  Once they were alone, Wilem rubbed his hands together.

  His nostrils flared and he breathed in, clearing his mind.

  “What are you doing?” Jorge asked, and stiffled a cry of pain.

  Wilem glanced down at him. “I’m a Legacy,” he said. “There have to be some healing powers in my line. Somewhere.”

  Legacies were the culmination of all skills, traits, and magical abilities given to a line of Tryans. With Wilem’s family dead, all of their generations of powers were passed down to him.

  He may not be one of the Chosen warriors like Lilae…but there was an army of experience inside.

  And, Wilem was ready to set it free.

  He focused on collecting energy from the world around, like he’d seen the fairies do back in Tolrinia.

  The screams faded into the back of his mind as a bright green glow ignited above both of his palms. “I’m not letting you die, Jorge,” he said, and turned his glowing palms downward, above the arrow and wound.

  Blood pooled around Jorge’s body, and for a moment, Wilem was too afraid to even look at it. Fear raced up his throat and a whimper escaped his lips.

  He wished his mother was there. She would know what to do. She
could train him.

  But, he’d squandered those years with her, and the guilt still lingered.

  Shoving those memories and feelings aside, he returned his attention to the task at hand.

  Jorge needed him.

  It was all that mattered.

  The moment the light faced Jorge’s wound, a jolt shot through Wilem’s body, nearly knocking him backward.

  The energy that flowed through him made his body stiffen, and then intensify in glow.

  A boom of power shot outward from every inch of his body, and lit up the entire forest, sky, and surrounding area.

  Wilem couldn’t breath, as air raced through his lungs and chest, and left him dizzy.

  He reached for Wilem, but all went woozy, and blurry.

  It was then that Wilem fell backward, and the world spun before his eyes.

  He tried to move, and failed.

  Just as he began to fade into the darkness, Jorge sat up and looked down at him. His eyes were wide, and they switched places, with Jorge holding Wilem up.

  His chest was free of the arrow. Though blood stained his shirt, there was no wound.

  “I did it,” Wilem said, and a smile came to his face.

  “Yes,” Jorge said.

  “You did it,” an unfamiliar voice said, from the mouth of the creature who’d loosed the arrow.

  13

  The nights were long—longer than Lilae remembered them being as a young girl.

  Then again, as a child, she was always stuck in her head, dreaming of lands far away.

  She slept curled up next to Liam, at ease with Runa guarding the camp.

  Memories of her first dreams of Liam returned to her, bringing a smile to her face. It seemed that he had always been there when she needed him most, and never realized that through their dreams, they were indeed healing one another.

  They’d walked through the night, and settled in a quick camp to rest for a few hours. Once the sun emerged early the next morning, they traveled another two days to Hansburg.

  Delia led them to the stronghold of a city, where the walls were made of stone, and tall gates were closed to the outside world.

  Having gone ahead to scout, Jaiza informed them that there were three gates, and all were heavily guarded with big Northern men in armor.

  With Runa secure and discreet in the talisman, they approached the main entrance.

  Lilae hadn’t seen a stronghold like the one before her in ages, it seemed. The goblin city was the closest in appearance to Hansburg, but there was a distinctive architecture that made Aurorian cities stand apart.

  The entrance had two large doors made of logs that were held open to allow merchants and citizens entrance to and from the city. Children played just on the outskirts, enjoying the piles of snow as they threw rolled up balls at one another.

  Several fisherman walked inside, carrying in their catch of the day over their backs.

  A group of armed men met them at the gate, while another man ushered locals inside.

  Lilae stepped to the front which went against all of her inner warnings to hang back and observe from afar. It was what she was used to, but that way no longer served her.

  “Morning,” Lilae said, with a smile and a nod.

  “Morning,” the man who appeared to be the leader said. He was tall, like most Aurorian men, with long blond hair and a beard that was braided and hung to his chest.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m called Lilae, and these are my friends. What can I call you?”

  “Reagar Caelen,” he said. “Sheriff of Hansburg.”

  “Good day, Sheriff,” Lilae said, keeping her voice as sweet as possible. It wasn’t easy for her. She’d spent more of her life in silence, or hiding from interactions with others. Now, she stood as leader of the group.

  “What’s your business here?” Reager asked.

  “We ask for entrance to your lovely city for a few nights to gather supplies and to speak with your delegate to the palace. We won’t be any trouble.”

  Reagar looked them over. “That’s funny. Because trouble seems to be etched all over your friend’s faces.”

  His gaze rested on Rowe, whose scars told tales of battles and wars lost and won.

  “Where are you from, anyway?” Raegar asked. “Haven’t seen a human-sized fairy in these parts in all of my years.”

  “I’ll let you and the other girls in,” he said. “But, the rest of you lot will have to wait outside.”

  “It’ll be cozy with those glowing lights of yours,” Torgan said, with a smirk. “Nice and warm.”

  Lilae continued to smile, but shook her head. “That would be unacceptable. We stay together.”

  “Then, you can stay outside our walls with them,” Reagar said, lifting his bushy, blond brows.

  “Just let us in,” Jaiza said, annoyed. She stepped forward, nearly as tall as the Aurorian men. “We are here to protect you. Not fight you.”

  Reagar met her blue-eyed gaze, and seemingly softened toward her.

  “Miss,” he said. “I won’t say it again. But, you’re not getting through this gate.”

  With that, Rowe pushed through them with sheer force and will.

  The other men stumbled backward, while some fell to their rears.

  Pushing through, he barely paused. “Come on,” he said to the others. “We don’t have time for this.”

  The ring of steel that echoed throughout the surrounding area was deafeningly loud.

  Fear was absent from the men’s eyes, and they appeared ready for battle.

  If Lilae knew one thing about Auroria, it was that the men and most women were trained for battle at an early age.

  Aurorians were natural born warriors.

  Then, there was another factor that made them different from most humans.

  The concentration of innate traits—gifts from the Ancients—was prominent in their bloodlines.

  “Make another step, and it’ll be your last,” Reager said, holding his large sword with two hands.

  Rowe paused. With an inward chuckle, he slowly turned to Reager and the other men. He unhooked his ax from its place at his back.

  “Tell me something,” Rowe said, holding his glare at the warriors before him. He held his ax at his side, gripping the handle with ease, and stretched his neck.

  The cracking sound made Lilae shiver.

  “How many swings do you think it’ll take to crush your bones into mush? One? Two?” Rowe asked, narrowing his eyes. “I say three, maximum.”

  Reagar didn’t flinch.

  That brought a smirk to Rowe’s face as he lifted his brows. “Let’s count them then, shall we?”

  The air grew noticeably thick between them and the soldiers.

  Lilae tightened her grip on her sword, prepared to use it the second one of the men lifted a weapon toward her or her loved ones.

  “Stop,” Delia shouted, stepping into the square. “This is quite unnecessary. There will be no bloodshed today.”

  Rowe shot her a disappointed glance. “Come on, Delia,” he said. “Why not?”

  Lifting his ax, he pointed it toward Raegar’s face.

  “We were just having a friendly wager,” Rowe said.

  “Friendly, my arse,” Delia said, giving him a knowing look.

  “Easy now, Rowe,” Liam warned, keeping his eyes locked on Reagar.

  “What’s this?” Reagar asked. “Your ma come to fight your battles?”

  Rowe’s grin widened. “So, it is a battle you want, is it?”

  “Enough!” Delia shouted, holding one hand at Reagar and her staff at Rowe’s chest, separating them.

  There was an edge in her voice that didn’t go unnoticed by Lilae. She tensed, hopeful they could avoid any bloodshed.

  “Look,” Reagar said with a sigh. “Your party is trespassing on kingdom grounds,” he said. “No weapons. No foreigners. I’ve spoken my judgement.”

  Delia stood before him, softening her gaze.

  “Yes
, Sheriff,” she said, nodding. “But, we are are friends of the Black Throne.”

  He cracked a grin, and looked back to Rowe, and then to Liam and Nani. “Are you now? The lot of you?”

  “That bastard is unnaturally big, Reagar. Spawn of a giant, no doubt,” his second-in-command added, peering at them from behind his nocked bow and arrow. He seemed much younger, perhaps in his early twenties, with reddish-brown hair that was worn in two braids that were twisted into a knot. “And, with that odd-looking stick she is carrying, I suspect some kind of witchery here.”

  “Witchery?” Lilae said, frowning. “She is not a witch.”

  “Witches, giants, fairies, what’s Eura coming to?” Torgan asked, his rust-colored brows knit together.

  “What’s a witch?” Nani asked in a whisper.

  Lilae sighed. “Its what humans call Bellens.”

  Nani’s brows rose, and she nodded. “Oh,” she said. Then, she frowned. “What’s a Bellen?”

  “Aye, Torgan,” Reagar said, ignoring Lilae’s comment. “Smells that way.”

  The kind smile Delia put on for them faded. Her voice took on an assertive tone. “There is no witchery here, I assure you. But, I can guarantee you’ll wish that was all we are capable of if you do not heed my final warning.”

  Torgan laughed. “The old bat just threatened us,” he said, and the men behind him joined him in laughter.

  “Grounds for a good sunset hanging,” Reagar said, nodding. He scratched his bearded chin, looking over Delia and her staff. “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Wise decision,” Torgan said.

  “Round the others up for the stocks,” Reagar said. “Take the witch to the gallows.”

  With an inward sigh, Delia shrugged her cloak off her shoulders. “Very well,” she said.

  The clouds closely knit together, and the sky darkened until it appeared that night had befallen and fought the sun for superiority.

  Before their eyes, Delia tilted her head backward, as a cascade of dark hair fell in waves behind her. Her image wavered and flickered, and within seconds she de-materialized and shifted from her human form to that of an Elder—her true form.

  A pillar of darkness stood before them, wavering and flickering with sparks of silver light. She resembled a person made of smoke, with bright eyes peering down at them.