Lone Survivor
The Sorcerers’ Scourge: Book One
By Michael Arches
Copyright by Pyrenees Publishing 2017
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Book 2 Excerpt—Sanctuary
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Chapter 1
Monday, September 2nd
Ian O’Rourke’s farm, Morgan County, Oklahoma
AT DAWN, I RODE my Palomino stallion along a tall windbreak. We preferred to ride early to beat the sweltering heat of the afternoon. I savored the scent of newly mown alfalfa, at least until thunder boomed nearby.
The problem was that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
My heart skipped a beat. The sound had come from my parents’ farm on the other side of the windbreak. That meant the lightning was magical, but no one in my family of witches could fight with magic.
What the hell is going on?
All my nerves tingled as I dismounted and threaded my way through the evergreens in the windbreak. When I poked my head out the other side, my breath caught in my throat. Ron Cantor, the Morgan County sheriff, was standing behind my parents’ house. The gangly, gray-haired sorcerer was holding a billy club in his outstretched hand like he was ready to cast a spell.
I was no match for him, so I couldn’t get closer. Instead, I pulled out my cellphone and started recording a video. Cantor was over a hundred yards away but clearly recognizable.
My mom and dad ran out the back door holding hands, and my blood ran cold. They didn’t make it more than a few steps before the bastard Cantor fired a bolt of green lightning from the end of his club. Another thunderclap crashed in the silence. Both my parents dropped to the ground, writhing and moaning. Then they went limp.
I almost went blind with anger, but I couldn’t help them. It took all my effort to keep from screaming. That would only draw attention to me. At least I could film this horror and hopefully make the son of a bitch pay for his viciousness.
Two more booms rang out from inside the house. I gasped as my twin eighteen-year-old nieces dashed out the back. Jesus, please save them!
The twins were off to college, and didn’t live at home anymore, but they’d come back for the Labor Day holiday. Even though their hands were waving high in the air as they tried to give up, the sheriff shot at them with more lightning. Mercy and Molly fell to the ground twisting and crying. Within seconds, they too had stopped moving.
My stomach cramped. They were as innocent as lambs, had so much of life still to live.
Where were my older brother and his wife? Glen and Carol lived with my folks, so they had to be close by.
Then Glen dashed out the back door holding his fighting staff in his right hand. Before he could get close enough to the sheriff to hit him, Cantor fired pulsed lightning at Glen. My brother sank to the grass and convulsed as he lay on his stomach.
Get up and run away, brother!
He tried to stand, but when he made it to his knees; the sheriff strode over to him and placed the tip of his billy club at the base of Glen’s head. Another boom sounded. Glen stretched out, shuddered, and lay still.
My throat was so tight that my screams couldn’t come out. My hands shook violently, and I swore vengeance on Cantor, no matter how long it took.
The bastard cackled at what he’d done.
To keep my phone steady, I rested it on a low-hanging branch. Then a tall, stout man in his fifties ran out of the back of the house grinning and holding a magician’s staff in one hand. He was wearing a navy sports coat and a tie, like he was going to some meeting instead of participating in a slaughter.
He yelled at Cantor in some guttural language. The sheriff pointed at the barn, and the stranger ran toward it.
How could this be happening? Dad had never expected this, or he would’ve warned me.
He’d always been a peaceful witch, practicing his ancient faith. Cantor was the only sorcerer we knew about in Morgan County, and, for a decade, he’d left us alone.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. This had to be a nightmare. I looked to the house again. No mistake; most of my family was lying motionless in the back yard. Cantor examined each of them, apparently to make sure they were dead. I videotaped everything and prayed that the phone’s camera was working right. No one would believe me alone.
My heart felt like he’d blasted it, too. For a moment, I was so dizzy, I almost fell over.
But I couldn’t be weak now. They’d soon start searching for me.
A boom sounded from the barn. The stranger must’ve found Carol. She was a kindergarten teacher. Everybody in the area loved her.
My stomach heaved, and chunks of my breakfast sprayed across the ground. When my vomiting ended, my mouth was still burning from the acid. Ignoring that, I stood again and wondered what to do. I had to get away soon, or they’d do the same to me.
I didn’t own a staff, and magicians couldn’t use other weapons against each other. Even worse, I hardly knew any magic. I’d participated in ceremonies with my dad and his mom, Grandma Norrie. They’d always been easygoing Celtic witches, and I’d admired Dad for his gentleness.
The stranger ran out of the barn waving his staff and laughing. I looked at the heavens and made a vow to the Lord and all the other gods. “He and Cantor will die in the most painful ways possible.”
Off in the distance, a patrol car with flashing lights was racing toward my parents’ house. I held up the phone again to catch as much as possible. It was still recording.
The car pulled into my parents’ driveway and drove behind the house. The deputy inside, Jack Rand, got out and spoke to the sheriff. Then Rand pulled a large can with a spout from the trunk. He splashed what must’ve been gasoline on the outer walls.
Cantor dragged my nieces, parents, and brother inside the house. Were they going to burn them to make sure they were dead? For centuries, people had burned witches to kill them, but the sheriff was smarter than that. Maybe he was trying to destroy evidence.
Then he would come for me.
A few months ago, Grandma Norrie had passed away, leaving me her farm next door. Everyone knew I lived in Grandma’s old farmhouse, including Cantor. They’d go there next.
My throat burned even more. I had to get away before they came, to run from Morgan County while I still had a chance. So I stopped the video, emailed it to Mom’s dad, Samuel Sitting Bear, and backed it up in the cloud. That file was priceless.
That done, I rushed through the windbreak, ignoring the branches tearing at my face and arms. When I reached my stallion, I mounted. We galloped at full speed toward my house.
-o-o-o-
WHEN WE REACHED MY home, Francis Sitting Bear, one of my first cousins, was standing on the back porch with a furrowed brow. He was a powerfully bui
lt man, six feet tall. Like me, he was twenty-six years old. I wasn’t as stout as he, but a few inches taller. We were both weather-beaten; his complexion was more like an Osage than mine, but we’d been mistaken for each other many times. He wore his black hair in a ponytail, but I kept mine shorter.
Since I’d inherited the farm, he’d helped me work the land in return for a share of the wheat. With his help, I’d harvested a bumper crop of wheat last June.
“What’s goin’ on, Ian?” he asked. “I thought I heard thunder at your parents’ place, but I can’t see anything through the windbreak.”
“The son of a bitching sheriff—used magic. Killed my parents, the twins, Carol and Glen—slaughtered them all in cold blood. Now, the cops are setting fire to the old farmhouse.”
Francis gasped. “You have no time. They’re sure to come for you next.”
I nodded. “Help me grab whatever we can in two minutes and throw it in my pickup.”
He shook his head. “They’ll be looking for your truck. Take the Eldo, and I’ll ride your horse home. And take my license. We look a lot alike, in case you get stopped.”
I took his driver’s license and keys. He only lived a couple of miles away, but it would take too long on horseback. “Don’t go home. Too close. They might come for you because you’re magical, too.”
He blew out a deep breath. “I’ll drive your truck to Samuel’s farm. We can have a dozen armed warriors there in in few minutes.” He pulled out his phone and dialed.
That reminded me that my phone was on. I was sure the video had gone out, so I turned it off. The cops might try to track me with it.
In less than a minute, I grabbed a few essentials, including a change of clothes from my dresser and a leather pouch that contained most of my cash. I also grabbed a half-full bottle of water from my fridge to rinse the acid from my mouth and throat.
Then I ran outside and threw the stuff in the back seat of Francis’s car. It was a 1966 Cadillac Eldorado that used to be powder blue. It’d sat out in the weather so long that now it was mostly brown. I hoped it would get me wherever I was going.
He’d already unsaddled the stallion and cut him loose. Hopefully, he’d wander over to Francis’s farm. He’d visited there many times, so he knew the way.
My cousin and I both drove down the driveway to the county road. I glanced back toward the house I had grown up in. Flames flickered through the windbreak. Smoke was rising from two fires now. They must’ve lit up the barn as well, and it had been full of hay.
I screamed at nobody in particular. How was I supposed to stand against so much hate?
I didn’t have time to stop and wonder. I turned right on to the county road. Francis followed.
-o-o-o-
THE FASTEST ROUTE OUT of Morgan County was to drive due north to the Osage reservation. So, when I reached the paved highway a few miles from my house, I turned right. Francis headed west toward Grandpa’s farm, fifteen miles northwest on the rez.
Samuel was a successful farmer and the powerful chief of our tribe. If Francis made it there quickly, he’d be safe. It would take a lot more cops than Morgan County had to attack a riled-up Osage Nation.
I was tempted to drive to Grandpa’s farm, too, but I’d be trapped there. Whatever excuse Cantor had dreamed up for attacking my parents would work against me anywhere in Oklahoma. So, I hauled ass north in the old Eldo. I had to get out of the county quickly, and while I was driving, I’d have a little time to decide where I would be safe.
The Methodist part of me prayed to Jesus. The Irish part asked for the help of Druantia, the Celtic goddess of protection. Finally, the Osage part asked for help from Wakonda, the Great Mystery Spirit. Since the Great Land Rush, Oklahoma had been a melting pot for dozens of different cultures. I’d been raised in a mixture of three religions: Christian, Celtic, and the native American.
Samuel was a traditional medicine man. His wife had been baptized in her teens, and she’d raised my mom as a Methodist. Dad’s side of the family was a mixture of Irish Catholics and traditional Celtic pagans. I celebrated everybody’s holidays.
Every few seconds, I glanced back through the mirror to check for danger, and soon, I couldn’t see smoke on the horizon anymore. My stomach continued to churn, though, and I tried to push those horrible images out of my mind. For now, I had to focus on getting somewhere safe. But those memories kept rushing back unbidden.
To distract myself, I asked out loud, “Where should I go?”
I wished I’d asked Francis for his opinion, but it was too late now. This was a decision I would have to make all by myself.
“Nowhere in Oklahoma’s safe,” I said out loud. “Not Kansas or Missouri, either.”
My options ranged from bad to terrible. The closest safe cities for witches were Chicago to the east and Boulder, Colorado to the west. I didn’t know a soul in Chicago, but in Boulder, I knew one person: Grandma Norrie’s best friend, Maggie Haldeman. She’d grown up in Morgan County. She’d left decades ago, but she and Grandma had kept in close touch.
My only other option was to run for the east or west coast. They were mostly safe for witches, but they were so far away.
Hippy, wacky Boulder? Are you crazy? I was a registered Republican. Luckily, I didn’t have to decide quite yet. My first goal had to be to get out of the county and then out of Oklahoma.
As I crested each hill, I looked back expecting to see flashing lights, but the road was eerily empty. Fury suddenly rose up in me as I drove along. My life would never be ordinary again. But vengeance had to wait until I was safe and I could learn how to make my own lightning. Until then, I had to get far away as fast as possible.
As I rolled over one particularly tall hill, I could see back for miles. No cops. I looked up for a second and whispered, “Thanks, guys.”
When I looked ahead again, I was surprised to see an old woman standing in the road, trying to flag me down. Her car was parked in a turnout with the hood up. I slowed to make sure I didn’t hit her, but I couldn’t stop. Sorry. I’m fleeing for my life, lady.
As I got closer, though, I recognized her. I couldn’t remember her name, but I’d seen her many times over the years at powwows and family gatherings. She was connected to the wife of Samuel’s youngest brother or something like that. A very short and stocky woman.
She was waving a handkerchief, and, when I got close, she started waving both hands like she recognized me. Against my better judgment, I pulled into the turnout.
“Francis,” she said before doing a double-take. “Oh, Ian. I got confused. I’m so glad you came by. My car died coming down the hill. Could you look at it?”
I wasn’t particularly handy with machines. “Sorry, but I’m in a terrible hurry. I can call somebody for you. Jason has his garage up ahead. I could drop you off there.”
She waddled over to her car, grabbed her purse, and then plopped down in the Eldo’s front passenger seat.
I tore off again, speeding a bit to make up for the time I’d lost.
“Where you headed in such a rush?” she asked.
I didn’t particularly want to say, and I sure as hell didn’t want to tell her about the horror I’d just left behind. Nor could I explain why I hadn’t done more to help my family.
I wasn’t much of a liar, so best not to say anything at all. “Big secret. Call Linda Sitting Bear when you get a chance. She’ll tell you, I’m sure.”
The woman, whose name suddenly came to me—Brenda Runs Sheep—looked at me with narrowed eyes. “You haven’t done anything wrong, have you? Your face is whiter than I’ve ever seen it. Why’re you driving Francis’s car?”
“No, I haven’t done anything wrong. He borrowed my truck.”
She kept up a constant stream of chatter and gossip for fifteen minutes, and I breathed easier when we entered the rez. I kept going until we arrived at a service station in Hominy run by another of my distant relations.
Morgan County
cops wouldn’t follow me here, so, at least for the moment, I was safe. At Jason’s garage, I stopped long enough to help Brenda out of the car and make sure Jason was around to take over. Then I jumped back in the Eldo and drove north. I had to get out of Oklahoma.
Chapter 2
I DROVE AT THE speed limit up through the Osage reservation to the Kansas border. Some drivers coming the other way waved at me. They’d probably recognized Francis’s old beater and thought I was him. I waved back without slowing down.
The main question that kept nagging at me was where to head once I reached Kansas. East to Chicago or west to Boulder? Colorado seemed to beckon me. It was filled with amazing mountains. If I needed to, I could get so lost in the Rockies that nobody would ever find me again. That had to be my best option.
Hopefully, the Morgan County cops hadn’t yet put out a general alert to Kansas about me. And even if Cantor had, how would the Kansas cops know I’d swapped vehicles with my cousin? So, I probably had a decent chance to disappear. Although I was damned thirsty, I only paused for red lights and stop signs.
Francis’s old battleship motored onward. At the top of every rise, I glanced in the mirror. Nothing but a few speeders. Even with no cops behind me, though, I couldn’t settle down. I still had a hell of a long way to drive, probably over a dozen hours.
It was late morning when I left the rez and crossed the Kansas state line. Not safe yet. Like Oklahoma, Kansas had enacted anti-magic laws, but it had to be a pain in the ass for an Oklahoma sheriff to extradite somebody from some other state. And the cops here might not know yet that I was on the lam.
The freeways were by far the fastest way to gain distance, so as soon as I reached U.S. Route 166, I turned west toward Interstate 35.
In Arkansas City, I stopped to fill up the Eldo’s tank and grabbed a few snacks and drinks. I couldn’t use my credit card without signaling my location, so I had to pay with cash.
When I walked into the store, the teenager at the register glanced at me with half-open eyes. I got the impression he’d rather be far from here. Yeah, dude, me, too.
Lone Survivor: The Sorcerers' Scourge Series: Book One Page 1
