by Jay Swanson
His hand rested on her Uriquim, glowing gently with her mother's light. He couldn't bear to look at it. And yet all he could do was stare into its glowing depths.
Finally he pulled himself up, sopping wet and beyond exhausted. He was cold, and though he hadn't eaten in some time, he had no appetite. He couldn't imagine eating anything now. Food would never hold an appeal again.
He started walking up the path that ran from the platform, his world dead and scattered to the stars. The walk all the way back up the mountain seemed long enough to begin with, now he didn't know that he would ever make it. His legs felt like lead, each step more impossible to complete than the last.
Ardin fell into a fog; he had lost all sense of reality in those few moments. He didn't have anyone, he was truly alone. His throat hurt from crying, his tears spent, he just wanted to lie down. To forget the world. To pass on from it.
The hours passed with the path underneath him, and finally he found himself outside of Tertian's home. He tried to straighten his clothes but it was no use. What would he tell the Mage? How could he break news like this to anyone?
TERTIAN STOOD JUST inside in the main hall of his expansive home. He poured himself a glass of the deep gold liquid he loved so much. An ornate square bottle of it stood on a low table. He smiled as he drank it. It would be a sad day when he ran out; so far it had proved the best he had ever made. He swirled the drink, staring with a vague sense of enchantment as the liquid captured the passing light and twisted it into a sparkling whirlpool. He took another short sip and lowered the glass.
“I would be very cautious if I were you,” Tertian said to no one, still facing the wall. “Your hunger for power should be more pronounced now, I imagine.”
The Shadow King materialized between the pillars behind him, black knife sheathed in his hand. His breathing was shallow, as if he had just run a marathon.
“I would fight the temptation to strike me, if you can.”
The Shadow King stared at the Mage, lethal eyes glaring out from under lowered brow. Tense, taut, contemplating his options.
“Besides,” Tertian said as he took another drink. “Your new-found power makes you vulnerable. I can see it in you, you don't know how to use it; you have no control over it. It threatens to undo you.”
“You who are so wise,” the Shade spat.
“Yes, well you owe me a lot, don't you?”
The Shade looked at the knife, its runes cold and black, then back at the Mage.
“That has yet to be seen.”
“Don't blame me for your inability to seek out and complete your own goals,” he said sternly as he put the glass down and turned to face the Shade. “I merely gave you the tools; that is all I ever said I would do.”
“The girl, she didn't have enough.”
“Of course not! She was just a girl! You were supposed to take Charsi's power. Without that, you'll never have enough to pull your precious Shadow back into the physical world! Even if I were to help you, we wouldn't have enough strength without Charsi or Caspian's strength added to the mix!”
Tertian turned away and walked towards the large fireplace that was blazing in spite of the late summer warmth.
“You'll have to search for others,” he said. “I'm sure they exist, at least a few must have escaped the Purge.”
“I've told you.” The Shade followed. “The old man was the last of your kind.”
“Nonsense.” The Mage waved his assumptions away. “Your wife survived, others could have as well.”
The memory of his wife cut the Shade deep.
“She survived only because I was there to protect her, and only so far as I was around.”
“Yes,” Tertian stared into the fire. “Well don't pat yourself too heartily on the back, I survived without your help. Others may have as well.” He turned back to the Shade, studying him momentarily before extending his hand palm up. “You've had your chance,” he said. “Perhaps someday I will make it available to you again, but there's no point in letting you traipse around with something so precious when you can't seem to make proper use of it.”
The Shade held the knife up, studying it, unwilling to let it go. He smiled, and in one smooth motion he had the sheath off and was lunging for the Mage.
Tertian flicked his wrist, batting the Shade to the floor without any apparent effort. The knife clattered across the floor, sliding to a stop near Tertian's feet. He twirled his hand quickly and brought it down, an invisible hammer splitting the floor where the Shade had been. But the Shadow King was quicker to vanish, leaving the knife where it had fallen.
The Mage scanned the room. The Shade was gone so far as he could sense. He spat in derision, the attempted betrayal bitter in his mouth. Collecting the knife, he sheathed it and placed it gingerly in his robes.
He stared at the cleft he had struck in the floor, mouth straightening as his brow furrowed. He brought his hands in front of himself, moving them smoothly in the air over the damaged stone as it shifted, melted, and cooled back in place.
Ardin hid in the shadows. He had seen and heard everything. At first thinking to leap to his host's rescue, he had stopped when they had broken out into what sounded like a conversation. He was stunned to see the general appear out of nowhere. So he was the Shadow King...
Now he stood in the shadows, watching the Mage mend the floor, his magic working to shield him from detection. He didn't know what to do, but he wanted answers. Wanted revenge.
The Shade was gone, but he was only the tool. Of that Ardin was now certain. He had never been so certain of anything in his life, save that he wanted to avenge Alisia's death right then and there. He called up the magic, bringing it to the surface and letting it build up in his arms until he could no longer contain it.
And then he stepped from the shadows.
He was met with the full force of the Mage's wrath, blasting him to the ground like an artillery shell. His mind swirled, the magic dispersing instantly from his control. He tried to get up but was struck again by another invisible blow and sent sprawling along the smooth floors until he was stopped abruptly by a pillar.
He grunted at the impact and groaned as he rolled over to face his attacker.
“I'm afraid you're not nearly as strong as you ought to be,” Tertian said as he pulled Ardin from the floor with an invisible hand and held him against the pillar. “Nor as subtle.”
Ardin struggled but it was no use. He was pinned. The Mage as strong and stronger than he had been able to see.
“You bastard!” he tried to yell, but found his throat constricted in response.
“Let's not regress to vulgarity,” the Mage said as he reached into his robes, producing the rune covered black rod. “Thankfully that fool never recognized all you inherited or he may have done something horrible to you. And we wouldn't want that.”
He lowered his outstretched hand to join his other on the knife, the force of Ardin's prison never wavering. Slowly he unsheathed the blade from its thick housing, tenderly, respectfully. He began to mutter under his breath, causing the runes to glow.
Ardin could hear the words, they rushed through his memory like a flood. He knew those words! Knew their history and their purpose in a sudden flash and his heart stopped. He was going to die.
“Sadly the Shade didn't remember all that I taught him.” The Mage looked up as the runes glowed red. “He didn't take everything, didn't fully destroy her. Unfortunately for you, I suppose, I haven't forgotten the last bit. The most wickedly delightful bit that will render Charsi's power mine in its entirety.”
He muttered a final incantation as he pointed the sheath at Ardin and uncapped its tip to reveal a glowing red gem. Ardin felt instantly sick, weakened. It contained some sort of MARD.
The Mage himself stumbled a bit, weakened by its presence, but somehow not enough to debilitate him. It seemed to be directional.
Ardin writhed against the Mage's weakened power, but it wasn't enough. Tertian closed the gap, bringing
the knife to bear and keeping the sheath high. Ardin fought, struggling, and then he dropped to the ground.
Shocked, he didn't move at first as the Mage came at him with the knife, screeching like a demon as he thrust the blade towards Ardin's chest. Ardin kicked up, hard, catching the Mage in the groin and causing him to aim wide. He lunged forward, head butting the Mage as he stumbled, and then wrenched the knife away from him as he fell.
Ardin rolled to his feet, grabbing the glowing sheath and pointing it at the Mage who moved weakly on the ground.
“You seem to have forgotten,” he said as the power welled back up within him. “I'm not a rotten Mage like you.”
Suddenly, from somewhere deep within his mind came the final incantation, a different one than Tertian had intended, dark and evil in its tenor and depth. It came easily, causing the runes in the knife to flare to new brilliance. Somehow he knew this wouldn't separate Tertian's soul from his power. It would obliterate them both.
Tertian picked himself up weakly in his panic, his own power surging as he called it forth to defend himself, but the MARD and Ardin's anger kept him contained. They struggled, mist swirling around both in the strain.
Ardin yelled, vindictive as he slowly forced the knife through invisible barriers, pressing in until it tore into the Mage's robes. He pushed with all of his might, screaming with all of the hatred and pain and hurt that had been caused by this man. Thinking of his home, his family; of Alisia. The tension built, invisible pressures pushing and pulling on them both until Ardin felt the knife puncture the Mage's chest.
Tertian's eyes were thrown wide, wild with terror and panic as he fought back in desperation.
Ardin grinned in response.
“This is what comes of men like you,” he said quietly as he pressed the knife home.
The Mage's body went rigid, his back arching to meet the blade as his power, soul, and life funneled through the relic. They swirled around the room, pouring out of him like steam from a geyser. A deep, terrifying wail of despair rose from his shuddering body. It shook the hall like a tortured scream from the depths of hell. The heat grew and intensified as Ardin fell back, covering his face.
White smoke and mist filled the room as it whirled in fury against the containment of the mountain, pressure building until finally it found its release.
THE FISHERMAN PULLED in a large net as he neared the North Shore. He hadn't caught much during the day and was wanting nothing more than to get home and go to bed. He looked back to the western horizon, wondering if the young Magess and her friend had made it safely to White Shores. He wondered if the Shadow King had found them and offered his protection as he had intended. He sighed, and wished he could be of use again. Much like him, fishing was getting old.
The storm in the Northern Range had begun to subside and he could see the peaks begin to reform in the passing of the clouds. They were so small in the distance, only visible through the gap in the cliffs made by the Delta. It belied their massive size. Suddenly a bright light flared up behind the nearest ridges. It lasted longer than lightning, and was significantly brighter. It reached to the sky and shot out like a writhing umbrella before fading into the night sky.
He didn't need to hear the thunder and cracking of the crumbling mountain to know what that meant. Someone had found a Mage. Someone had used the Demon's tools to destroy another life. It darkened the fisherman's heart; making him sick to his stomach. The discharge stood as a reminder of the failures of his office as he drew closer to Brenton. Another Mage destroyed by the enemy, another precious life lost.
The next morning he opened an old chest he hadn't taken from hiding in decades. In it rested his weapons and the armor he had worn into so many battles. He changed into the garb of his past and donned the broad sword that had brought him fame. He wanted to see what had happened in the passing of the storm.
Cid the Cleaver, Captain of the Old Guard, was back.
READ THE SEQUEL
The Vitalis Chronicles:
Tomb of the Relequim
by Jay Swanson
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Acknowledgments
As with anything in life, something like this couldn’t be possible without the help and support of a lot of people.
My parents never told me to spend my time doing something ‘worthwhile’ and, in fact, saw most of my exploits as just that: worthwhile. They invested a lot of love and patience in me and taught me how to follow the Lord, something rare and valuable in itself. My sister has always been most fervent supporter, and if she’s ever off Gmail when I have something new to share I freak out.
I could probably write a book just to thank them.
My friends have been great too, and though there are an absurd number of people who have been supportive in this process, few have been so crucial to me as Rob, Shelby, Peter, Caleb, Jenna, and Marjolein.
Rob and Shelby raised my passion for this book to a new level when they loved it. And that was before I was even certain it was worth the paper it was on. Peter launched me even farther when he sat down with me after I’d finished it and told me the honest truth, good and bad.
Caleb died to read everything I sent him, and it would have gotten nowhere had Jenna not edited it like crazy. Marjolein deserves a book as well, her depiction of Charsi kept me up at nights. It was like seeing a part of my soul come to life.
Above all I owe Jesus thanks for using this book to heal me
Jay Swanson
In my own words:
I’ve been telling stories ever since I was a kid. Whether it was writing myself into fantastical battles with my friend John in my grandmother’s basement or telling my parents tall tales about exploding squirrels I’ve always told stories. I wrote my first play when I was in first grade, we actually produced it and I found the tape a few years back to prove it. Man was it awesome. I mean you probably wouldn’t like it but there were dragons and I was a prince and there was a princess to save… who doesn’t want that to happen in real life?
I mean honestly, that’s why I write. I do it because there’s a part of me that yearns for something more than what I can see; what is available to me on a daily basis. I want to be a part of a grand adventure where I’m the hero and just make it through by the skin of my teeth. The real-life situations where that happens are never so glorious as to provide the kind of satisfaction my stories can.
And so I write. Isn’t that why we read? To escape, to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes and see the world through their eyes? We’re all looking to live vicariously through someone else (except for the rare few among us who might actually be content with life). Perhaps we just like to be entertained, but there’s something much deeper and more real in a good book than simple entertainment. We extend ourselves into and through the words to become something greater than we already were. Good books can change us.
I don’t know that my own work is good enough to change people, but I know it was good enough to change me.
Contact Jay
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