“I just wanted to say, this is a lovely location up here,” Moloch remarked casually. “It’s not often I have the occasion to leave the kingdoms anymore. I really must thank you. But you know, you never should have come after me. There was really never any way you could have won.” He spoke as if the battle were already over.
“Toman, what are you waiting for?” Esset murmured to Toman, unwilling to take his eyes off the mage. Time was ticking—it would take time to wear Moloch down and stop him for good before the amulets wore off. But Moloch kept talking.
“What I do is something like farming. It is so rewarding, after sewing so many seeds, to see one come to fruition. And this one—well, Animator, your seed I sewed a long time ago. No one escapes me, you know. It’s only a matter of time. Those amulets protect you from new magic, but this magic has been waiting inside you, Animator, since before I destroyed your predecessor. On the day I destroyed your village, I made sure no survivor could ever be a threat. I simply waited until the right moment to bring my seed of power to life.” Moloch laughed, and Esset felt himself go cold all over. What was he saying? No!
“Toman, attack!” Esset urged his brother desperately. “What are you waiting for?” He risked a glance at Toman, who seemed frozen in place.
“Me,” Moloch said. Esset could hear the laughter, the mocking, condescending laughter in Moloch’s voice.
“He’s waiting for me, for my order, for my permission. I planted a geas in him a lifetime ago, and now he is under my control.”
The Guardian, the Guardian—Toman was helpless, he needed protection, surely he could summon the Guardian! But it was lost to him, and Esset knew that his other summons would be sadly insufficient.
“Come on, Toman,” Moloch mocked, beckoning to the animator. Toman obediently walked to Moloch’s side, and the mage snatched the immunity amulet from Toman’s neck. Esset could only watch.
“Why don’t you attack? Him.” Moloch pointed at Esset. Sweat broke out on Toman’s forehead, but the boulders began to move—his animations were coming to life, and they were going to kill Esset.
“And since you have no chance of escaping this lovely mob of statues, we’ll be going now.” Moloch’s smile was sickening—Esset couldn’t breathe, but he could feel the weaving of a transportation spell around Moloch and Toman. Moloch was taking Toman—he would use him, torture him, and kill him. And the gloves would be in Moloch’s possession. Esset was powerless to stop him, and that incantation burned in his mind.
We fight, Esset thought, echoing the sentiment he’d believed for so long. But now, faced with this… Bright Hyrishal had sacrificed himself to save the world. In life, sacrifices great and small were necessary. Now, this sacrifice was necessary.
That incantation burned in his mind.
As Esset spoke, summoning symbols began to burn in the air around him. Time slowed—literally slowed—and a visceral knowledge of what he was calling and what it would do dawned on everyone present. No foreknowledge was required; the phoenix granted that understanding to everyone involved.
Inside, Toman howled. No, Esset, no! Don’t do it, Jonathan! Even Moloch paled and tried to build his spell faster.
Fire bloomed around Esset, forming floating arcane symbols. Wings unfolded behind him, then separated from him as the long, elegant neck of the phoenix stretched up towards the sky. It wasn’t so much summoned as born, brought into life right then and there on their plane of existence. Then it was whole, and it swept its wings forward. Moloch screamed, his voice cracking in agony as a streak of blinding red-orange light pierced his chest. But Moloch’s spell, his escape route, was complete—with a blink, Toman and the mage vanished, suddenly leagues away from the site where the phoenix unfurled and stone giants advanced on it and the summoner.
Toman’s mind had gone berserk, but he was frozen in place, unable to move as he was transported back to Moloch’s kingdom, into what looked like the mage’s inner sanctum. Moloch was on the ground, writhing in agony, but he wasn’t dying; Toman knew because his spell wasn’t loosening its grip. Moloch’s screams pierced the palace, and his minions came running, only to hide in the surrounding shadows, unwilling to risk helping their master. They knew him—he would lash out at anyone near. He wasn’t dying—he would live.
Moloch wasn’t dying. Esset would die. Moloch would live. And Toman would be Moloch’s prisoner, to live, die, or be tortured for lifetimes upon the dark mage’s whim. Toman raged, knowing the cost of his best friend and brother’s summon.
It was all for nothing.
Esset’s soul seemed to have split into two. One half was frantic and screaming; he had failed to stop Moloch, and now Toman was in his hands for good. The other half was perfectly calm and serene, as if he had drifted far away from worldly concerns. His body stood on the mountainside, surrounded by advancing stone foes. It didn’t matter though—the fire around the summoner was so hot it melted them before they could come close.
A scream—a screech—rent the air. Esset’s mouth was agape, but his scream was drowned out by a larger sound. The louder cry was from the unfeeling agony of his surroundings as the sudden, intense heat radiated into the rocks and trees. The frailer plant life simply disintegrated into ash. The sap in the trees boiled instantly, causing the ancient plants to explode with a resounding crack. The earth itself fared no better; some stones squealed and then exploded while others were split asunder or melted into glassy puddles. Everything was scorched and blackened, leaving nothing recognizable behind.
With a flare, the fire expanded, and a full league in every direction was immolated—a hole of melted stone was carved in the mountainside. The tower, the animations: everything was gone. Esset felt his feet lift off the ground. He hung there, cradled in heat. No, not cradled—that brought to mind gentleness, and the pain was not gentle. Esset was at the very center of the inferno, consumed yet untouched. The fire around him was white, so hot it was colorless. Every muscle in his body was extended and rigid—his arms were stretched from his sides, his fingers spread. His head was tilted back, his feet inches from the ground.
Magic whipped like wind around him, lifting his hair and the edges of his clothing for a moment. Then it whirled around him again, this time carrying ash with it, crystallized flecks of blackened stone. The air spun around him like a vortex, sucking flame and ash inwards to implode upon the summoner. The ashes glowed red-hot then, turning Esset into a being of liquid fire, encasing him completely. One intense flash of hot white light later, there was nothing.
The mountainside was empty, featureless but for the crater and a slim, egg-like pedestal in the middle. It glowed red hot, but slowly faded to a glossy back. It stood there, alone, in the epicenter of the destruction. A cold mountain wind descended around it, but it was untouched, a monument to the life—and death—of the summoner.
Thank you so much for reading my debut novel! If you loved this book, please leave a review wherever you purchased it. If you’d like to read more, you can track me a number of different ways:
My website (including my blog): http://stephaniebeavers.com/
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Comments or questions? Shoot me an email at [email protected].
I hope to get the next novel published soon! In the meantime, there’s a free short story on my website. It’s set before the events of this book. Check it out on my website: And The Wolves Danced.
A first book is a huge accomplishment. For me, it’s the culmination of years of reading and writing and the passion for both. I know I couldn’t have done it without so many people.
First, Mrs. McCutcheon, my fifth grade teacher who got me hooked on writing in the first place. There have been so many other teachers since then, too, who have encouraged me in my writing.
Of course, I must thank my family, who read my book despite not being fantasy readers (or in my dad’s case, no
t even a fiction reader), and who supported me in finishing the manuscripts for this book and the next.
I must thank my wonderful editor, Brenda Errichiello, for transforming my writing in such a way that my story has now been told the best it possibly could be.
And I must thank Damon Za for the brilliant cover art!
Last, I need to thank Kristen Lamb. I have followed her blog and read her books on craft and business, and I have learned so incredibly much; I honestly don’t know if I ever could have gotten published without the resources she provides.
So to everyone—friends, family, supporters, and mentors—thank you.
Stephanie Beavers always knew she wasn’t from the real world. That was why she spent so much time daydreaming and living in various fantasy worlds created by others and herself. Stephanie knew she was actually supposed to have been born as a dragon or a cat—or at least someone who had magical abilities. Now grown, she appreciates the beauties of the real world too, but saves herself from sanity by spending as much time in magical, or at least fictional, worlds as possible.
Stephanie shares her mind with a myriad of characters, most of them not human, and most of them possessing magic or special abilities. When they get too loud inside her head, she writes them out or drowns them out by submersing herself in the fiction of others. For those who love magic and adventure, she offers you an outlet so you can escape reality too.
COPYRIGHT
Calling On Fire: Book One of Fire and Stone
Copyright © Stephanie Beavers 2014
All rights reserved
Formatted by: Wyrding Ways Press
Cover Design by: Damon Za
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Title Page
Fairy Tales
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
AFTERWORD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
Calling On Fire (Book 1) Page 38
