Storm of Divine Light

by Ernesto San Giacomo

  Copyright © 2019 by Ernesto San Giacomo

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-578-57596-4

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-578-58004-3

  Book Cover and Interior Design: Creative Publishing Book Design

  Cover Art: Bogdan Maksimovic

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my Dearest wife Ruth

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1—The Signs & Portents of Mage-Sense

  Chapter 2—The Confessions of Brother Maynard

  Chapter 3—Religious Relics Are People Too

  Chapter 4—How to Roast a Goblin

  Chapter 5—Secret Steps

  Chapter 6—The Metamorphosis of Liberon

  Chapter 7—Under the Stolen Kiss

  Chapter 8—In Hot Pursuit of a Mouse

  Chapter 9—Affection’s Afflictions

  Chapter 10—The Last Wagon

  Chapter 11—The Incredible Gnomish Vision Tube

  Chapter 12—A Bloody Fragrance

  Chapter 13—Soft Footsteps in the Dark

  Chapter 14—Forks in the Road

  Chapter 15—Suns, Moons, & Stars

  Chapter 16—May the Light Shine upon Thee

  Chapter 17—Something Stirs in the Wood

  Chapter 18—Across the Queen’s River

  Chapter 19—Ancient Rites Fulfilled

  Chapter 20—Red Desert Rezzin

  Chapter 21—Palatial Brevity

  Chapter 22—The Price of Blood

  Chapter 23—Golgent on the Horizon

  Chapter 24—Weapons of Light

  Chapter 25—Bulls, Ballistae, & Bandoras

  Chapter 26—Guilder’s Gambit

  Chapter 27—Stronghold of Shadow

  Chapter 28—Full Circle

  Chapter 29—Vows

  CHAPTER 1

  THE SIGNS AND PORTENTS OF MAGE-SENSE

  DAGORAT PACED IN THE DARKNESS. Intense humming in his ears had roused him from sleep an hour ago. The high-pitched noise rose and fell, over and over, wailing like a relentless sentry until he awakened. His Mage-Sense had reached out to him like a psychic serpent coiling around his mind and slithering into his subconscious. Nestled between his dreams and dazed sleepy thoughts, it unleashed a dire warning. Four years ago, the last time this had happened, it had caused an abrupt change in his life – a change not for the better.

  Wary of an impending attack, he scanned the darkened space. “Orc piddles.” His soft voice, less than a whisper, was muffled by the thick black curtains. Through the tall but narrow window, faint light in the distance caught his attention. The first rays of the morning sun crept over the peaks of the Bear Claw Mountains and glided along the rooftops, awakening the great city of Mentiria. The serene beauty of the unfolding dawn would have bestowed peace upon the heart of any other man. Yet the coming day rattled his innards. His shaking hand combed through his dense black hair, and wiped cold sweat from his brow.

  He opened the window, put his hands on the sill and breathed deeply. The aroma of fresh bread from a nearby bakery wafted up, and a gentle hint of ocean salt lingered in the air. But those pleasing scents did nothing to soothe him. Dagorat rubbed the pad of his thumb back and forth along his index finger, then clenched his fist. After a moment, he realized he’d been fidgeting and stopped.

  Hearing footsteps, he snapped his gaze down and to the right, focusing on the street below. Had an assassin discovered him? An exhale of relief passed his lips when jolly old Rindell, the proprietor of the Sword and Anvil Tavern, turned the corner, carrying two sacks of fresh bread to feed his morning patrons. Dagorat surveyed the street to his left, tracking ahead of Rindell. In front of the quiet tavern, he spied the silhouette of a Halfling woman, Lilly the cook, leaning against a wall. She waved at Rindell as he approached.

  A subtle bounce of the floorboards carried through the soles of his boots. Hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He slipped a hand up his sleeve for his dirk, Frostbite. His hand glided over the intricately carved frost leopard that formed its grip. After a quick side step into a shadowed corner, he fixed his eyes upon the door. The knob rotated and the door slowly swung open, revealing a friendly face. He released a breath and leaned back on the wall. “Good morning.”

  “How did you know I was here? Oh, never mind,” Cyril grumbled. “Will I ever be able to move about this house without you knowing everything I do? And to think I even walked soft, to wake you gently to see the Solstice sunrise.” The kind-looking mage stroked his graying goatee, approached the window, and watched the dawn. “There’s Lilly waiting for Rindell as usual. She’s the finest chef in Mentiria. Which means a delightful and exquisite breakfast within the hour.” He glanced around the room. “Besides, it’s better than staying in here. One would think this room belongs to a monk.”

  Dagorat released a short snort. “If people only knew the truth about you.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That the great Cyril the Wise arranges his days around the schedule of a Halfling tavern cook,” Dagorat said in a flat voice. His fingers drummed on the sill.

  Cyril grabbed Dagorat’s wrist and lifted his hand. “What could possibly be wrong? It’s the Solstice morn. This is a day of merriment and festivities.”

  Dagorat swallowed hard. “Mage-Sense.”

  Cyril’s grip tightened. “And it was strong enough to wake you?”

  “Aye. The last time this happened, you sensed it too. Remember? We barely escaped Easterly with our lives.”

  “My own Mage-Sense has faded along with my hair. It happens to all of us.” He released Dagorat’s hand and laid a heavy pat on his shoulder. “What a fine mage you would have been. Especially under my tutelage, Blackmond.”

  Through a clenched jaw, Dagorat said, “Yet if I taught you everything I know, you’d still be the most bumbling, clumsy rogue in the world. How many times have I asked you not to speak that name?”

  “Fine. But we’re alone, Dagorat.” Cyril had a sting in his voice. “Unless perhaps that crow over there is eavesdropping?”

  “It’s too early. Can’t you wait until midday before unleashing that wit of yours?”

  Cyril smirked. “You make it quite difficult to resist. In any case, the dread within you seems rather formidable.”

  “Aye, it is.” Dagorat glided his hands through his hair and to the back of his neck. Sharing his burden offered some sense of relief, but not enough.

  “Try to relax. Sometimes these feelings are more powerful than the attention they warrant. In any event, we should consult my runes. Perhaps we can discover what has triggered your Mage-Sense. We have some time before the tavern opens for our morning repast.”

  Dagorat waited for Cyril to turn his back before rolling his eyes. Only you could think of food at a time like this. But the hope of finding an answer steadied his nerves.

  They hurried downstairs and entered the study, a private area where Cyril never brought his “patients.” The mage preferred his consultation room for business. The people of Mentiria had dubbed him Cyril the Wise, and the rich paid handsomely for his advice, potions, and remedies.

  Cyril settled into his favorite chair at a round table inlaid with patterns of intersecting arcs and angles. He lit and placed three candles, picked up a bag of runes with both hands and meditated. With a mysterious wave of his hand, he r
eleased the runes. They clattered, bounced and came to rest. Dagorat didn’t know much about the mage’s arts, but had assisted his friend with this ritual many times. He collected and removed the tiles which had landed facedown, careful not to disturb the rest. “What do they tell you?”

  “Not much,” Cyril said with pinched eyebrows. “Hmm. Strange.”

  “Try again.” Dagorat gathered up the remaining tiles, put them back into the bag, and handed it over.

  Cyril recited a hushed incantation. His eyes clenched shut from concentration, more intense than Dagorat had ever seen before. The mage extended his hand and released the runes once more.

  Dagorat stared at the table with a slow shake of his head. All the tiles had landed in the same positions as the first cast. Not simply similar, but an exact duplicate result. “What are the chances of –?”

  “Incredibly meager, to never.” Cyril’s wide eyes betrayed his shock.

  “I thought you said they didn’t tell you much. I’m no mage, but that looks like a definite answer to me.”

  “The runes tell me one thing.” He stroked his goatee, still eyeballing the scattered tiles. “Theft.”

  “Don’t look at me. I gave up that way of life years ago.”

  “Forcibly.” Cyril offered his scornful schoolmaster stare.

  “Not that again.” Dagorat huffed out a breath.

  “Sometimes you need to be reminded about your impulsiveness. Which led to indiscretion, which then led to exile from our homeland.”

  Not entirely true. Cyril had played a part in their exile as well, but he decided to let it go without a challenge. Finding an answer was more important than anything else. “Why don’t you meditate and try again?”

  “No. We must seek out an answer elsewhere. Or wait for the answer to find us.” Cyril remained seated, gaze fixed upon the runes.

  The workings of the mage’s mind remained something of a mystery to Dagorat despite their long friendship. But over the years, he had developed a great trust for him. He flopped into the chair next to Cyril’s. “All right, we’ll do it your way.” By Korak’s sweaty balls. Of course this problem wouldn’t be easy to solve.

  “How can a theft cause such an ominous sign?” Cyril said. “We must keep our eyes and ears attuned this morning. Foul deeds are afoot in these wee hours of the morn.”

  “Someone in this city must know all the details.”

  “Yes. But where to begin?” Cyril stood and paced in front of the bookcases lining the room.

  “Forget about the Thieves’ Guild. Can’t show my face there.”

  Cyril stopped pacing, removed a book from a shelf and stared at its cover.

  “You think this is the time to read a book?” Dagorat folded his arms.

  “No.” Cyril kept alternating his gaze from the book to the shelves.

  “Someone stole a rare book? Is that what you think happened?”

  “Abernathy. I bought this set from his shop.”

  “What a stunning discovery.” Dagorat threw his arms out wide. “I can go back to bed and sleep in peace.” He picked up some runes and flung them into the bag.

  “Now you may spare me your wit until midday.” Cyril thumped the book onto the table. “The bookstore, many go there and talk about the latest news.”

  A lightness spread through Dagorat’s chest. “Many more speak openly in the taverns.”

  “Quite right. But those of higher personage always congregate at Abernathy’s. They almost compete about who bears the juiciest news. Perhaps attentiveness shall deliver the answer before this day ends. Come. Let’s go to the tavern.”

  “Didn’t you just say the bookstore would be better?”

  “Abernathy’s won’t be open at this hour, even considering the time it takes to get there.” He gestured with an open hand toward the door. “But the tavern is across the street. We can start there. Besides, Lilly makes the finest Silberian eggs. You know, the elder I wax, the more of a hedonistic epicure I become.”

  “You mean became.” He poked Cyril in the stomach, and then raced up to his room to change. The morning light streamed in, and the sudden exposure startled him. He dashed to the window and drew the curtain closed.

  All his earlier foreboding came flooding back, and he carefully chose his clothes for the day. For a final touch, he dug out his favorite cloak with the large cowl. The hood hid his face in shadow, and the slits in the sides allowed him to peer inconspicuously to the right and left. Unique stitching made it reversible, which permitted him to hide and disguise himself. He donned the black cloak, went downstairs and found Cyril waiting for him in the entry hall. His friend raised an eyebrow and studied his apparel. Dagorat had once shown him the slits, but he’d never told him about the reversible pattern.

  “Excellent choice,” Cyril said. “We’ll need your stealthy observations.”

  The two stepped out into the street. Dagorat hunched a tad and fell into step behind Cyril. Playing the servant in public helped preserve his anonymity.

  In the distance a trumpet sounded, and he recognized the tune as the changing of the guard at the Royal Palace. The sounds of plodding horses rang out, the clip-clop of their shoes on the cobblestone streets echoing in the morning stillness. No doubt a number of farmers and craftsmen were already transporting their wares to one of the market squares in preparation for the crowds. As usual for Solstice, some people had gathered in solemnity to greet the sunrise, while most others waited to enjoy the carnival atmosphere of the day.

  Upon arriving at the Sword and Anvil they settled into their usual seats near the window, where Dagorat had a good view of the street and anyone entering. He glimpsed Lilly through the half-arch which separated the kitchen from the large common area. Through it, the heat from the kitchen fires warmed the wattle-and-daub walls. Normally, the open flames gave a cozy feel to the place, but today it made the air seem close and thick.

  The short, ever-cheerful tavern owner waddled over to greet them. Rindell waved his hands and wiggled his fingers. “See my mage-like ability. I can read your deepest thoughts and desires. Silberian eggs, right?”

  Cyril beamed. “I might have to close up shop and move elsewhere.”

  Rindell bobbed his head towards Dagorat. “And, um…?”

  “Just eggs, toast, and a few rashers of bacon for my servant, please.”

  The owner scratched their order onto a scrap of slate. “Anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” Cyril answered. Rindell bustled back to the kitchen.

  The Sword and Anvil filled as the minutes passed, and came alive with the energy of people anticipating a holiday full of activity. Some customers came in for a full breakfast, while others simply ordered tea. The hum of conversation began to fill the room. Cyril stayed quiet, lost in thought. Dagorat kept his gaze moving between the street and the door, watching for anything unusual. But vigilance proved difficult this morning. His mind kept reflecting back on the runes, the theft, and his Mage-Sense.

  Not long ago, Dagorat was a river to his people, a force that made things happen. Now in mundane stasis, his life better resembled a piece of driftwood embedded deep in a mud bank as the stream of life coursed around him. Would this new disturbance dislodge him, and allow him to float in the currents like any other common man? Or would he once again be the water, carrying others along?

  Lilly plopped an order on the wide shelf in the brick arch and clanged a metal triangle. “Silberian eggs! Sunny eggs and rashers!” Dagorat winced at the volume.

  Rindell returned with their breakfast. “Oh, I have some important news for you.”

  Their attention snapped toward him. “What news? What happened?” Cyril asked.

  “I decided to offer a more generous portion for the Solstice. Lilly insisted on adding something as well.” He placed the plates in front of them.

  Excitement bled away from Cyril’s face, and Dagorat let out a snort. He should have known this wouldn’t be that easy.

  “An extra egg and tater c
akes,” Cyril said, regaining his composure. “Why, thank you ever so much, and extend my gratitude to Miss Lilly.” He waved to her, and then turned to his breakfast.

  Through the slits in his cowl, Dagorat caught a glimpse of Lilly. She cast a wistful expression at Cyril’s back, then bounced away from the window as if skipping on air.

  A perfect match. She loves to cook and he loves to eat.

  Cyril waved his hand over the eggs and breathed in the aroma. “So simple and yet so complex. Lilly’s sweet hands always concoct this delight perfectly.”

  “Glad you’re enjoying yourself. Maybe you and your eggs would like some privacy,” Dagorat whispered. “Honestly, how can you eat right now? Aren’t you bothered about the runes?”

  “Of course I am. But worrying won’t bring us an answer any sooner. After all, our investigation begins here. Besides, wouldn’t it seem odd if we came in here and didn’t eat our usual fare?” Cyril tore into his eggs, grunting with pleasure, while Dagorat poked at his food in an uninspired fashion. “Why don’t you take a walk to the privy? Do some eavesdropping on the way.”

  “All right.” Dagorat stood and made his way toward the privy, threading through the tables, trying to pick up on conversations. One man chattered away, complaining about his wife and children, and how he longed for adventure in faraway lands. At another table, men talked about the recent dangers on the road to Jalken City. Nobody said a word about a theft.

  Dagorat stepped into the privy and waited inside for a minute. When he emerged, from across the room he spied a tall, fat man at their table, talking to Cyril. Dagorat recognized him, a merchant who had paid for a consultation last year. Could this man have news about the theft? Before he could make his way over, the man wheeled around and left.

  “What did he want?” Dagorat slid back into his seat.

  “Just saying ‘hello’ and making an appointment for next week. Did you hear anything interesting?”

  Dagorat grabbed his fork and clutched it tight. “Nothing. Everything is all too…normal.” He resumed pushing his food around the plate.

  The main door swung open and slammed against the wall. Two drunken men staggered in, laughing, and made their way over to a nearby table. “I’m really hungry,” one announced.