Charms of the Feykin

by Charles E Yallowitz

  Legends of Windemere:

  Charms

  Of

  The

  Feykin

  Copyright 2016 © by Charles Yallowitz

  Kindle Edition

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design & Illustration by Jason Pedersen

  Legends of Windemere

  Beginning of a Hero

  Prodigy of Rainbow Tower

  Allure of the Gypsies

  Family of the Tri-Rune

  The Compass Key

  Curse of the Dark Wind

  Sleeper of the Wildwood Fugue

  The Merchant of Nevra Coil

  The Mercenary Prince

  Tribe of the Snow Tiger

  Dedication

  To everyone who has entered Windemere

  And left their mark upon its soul

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Prologue

  “I believe it is customary for one to bring a present when visiting a newborn noble,” Baron Kernaghan states while standing on the highest balcony of his castle. Staring over the rocky landscape of Shayd, he lets his infant son gum his gloved fingers and run a tiny hand through his immaculate beard. “Then again, I assume you are here to complain or threaten. This unexpected wrinkle must be driving you insane, my old friend. Well, I knew he was coming and I truly enjoy the effect he is having on you.”

  Gabriel remains silent as he stands a few feet behind the other immortal and taps his fingers on a sheathed longsword. The black-haired deity considers striking the baby down and accepting a harsh punishment from the other gods. He has spent centuries planning for every major player in the most delicate of prophecies, but now he faces an anomaly that is not in his favor. Bitter experience has told the Destiny God that such things are always a source of trouble, which is why the polished weapon slips an inch out of its ebony scabbard. The action causes a jolt of discomfort to run through his stomach, the mild attack having enough energy to tease his natural defenses. It crosses Gabriel’s mind that it might have been the cooing infant that lashed out since the Baron has the power to achieve more than an irritating tickle. The thought makes him even more frustrated and concerned because it means his champions might not have a chance against their new opponent. Angrily tossing the longsword into the distance, the arrogant deity frowns and lets his eyes match the abyssal black of his enemy.

  Neither immortal pays attention to the crimson clouds that are gathering above in the sky, the thick storm punching the ground with bolts of lightning. The strikes leave smoking holes in the earth to form a circle around the castle, threatening to cut it off from the rest of the shadowy continent. Appearing out from under the building, ebony slimes ooze toward the damage and seep into the gaps. Created by Nyder Fortune to repair damaged rock, the creatures bubble and hiss loud enough to be heard over the storm. The Baron’s son giggles and claps at the strange chorus, his feet kicking wildly in the air. The noises stop when a wave of magic flows from the castle roof and washes over the slimes to harden them into chunks of stone that violently reflect the lightning. An occasional screech from a still conscious slime can be heard, the creature feeling pain without being allowed to die.

  “Enjoy your mewling victory, old man,” Gabriel replies, forcing himself to smile. With a flick of his wrist, the god creates a small rattle that is immediately taken by the Baron. “I sense that you do not trust my intentions. We both know that the child is protected by the Law of Influence. You and your spawn would have been wiped out by me long ago if that was not the case. Now give the gift to your son.”

  “I can smell the poison on this, little General,” the immortal warlord states as he crushes the rattle in his hand. He licks his glove and shudders at the taste before casting a healing spell on himself. “This is what I used to incapacitate the Paladins of Tewgon. Not a lethal poison, but it causes painful blisters in the intestines and a sense that one is eternally cold. How pathetic are you to use such a thing on a baby?”

  “As if you never did such a thing and worse,” the god retorts, remembering the darkest actions of his scowling adversary. Unfurling a black cape from his shoulders, he walks to the edge of the turret and watches a pack of shambling zombies. “Does it worry you that things are going in your favor? The Great Cataclysm extended your cage to encompass Shayd and you have been able to recruit some powerful servants. You are welcome for that since I had a hand in their creation as well as that of your enemies. Now that I think about it, I have done so much to make sure that this prophecy entertains you. So you repay me by breeding with a former goddess and spawning that . . . thing?”

  “His name is Walter Kernaghan and he is my son,” the Baron says as the baby begins to squirm and cry. A rocking chair appears behind the warlord, who takes a minute to find a pace that will calm the child. “The old-fashioned names are best. From what I have been told, the modern method is to choose one that is intimidating. At least among those people that one would label as evil, which I assume is the group I fall into. There is such a lack of subtlety and nuance in Windemere today. I may have to do something about that when I take over, but the modern trend does help in identifying potential threats. After all, we both know that those with dark ambitions will be the first to challenge my rule or endear themselves to me. There most certainly will be a culling of people who consider themselves my competition.”

  “And the mother is okay with such a dull name?”

  “Not at first, but we came to a compromise.”

  “Which is?”

  “A private matter.”

  With the sound of bubbling water, a pool of black and white liquid seeps from beneath the nearby door. For a brief moment, the puddle recedes and a gentle knocking can be heard on the solid wood. Once the Baron nods his head, the oozing continues until half of the balcony is covered in the swirling slime. Moving statues of various animals rise from the liquid and dance around to entertain the baby, the figures becoming more erratic as the child claps. When Walter squeals with joy, the pool leaps and snatches him from his father’s hands. Spinning rapidly all over the balcony, the black and white whirlwind takes the form of a woman whose green-haired head continues to roll on her neck. Yola Biggs stops next to the Baron and tosses her baby high into the air where the lightning becomes a cradle. The former Chaos Goddess waves to the giggling child and is about to make herself comfortable when her master clears his throat for her attention.

  “Please bring our son back down, my dear,” the warlord requests while maintaining a protection spell around the baby. He senses that Walter is not in any danger, but he refuses to let his consort think her child is indestructible. “I believe it is almost time for him to b
e fed and put to sleep. You remember what happens when he became cranky. The previous tantrum cost me ten demons of moderate power and my favorite dining room table. Once I am done with our honored guest, I will be visiting Nyder. I have some business to discuss with him and may not be home until late.”

  “His middle name is Purple,” Yola declares, her kaleidoscopic eyes casting twirling rainbows onto Gabriel’s black armor. She stretches her arms to retrieve her drooling baby and holds him to her chest while approaching the god. “It was my favorite color at the time and it reminds me how much I love eggplants. Not to eat, but to turn into winged swordfish that impale my enemies. Are you and the others scared of my baby? I may not be one of you anymore, but I can smell your fear on the breeze. It sours my milk, which is perfect for the little one. Don’t want him to be nice when he steps into the battlefield.”

  “And here I thought we were on civil terms, Yola,” Gabriel states, refusing to back away from the shorter immortal. A whistle is on the tip of his lips, but he feels invisible fingers press his mouth closed. “You will be happy to know that Aeriel is having a very difficult time filling your role. A quarter of your followers have left the fold and another quarter have been misplaced. Not that you can take the title back, but it appears that nobody can live up to your standards. Though it is almost as if the chaos energy is purposely causing trouble and Aeriel is not the one in control. You would not happen to know of any reason it is being difficult or have a method to tame it. Not that I care, but your replacement is becoming somewhat of an inconvenience for the rest of us.”

  “Sorry, but that stuff tends to make the decisions if you’re not ready,” the grinning woman replies while she adjusts her suckling child. Feeling a kink in her shoulder, she supports him with her hair and massages her sore muscles. “Or if you’re too weak to handle it. Well, it’s been nice seeing you again, Mr. Destiny. Keep me in mind if you need a replacement for the ambitious little cretin who bit off more than she could chew.”

  Yola hops onto the edge of the balcony and steps off to the joyous clapping of Walter, who continues eating while they fall. Gabriel is the only one to watch her descent, which gains incredible speed after the first second. She stops a few stories down by sneezing with enough force to blast through a stained glass window. The hissing of a startled cat can be heard before it is drowned out by stomping footsteps and reforming glass.

  “Raksha is still getting used to the new addition to our family,” the Baron states, offering a goblet of wine to his guest. He sighs when the drink is transformed into water and the elegant cup crumbles to dust. “That was a very rare and exquisite wine, my old friend. Then again, you have dined with Eporwil, so I can assume that you have had better. Sadly, this is the best we tiny non-gods have to live with. Perhaps I will find a way to get the Ale-Soaked Maiden to give me some of her recipes. After all, she may be open to a trade. Her people’s safety for a few exclusive brews sounds like a fair deal.”

  “What are you trying to do, Arthuru?” Gabriel snaps in a threatening whisper. Forgetting his place, the god reaches out to grab the other man by his sapphire shirt and pull him closer. “This child threatens not only my prophecy, but your victory over the champions. There is no telling what he is capable of, especially when you consider his mother is Yola Biggs. Has it occurred to you that this child may be a danger to all of us?”

  The Baron grabs the Destiny God by the wrists and snaps the bones with a powerful squeeze. “It has crossed my mind, but I require an heir. If Walter becomes too dangerous then I will use him to eliminate the champions and dispose of him after his mission is complete. Unlike you, I have no law to stay my hand. Besides, do not act like you are innocent in this, my old friend. You are the one who cost me all of my children and forced me into this position. My new son may not be something you planned for and his destiny is a mystery to us all, but he is what happens when you meddle in too many major events. I find it amusing that you continually forget about the rules of your own station. Perhaps you ascended too soon and are trapped with the mind of a petulant, though impressively ambitious, child.”

  “I am well aware of the anomaly risk that comes with crafting destinies,” Gabriel replies, his wrists no longer damaged. Walking around his smirking rival, the god stops next to a black unicorn that steps out of an ebony curtain. “This is not the same thing. Your child is not a push to bring destiny and free will into balance. Such a being is always random and never appears within a prophecy. Walter Purple Kernaghan is a weapon created by a desperate man for a specific purpose. I hope the little brat turns on you first, Arthuru, because I would love to see the surprise on your face.”

  “Many have tried to kill me and none have succeeded.”

  “Yes, but only one has to get the job done.”

  “Better it be by my own kin than your tools.”

  Gabriel sighs and pulls himself onto his waiting steed, which lowers its glistening horn at the Baron. “It does not matter to me how you die as long as you stay that way. Now I must take my leave. You claim to know what you are doing and I lack the power to stop you. All I will ask is that you be careful with this one, Arthuru. He is nothing like any of your previous children. The two of us might be enemies, but neither of us want to see Windemere destroyed. Many of the gods sense that this Kernaghan is capable of doing just that. This puts him on the same level as the channelers and your youngest daughter, but we fear that Walter will not grow up to show restraint. Even worse, he may become aware his full destructive potential. Use him carefully, my former lord, or your future kingdom will be nothing more than corpses and rubble.”

  “Your warning is noted and appreciated,” the ancient warlord states, his voice cold and filled with disdain. With a casual wave of his hand, the Baron vanishes from the castle and leaves a fading shadow to finish talking to Gabriel. “I will keep an eye on the child and make sure he does not put my ambitions in jeopardy. There is truth in your words that winning our game at the cost of what I want is foolishly mortal. Still, I want you to keep in mind that your precious champions are on their own, my former general. The day Walter faces your creations will be filled with a level of suffering and death that they have yet to taste.”

  *****

  Sweating in the warm forest, Nyder Fortune trudges behind his master and fiddles with the buttons on his metal gauntlet. A burst of sparks erupts from the device, which he removes and stuffs into his burn-covered satchel. Cleaning his oily forehead, the gnome creates a breeze that does very little to comfort his aching muscles. In fact, the wind gives him a sudden chill due to his lime green shirt being soaked in sweat. Nyder frowns as a few trees flicker out of existence, the illusionary area becoming more difficult for him to maintain as his energy falters. With a groan, the red-eyed gnome stops to take a few sips of a foul, clear potion that strengthens his aura. Casting a quick spell, he revives the missing pieces of the landscape and takes a single step to begin catching up with his master. A muttered curse is all he has time to say as his knees buckle and the proud inventor collapses in the mud. Feeling frustrated and embarrassed, he silently wonders why he included the goopy liquid in his illusion.

  “Is this really necessary, master?” Nyder asks while he rolls onto his back. He wipes the fake muck off his body, leaving only a small smear of real dirt on his bulbous nose. “I know you want to release some tension and the demons aren’t giving you a real challenge. But this entire exercise is exhausting me. I don’t use illusions very often, so this is causing a massive strain on my body and mind. Can I drop the forest?”

  “I suppose fighting in a desolate wasteland will have to suffice,” the Baron replies while stripping off his clothes and neatly placing them on a rock. Left only in his underwear, the warlord draws a rapier out of thin air and takes a cleansing breath. “Thank you for humoring me, Lord Fortune. How many of your pets will you be using?”

  “Only three because I didn’t have more than a few hours to prepare,” the gnome answers with a yawn. He flick
s his thick goggles over his eyes and the lenses turn gold to reveal the illusion’s intricate web of magic. “They might not be the biggest challenges for you, but they should help brighten your mood. I put a few fun designs on them too. Hope you approve. Then again, you’re destroying these things, so it really doesn’t matter.”

  Nyder yanks a handful of aura out of the air, which punctures the illusionary forest and turns it into a deflated mess on the ground. The energy slowly dissolves as three Weapon Dragons roar at the sky, their metal and flesh bodies creaking loud enough for all of Shayd to hear. A tired sigh escapes the Baron’s lips when he observes his mediocre opponents. The gray-scaled Axe Dragon slashes at the ground with its bladed tail and flaps its stiff wings enough to hover a few feet off the ground. A bulky Mace Dragon awkwardly balances on its club-like feet and pounds its stony wings against its fleshy sides. The only real challenge for the immortal is the limbless Crossbow Dragon circling the battlefield, the creature’s spikey frill repeatedly covering its elongated face. A barrage of toxic stakes are launched into the earth as the beast passes overhead, the deadly projectiles more of a warning than an actual attack.

  “As I said, I don’t have much to offer and the sparring beasts are still . . . dead,” Nyder apologetically explains. He removes his goggles and rubs his eyes when the Mace Dragon hacks up a small puff of pebbles. “I also forgot to feed that one. Kind of hoped it would swallow a few boulders while we traveled, but this construct seems dumber than normal. I should mention that without Stephen and Trinity to run errands, my supplies are getting dangerously low. Do you think Yola can retrieve some materials? I know asking her runs the risk of another incident and a lot of headaches for both of us, but I’m becoming a desperate inventor. Even a genius like me needs supplies to get work done.”

  “I will ask her to assist you tomorrow. She will have your factory fully stocked by the end of the day,” the Baron replies while advancing toward the roaring Axe Dragon. Two blades erupt from the beast’s mouth, both of them deflected into a nearby hill by a few swings of the warlord’s slender blade. “That actually pushed me back an inch. Either you have no faith in your own creations or I am becoming weak in my old age. Is there something written on that creature’s forehead?”