by P B Hughes
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Stay Connected
About the Author
MIRACLIST
P. B. Hughes
Copyright © 2016 P. B. Hughes
All rights reserved.
For Alex
Chapter 1
Raymond Findley pounded through the woods, his horse lathered in thick sweat. He ignored the slashing black branches that tore at his face like whips. Darkness painted his world, his vision aided only by the winking eye of a full moon through the treetops. A short distance ahead and he would be free from the tangle, yet the nightmare that pursued him would never abate.
Out from the trees he burst, his steed snorting in a full, burning gallop. Before him stretched glowing slopes of grassland and the smear of a structure across the base of the mountainous horizon. Raymond brushed the hem of his cloak away from the bundle beneath his right arm. The infant was still sleeping, unaware of its imminent plight.
But for how long?
He dared a glance over his shoulder. Nothing. Had they outdistanced it?
A haunting shriek pierced the night sky, sending bolts of terror coursing through Raymond’s bones. His beast let out a frightened whinny, her strides becoming prodigious and wild, fueled by adrenaline and the fear of certain death. Raymond reached to his belt, taking hold of a bone-white horn and pressed it to his lips. He blew a deep moan that warned his comrades of the mortal peril he led to their gates.
Perhaps together, he and his fellow monks could stay the wicked creature.
On they hurtled, the rising steeple and shadowed walls of the monastery blooming into focus before them; their haven, their last hope.
“I’m sorry, Wings,” Raymond whispered to his steed. He knew she might not survive the grueling journey.
The high iron gate of the monastery gaped ajar, welcoming them home as they sped across the threshold. Raymond leaped from his horse’s back, landing heavy on his boots, forcing a wail out of the once-sleeping babe. He turned to see the beast collapse from exhaustion. The sight of her sickened him, his faithful friend through the years in agony on the ground. But he could not tarry. He flew to her side, unbuckling a long staff with an orb of gold at the top from the rear satchel.
His head shot up. Something felt wrong. Nothing more than the sound of howling wind and clack of shuttered windows greeted them.
“Hello?” he called, the child under one arm, his staff in hand.
Not a soul graced the walls or holy grounds of his home. Perhaps they took cover inside the church. He tore across the lawn and up the front steps, pounding the finely carved, stretching doors.
“Blast it,” he cried, “open the doors! I have him! Bard, Timothy—can anyone hear me?”
In desperation he slammed a fist against the entrance, and to his surprise, the heavy door creaked open ever so slightly. He threw his weight against it and staggered inside the sanctuary, slamming the door tightly behind and pulling the bar across to shield them from the night.
The room was lit only by pale light that fell from the high windows, revealing rows of pews devoid of life. Brooding darkness filled the areas the light refused to touch. Painful breaths dropped from Raymond’s mouth to the floor; fear swelled within him.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” said a deep voice as smooth as silk.
Raymond fell back with a start, but quickly regained his footing. He searched the darkness. Atop the podium at the back of the room, standing behind the lectern, a man, round and fleshy, toyed with the end of a dagger.
“Greavus, is that you?”
“Of course it is, brother.”
Relief flooded Raymond’s heart at the sight of his fellow monk. “Thank the Creator! Where are the others?”
The man slid out from behind his perch, stepping down the stage with slow, calculated strides. “Everyone is here, do not fret,” he said, halting at the edge of a square of light. Only his belly, nose and protuberant eyes were visible, a veil of shadow concealing his frame.
“Come, take me to them! We must make haste!”
Greavus’ left eye twitched and his mouth drooped. Then, a smile overtook his lips. “But of course, Raymond. Anything you say.” He raised a fat finger toward a door built into the eastern side of the wall.
Raymond’s gaze followed. A tingle, like the arms of a spider, ran down his back. He knew where the door led. Down. Down a spiraling staircase and into the belly of the crypt: the hallowed resting place of tortured souls who had given their lives for the Emperor.
“They shelter within the crypt?”
“Aye,” Greavus replied. “They hide within. Come, we must join them!”
Raymond hesitated. The crypt was forbidden to all save the High Priest. He knew the monks would never take shelter in the depths for fear of waking the dead. But what hunted them now was far worse than any ghoul.
He whisked across the floor to the entrance, tucked his staff beneath his arm and lifted the latch. A quick glance over his shoulder at Greavus gave him pause. A peculiar half-smile was stretched across his face; relief no doubt. Raymond pushed forward as Greavus trailed behind.
Down they went; each step heavier than the last. The air flooding Raymond’s lungs grew damp and cold and a foul odor found his nostrils. The faint whispers of the dead passed through him like December’s breath.
This place is not meant for the living, thought Raymond. He tucked his cloak more tightly about the boy, holding him close.
Finally, they reached the bottom of the stairs, nothing before them save thick, swelling, horrible darkness. Raymond’s eyes sparked gold, the orb on the end of his staff shining the color of torchlight.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. And then, Raymond’s blood felt as though it dried within him. A cry of despair clawed its way from his throat, emptying into the tunnels of the crypt as he fell to his knees. Before him, his comrades lay in a gruesome pile of lifeless corpses, eyes black, throats slit. Hot tears fell like drops of fire to the stone floor beneath him. The child woke with a cry, seeming to share in his grief.
“How?” Raymond sobbed. “How did this happen?”
A hand came to rest upon his shoulder. “They had to die, Raymond. It was the only way.”
“I…I don’t understand.”
“I tried, Raymond, truly I did. I begged them, pleaded with them to see reason.”
Raymond slowly turned his head, looking up at the man he had known for years, disbelief tightening inside him.
Greavus squeezed Raymond’s shoulder. “They would never serve the Dark One. It had to be done.”
“You…you did this?”
“I wished them to join me,” Greavus justified, “yet they refused my master’s invitation!” His grip relaxed. “But you, you’re differen
t, Raymond. I’ve always thought highly of you. You’re reasonable, intelligent, strong. Not like them.” Greavus’ voice dropped to a hush. “You can see we’re fighting a losing battle…”
Raymond bolted upright, whirling to face Greavus, staff pointed as waves of electricity danced from the orb like a rising storm. “They were your friends!” he cried, a river of tears pouring from his eyes. “They trusted you and you betrayed them!”
“I ushered in the inevitable for them. It was an act of mercy, I assure you. They would have met a far more gruesome end upon my Master’s return.” A smile spread across Greavus’ mouth. “It was fate they should die at my hands, fate that ended the life of your precious Emperor, and fate that brought you and the boy to me.”
Raymond blinked, the implications of Greavus’ words weighing upon his chest like an anvil. His mirth, and his pure, mad joy at the turn of events; the truth began to unfold. “It cannot be…”
“Oh, but it can,” Greavus replied, running a finger over the flat of his blade. “But your fate is yet to be written, Raymond. Hand over the boy and join us.”
Raymond pressed the boy to his body and staggered backward. “I am no traitor, Greavus,” he said. “Not like you.”
“Traitor?” Greavus bellowed, his eyes bulging from their sockets. “You cannot betray that which you have never sworn allegiance. I have ever only followed His Great Malevolence. Now, unless you want to join your friends on the Grey Ship to the Netherworld, you will give me that boy!”
“I will die first!” Raymond cried, thrusting his staff at Greavus. A lightning bolt erupted from the tip, careening toward the rotund man.
Far too quickly for one of Greavus’ build, he flicked his knife up, catching the bolt and absorbing it into his blade.
Raymond blinked for a moment, stunned. Again he shot a bolt, and again Greavus absorbed it.
Delighted laughter escaped from Greavus. “I told you Raymond, you cannot win this war.”
Greavus leapt forward with ruthless speed, slashing and hissing.
This time, Raymond aimed a bolt to the ceiling—an avalanche of stones plummeted over Greavus, forcing him against the wall. Raymond raced over the stones before Greavus could mount a second attack. Up the spiraling stairs and out into the sanctuary; Raymond made for the door.
A rush of air blasted against his exit. Outside, another death cry punctured the darkness like a thousand needles into the skin. Raymond readied himself to meet his doom.
“He’s here,” said Greavus, his words dripping with insane pleasure as he extricated himself from the crypt. “The boy will die, and you will join him. And I will be the one to end you!”
“I am a Miraclist and Guardian!” cried Raymond, raising his staff. “A Monk of the High Order. In the name of all things pure, holy, and good I will protect my prince until my dying breath.” Raymond’s eyes shone like two dazzling suns, the orb atop his staff gleaming radiant gold, flooding the sanctuary with angelic light.
“How noble,” replied Greavus, studying his fingernails.
Dozens of bolts rippled from the orb atop Raymond’s staff and through the air, striking the floor one after another. Greavus raised his dagger, collecting each and every one that reached him, his smile ever broadening at the futile attack. But Raymond did not cease. The bolts grew greater, stronger, and more frequent. Greavus’ smile began to fade, frustration giving way to fury. A surge of power burned through a thunderbolt. When it reached the dagger, the blade began to glow red with heat. Greavus yelped and dropped the dagger to the ground, his hand sizzling. Raymond released another bolt at Greavus—the bolt seared across his neck, sending him howling in pain as he tumbled to the ground.
The heavy wooden doors behind Raymond shattered like glass; a whirlwind of shadows pressed him to his knees as splinters showered upon him like battering rain. The boy slipped from his grasp to the floor. His staff flickered, then like a candle in the wind, it blew out. A figure garbed in taut black lurked in the doorframe. A veil of smoke enveloped his being, casting him like a specter. His body was like that of a man, yet he moved with an ethereal, inhuman flow.
Hand over hand, Raymond crawled over the child, shielding him with his body. He turned to face the creature, lifting a shaking staff at his foe.
With one swift motion, the creature sprang forward and kicked the staff away. Then it thrust a white hand around Raymond’s neck, black nails digging into his skin like knives.
“Stop!” cried Greavus, stumbling forward. “I will do it. I will kill him!”
As quiet as a cat, the creature released Raymond and retreated next to Greavus.
“I gave you a chance,” spat Greavus, holding his neck where Raymond’s bolt had scorched him, his blade gleaming like pure silver in the moonlight. “A chance to join me. Now look at you! As helpless as the babe you are trying to protect! Your sacrifice is meaningless. With the child gone, there will be nothing to stop us! Do you hear?”
Greavus raised the knife. With a flash he plunged the blade in and out of Raymond’s chest, painting it crimson. Then, with a heavy boot, Greavus kicked Raymond’s body off the child. And there it lay, writhing beneath a blanket, crying frightened and innocent tears.
Raymond gasped as blood spurt from the edge of his mouth. He reached out a hand to the child he pledged to protect, that he had carried for months across the mountains, plains, and sea. The bond they forged felt more powerful than any friendship Raymond had ever known. They ate, slept, played, and laughed together. Raymond wished all things good for him, to see him grow and lead the world. He felt as if the boy were the son he never had. And he failed him.
“I want you to see this, Raymond,” murmured Greavus, pulling the blanket off the screaming child, exposing it to the frigid night air. The only thing he wore was a silver pendant around his neck. Greavus stooped over him, lifting the blade.
The blade fell with a glint.
Then, a flash of white light enveloped the child, and he vanished. The blade struck the stone with a clink.
Raymond stared at the sight a moment, not believing his eyes. The boy was gone.
Greavus gaped down at the spot, neck quivering, mouth opening and closing like a hooked fish. A frantic hand fell to the stone floor, brushing here and there with a flurry of questions and curses.
“No, no—this cannot be,” whimpered Greavus when he realized the child was nowhere to be found.
Raymond’s pain evaporated with the boy, a feeling of the queerest joy expanding within him.
“Where is he?” roared Greavus, crashing on top of Raymond, taking him by the collar and shaking him violently. “Where did you send him?”
Raymond blinked at the spot where the boy once was, nothing left but the blanket he carried him in.
“Answer me!” shrieked Greavus, his face purple with rage.
Raymond could not answer. All he could do was smile as his life slipped away.
Chapter 2
Fifteen Years Later
Daniel peered out between the horizontal pickets down into Littleton Academy’s training grounds, a band of light glowing across his dark brown eyes. “The Cauldron” the pit was called, dubbed long before his time. The inside of the fenced-in, circular belly lay empty, covered by nothing more than a blanket of red dirt dug eight feet into the earth. Year after year, two gates straight across from one another fed the Cauldron’s hunger with students, their sweat and blood saturating its floor. From old leather-bound books and leather-skinned teachers Daniel had learned of his power—his art. But here, on this miniature battlefield it bloomed into something real.
For nearly fifteen years Daniel had called Littleton Academy his home: “The Marvelously Magnificent School for Young Miraclists,” as the sign outside its ivy-coated walls proclaimed. There really wasn’t much to marvel at, Daniel thought: a schoolhouse, a dormitory, a barn, and the Headmaster’s Quarters. The grounds were dressed plainly in green oaks, willows, and shrubbery. The one thing that did hold magnificence was the imm
ense cliff the school lay nestled against—a tidal wave of rock capped with dense forest upon its crest. As a child, Daniel often feared that at any moment it might collapse and crush the lot of them. It was Mordecai, Littleton’s headmaster, who assured Daniel the cliff could not possibly fall with all the reinforcing he had done to its walls. Still, for many years Daniel kept an eye on its looming crown until time lessened his fears and his awe subsided.
What Daniel failed to understand was that the sign outside Littleton did not refer to the marvels in the school itself, but to the students, all of whom were gathered in the stands surrounding the Cauldron, anxiously waiting for the demonstration to begin.
The gate across from Daniel flew open and out scurried a tiny man, balding, with rose-flushed cheeks and a pudgy nose. Knobby knees took turns pressing against oversized white robes as he toddled. He seemed fragile, as if his entire body were held together by nothing more than the gold rope tied about his waist. A cheery countenance, like that of a boy on holiday, radiated off him like sunshine. As soon as Daniel saw him his nerves began to soothe. The man stopped in the middle of the arena and reached for a scroll tucked inside his belt. He fumbled with it a moment before getting control, unraveled it, and cleared his throat to read:
“Article one, section four, on Brightcastle Hall, Orsidia’s esteemed University. Any student Miraclist to score high enough on his or her exams is eligible for acceptance into Brightcastle Hall.” He looked up from the paper and gave them a smile. “That’s why we’re here today. You three boys—Daniel, Gregory, and Jude—are eligible.”
Daniel glanced over his shoulder to the two boys behind him and wondered if they felt as nervous as he did.
The man’s eyes fell back to the scroll. “Should any of you three score above eighty points in today’s demonstration, he will be accepted into Brightcastle and be automatically registered for the Grand Investiture. During the Investiture, should any of you receive the highest combined score on both the entrance exam and combat portion of the games, you will be made a Guardian: an Ambassador to the nations.” Judge Marriott looked up again. “There are only six spots available, one for each Miraclist class, so remember, making it in will be especially challenging. Good luck to you all.” With that, the man rolled up the scroll, stuffed it in his belt, and shuffled to the back of the grounds.
