Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One)

• Prologue: The Flight of Windfellow
  
• Chapter One: The Little Thief
  
• Chapter Two: Cleverly Disguised
  
• Chapter Three: The Sorcerer’s Scream
  
• Chapter Four: The Incredible Flying Thief
  
• Chapter Five: Pit Strider
  
• Chapter Six: Destiny Approaching
  
• Chapter Seven: Soldiers and Pickpockets
  
• Chapter Nine: Unexpected Ventures
  
• Chapter Ten: The Cleric of Ymeer
  
• Chapter Twelve: Unexpected Allies
  
• Chapter Seventeen: White Blade, Black Night
  
• Epilogue: Wave Strider Imperiled
  

Brother Thief

The Song of the Aura

Book One

A Novel by Gregory J. Downs

Copyright 2011

This book is dedicated to my parents,

Who helped me persevere.

And to my “favorite cousin”…

Because she wanted it so badly.

Prologue:
The Flight of Windfellow

  
It was night, deep and dark, over the desert land of Blast. The sky overhead was leaden and gray, obscuring the stars behind a thick roof of clouds. Sand stretched all around, still hot from the blazing sun that pelted it during the day. Pits pockmarked the hilly desert, ominous and gaping. No birds called; no wind blew. All was still.

  
A dust devil, sleepy and slow, whirled across the space between two dunes.
Pound. Pound.
Far off, a small sound could be heard. A tumbleweed rolled past, pushed on its way by the little dust devil.
Pound. Pound.

  
Suddenly the dead quiet of the desert night was shattered. The pounding grew deafeningly loud, all at once. A lone horseman raced in and out of the sandy hills, a billowing gray cloak flapping out behind him, a small mewling bundle clutched to his chest. His long felt cap whipped left and right as he galloped on. In seconds he was gone, and the desert was quiet once more.

  
A minute passed. Then two.

  
A darkness, blacker than the night, seeped out from between the dunes. A shriek broke out over the silence, long and high and horrible. The chase was on. Far ahead, the mysterious horseman kept riding, even with the dark presence behind him. His destination was close, and if he could only reach it in time…

  
The shrieks behind him grew louder. His enemies were gaining on him.

  
“
Ainur Aeso, Wendfilo!”
the horseman hissed urgently to his steed.
Faster than a falcon, Windfellow.
The horse neighed, tossed its head, and pushed on faster than before. It was in tune with its master; it knew his urgency and it knew what was at stake.

  
The sand rushed by on either side. Tufts of grass whisked by or were trampled; wind whipped Windfellow’s mane and tail as he flew across the desert. Shrieks cut the air behind them again and again. The darkness behind them was approaching rapidly, and no matter how fast the horseman rode, the shadows still gained. The horseman clutched his precious bundle securely to his chest, and chanced a quick look behind. What he saw confirmed his worst fears.

  
The black shadow was so near now that it had begun to solidify. It was taking shape. As the mass of darkness drew nigh, it split into almost a dozen separate parts, each of which could soon be seen for what it was: a beast like a horse, black-skinned and leathery, with spikes of hard iron protruding from its head and mane. Each of the creatures was several feet higher than the horseman’s mount, and each boasted long, sharp teeth and glowing red eyes.

  
“So close…” the horseman gasped. The bundle in his arms began to cry. “Shhhh, child,” he whispered, still trying to gauge the distance between himself and his pursuers. Terrifying as the demon-horses were, he was not afraid of them. Their riders, however… Their riders were hunched, black-robed, and almost invisible against their monstrous mounts, but under tough, studded hoods their black, wrinkled faces leered at him with hollow, shadowy eyes. “Pit Striders,” the horseman spat, and turned forward again, urging Windfellow on to a breakneck speed that would have killed lesser horses.

  
Then, far ahead, a light gleamed. The keen eyes of the horseman could just barely make out the high slate walls and towering structures of a lonely desert city. It was close, so close… but not close enough. The horseman’s pursuers shrieked again, but this time it was not a shriek of anger… it was a universal shriek of triumph.

  
The horseman rode in among a field of sandy dunes, barely visible in the darkness of the night. Without warning, another shadow, another monster blasted out from its cover, directly behind him. The sulfurous breath of its mount heated the back of the horseman’s head, almost enough to set his cap aflame. Windfellow whinnied in absolute terror and pulled ahead. For a brief few seconds, there was a respite. The bundle in the horseman’s arms began to wail.

  
“Enough!” he snarled. Balancing his bundle in one arm, he reached down with his other and seized a gnarled walking stick from among his saddlebags. Raising it above his head, he called on the power that he had been given and the name he carried in his heart. He spoke words that were sacred, words that he would use only when no other words would suffice.

  
His staff glowed for two full seconds, an intense red light like a shining ember in the fire.

  
Windfellow whinnied again, in fear and in joy. And Windfellow grew wings; great gray wings, feathered and strong. They were so wide that for a second they clipped the dunes on either side of him, and then lifted him and his rider up over the sandy hills and into the night sky.

  
The moon came out from behind the dark clouds. The wailing from the horseman’s bundle abruptly stopped.

  
“Like a falcon,” the horseman muttered, pleased. The Children of the Pit were far behind him now, shrieking in helpless fury at having lost their prey. Quick as their vile steeds were, they were no match for a falconhorse like Windfellow. The horseman rode on through the heavy night air, and as the desert of Blast rushed by under him, he allowed himself to feel just a bit more at ease. His destination was drawing closer every second. In a few short minutes he would be at the city walls.

  
The moment did not last. A black
something
blocked out the moon and cast a shadow over the falconhorse and rider.

  
It was the Pit Strider who had surprised them in the dunes. His mount had also sprouted wings: the wings of a giant bat, leathery and spiked like the rest of the demon-horse's body. The pursuer himself was taller than any of his brethren. He held himself straighter, and his black robes were flecked with dark red. His hood was thrown back from his hideous face, pale and sallow, glinting gold in the moonlight. A stringy gray beard was all the hair on his head, and in his hand he held a knotted black staff almost identical to the horseman's.

  
“Give up the child!”
he growled. His hairless face was contorted in rage at his elusive quarry. His bloodshot eyes glowed with an unholy light. His voice was like a corpse being ripped to pieces by carrion-birds; like ice sliding over hard stone. It was far worse than the shrieks his kind used as language.

  
The horseman ignored him. His mind was frozen with fear, but he ignored his enemy and steered Windfellow into a steep dive. His enemy roared- a man's roar, not a shriek- and plummeted after him.

  
This is no Pit Child,
the horseman realized.
This is one of the Legion!

  
“Ainur Aeso! Ainur Aeso!” he hissed. Windfellow flew as hard as he could, but the beast above him was too large and nimble to be shaken off. When the falconhorse pulled out of its dive, the monster was there, kicking violently at Windfellow's wings and head and the head of his rider. It was a matter of seconds before the horseman and his steed were bludgeoned out of the sky.

  
Raising his staff again, the horseman focused his power until it glowed red. The next time the monstrous beast flew at him from above, he steered Windfellow sharply up, surprising his enemy and raking the top of his gnarled staff across the beast's belly. The thing kicked out, slamming its rear hooves into the horseman's back, and screamed as only a dying animal can.

  
“Down!” commanded the horseman, and Windfellow obeyed. Behind them the black demon-horse fell out of the sky, its red eyes dimmed from the bloody, flaming gash in its stomach. Ignoring the pain in his shoulders, the horseman smiled grimly. “We've done it, Windfe-”

  
His relief was cut short once again. From the falling wreckage behind them, the pale enemy flung his staff like a javelin. As it flew, the twisted wood grew hard and sharp, piercing Windfellow from behind, plunging into his haunch and up into his heart. The noble falconhorse whinnied at his master, and then he too fell out of the sky.

  
“Blast it!” cursed the horseman, and still holding the wailing bundle in his arms, he leaped off into the open air.

  
He never hit the ground. Small, enchanted wings unfolded from either side of his floppy, wool cap, and began to flap with a speed and power far too great for their size.

  
The horseman was carried forward through the air safely as his horse's body hit the sandy floor of the desert. The shrieks of the Pit Children had long since died away. The horseman had unhorsed their leader, and none of the others were close enough to continue the chase.

  
Minutes passed; a few more than if he had been riding Windfellow, but flying of any sort was still flying, and the refugee soon made it to his destination: the only city in all of Blast.