Secrets of Arkana Fortress

THE LUPUS BLOOD SERIES

SECRETS OF ARKANA FORTRESS

ANDY. P. WOOD

Prologue

              Kasten dived through a narrow gap before the stable ceiling collapsed under a fiery plague, scrabbling like a startled animal for his weapon. He was the leader of a small village on the eastern island of Xenoc and protector of the ancient Lupian sword – regarded as a treasure worth dying for. He had to seal it away… forever.

              He was one of the last in a line of
casters
– the people who were infused with magical powers and who had the ability to render the items they protected unusable by anyone other than themselves, but they only did this if they had to. Trusted by the ancient mystics, these people had been hunted and killed; many of them failing to cast the magic into the items they carried.

              Thatched homes burned with a raging intensity as if the flames themselves were possessed by demons. The night air was filled with a thick, acrid haze that was choking both villagers and attackers alike.

Blood soaked the ground.

All was lost.

              Kasten swung the endangered sword around and caught a pursuer, slicing the long silver and green blade across his gut and spilling his entrails onto the ashen floor. Kasten’s leg was a mess from an arrow hit, slowly festering from the noxious poison that had been on the projectile’s tip. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest as he gripped a beam of wood to hoist himself over a flaming corpse; so many had died in this slaughterhouse.

              Screams echoed from the heat, the souls of many villagers already trapped in the middle realms between life and death. A single tear parted the dirt on Kasten’s face as he ran, the sword held firmly in his burnt hand. More attackers, dressed in heavy leather armour, charged at him emitting deep howls that wrenched his stomach with a sense of despair. He felled them all with clumsy slices and stabs before falling forward, his mind flickering with searing pain. The people of the village were lost – sealing the sword was his only concern now. No evil-minded force was allowed to lay their hands on any mystic object, especially one with immense destructive powers.

              Towering sheets of flame crept in upon him. His eyes were fuzzy and oozing from the fast-acting poison of the arrow. He breathed heavily; his legs were like stone. The stench of death was ever near as Kasten staggered forward still, the casting shrine within reach.

              He carelessly toppled over the small slate wall surrounding the sacred grounds in the western part of the village – a place of much history and magical wonder. The shrine itself was a sturdy, cylindrical granite structure rising to six feet. Silver lines were wrapped around its body like vines on a tree trunk, emitting an ethereal glow that was almost hypnotic.

              Blood splattered onto the flattened grass as he vomited, saliva trickling down his chin as thick rouge. He hacked up violently, the sword falling from his grip. His mind raced from side to side, the voices creeping closer upon him, calling his soul. The ashes that had blackened his light brown hair tumbled onto the floor as he coughed.

              The sword – he had to cast the seal quickly.

              His lips trembled as he stood up, the relic within his grasp once again and held to his side. The words jumbled through his mouth haphazardly. He swore. The attackers were closing in fast.

‘Come on, Kasten,’
he mumbled to himself gruffly. He could hear nothing but the chaotic screams in the distance.

              A sudden surge went through his spine as ancient words spilled out into the murky atmosphere.

The shrine glowed.

Kasten lifted the sword above his head and his eyes went pale, filming over. The silver veins ebbed mystically, vibrating the air around the stone column. Infusions of lost magic whirled around in elegant, mist-like forms, but remained intangible to mortal fingers. It was a sight to behold.

              An arrow split the harmonic ambience, causing time to stand still.

The sword fell and clattered onto the ground, sending ripples through the night as Kasten’s chest crumpled from the impact. He flopped to the ground, his lungs wheezing out gargles of terror. The casting was incomplete.

              A heavily armoured figure shadowed slowly into focus outside of the shrine, two archers poised behind him. He let his crossbow fall to his side before he sniffed the air from underneath his dark green helmet, the subtle sound of purring perforating the thick metal. His yellow eyes squinted through the visor.

‘Stop him,’ the figure roared to his archers as he saw Kasten’s outstretched arm glowing with magic.

              ‘Malkieu… Delkhat…’

              An arrow quickly pierced the caster’s forehead, delivering the fatal blow with god-like precision. The armoured figure swore continuously before he turned to the archers.

              ‘If you two morons hadn’t missed the first time then we would have that sword in our possession… unsealed.’ His howling, raspy voice grated the inside of his helmet as he scathed them.

They both apologised profusely.

              He removed his helmet to reveal a mound of short, tabby-black fur. His ears twitched on the top of his head as he smoothed out his whiskers. He purred harshly as he walked over to the dead caster, his paw-like fingers slipping around the hilt of the sword.

              The mists cleared swiftly with a soft whoosh, the disturbance of the feline’s presence bringing the airs of evil to the shrine. The silver glow dissipated from the column, wilting as if it were an elderly flower.

              Regardless of the casting he smiled, his small fangs sliding out over his bottom lip menacingly. He rested the cast blade on his shoulder, the gentle clang of metal on metal resonating against the silence. The air was clearing slowly.

              One of the archers stood to one side as the warrior walked away without a look towards either of them. The other one slung his reflex bow over his shoulder and stepped after him.

‘Sir? What do we do now?’ he asked nervously. He was obviously scared of him.

              The tabby-coloured figure stopped and held his head up. ‘We are withdrawing,’ his voice boomed. ‘This casting is incomplete – at most it will last a few decades. For now… we will add it to the collection.’

Chapter 1

Viscous clouds streaked across the dark blue morning sky, caught up in an eager wind that swirled about high above the lands of Salarias. Birds of prey circled above the city of Donnol like a hanging cloud of doubt, forever on the lookout for sources of food to desperately fight over. The people down below were bound to drop something sooner or later.

Mikos rubbed his smooth chin, his deep hazel eyes examining a piece of small golden jewellery encrusted with what he took to be diamonds. He had a fancy for rare and beautiful antiquities to add to his collection back home in Hocknis.

              For now, though, he was on a mid-year trading mission in the northern territories. He had shipped out from the Cryldis Island port of Hocklino in his father’s rickety old ship, his father having passed on some years ago, and docked a few days later in the massive northern city of Donnol. He had been here once before when he was 17-years-old. His father, also a well known trader of many years, introduced him to the largest city in Salarias when the market was celebrating its centennial – an impressive festival that was still talked about years afterwards. ‘
Remember the centennial?’
, and,
‘The centennial was such a glorious day for Donnol; so much celebration.’
You still heard these things from the mouths of people whilst roaming around the city.

              This place never failed to amaze him with its friendly atmosphere and congenial residents, many of whom lived full and active lives. Although disillusioned by money, the richer people, living mainly in the east and north-east areas, kept themselves busy with the simple things in life like food, drink, the air of local taverns, and activities such as riding, archery and education. This was the Donnol that his father had once told him about.

Thirteen years on, and it was but a shadow of what it once was.

The foundations had been rocked by an earthquake of paranoia and reckless decision making by government officials. It had been such a dire downturn of events that men and women of all ages had hastily left the city, wearing nothing more than the clothes on their backs and carrying with them a few meagre possessions that they considered precious, even if no-one else did. They had either moved to another part of the immense city, or escaped the gang-based terror in the low-town areas and gone to one of the many nearby villages that were dotted about the northern plains.

              Donnol market, however, had remained the same; still having everything anyone could ever ask for. There was a thriving trade centre in the east side, much like an indoor courtyard with its large canopied roofs, which opened once a month. Numerous humans, felines, and reptilians hounded to the city like migrating birds to hotter climes before winter’s first frost.

              Finely made weapons; heavy and light armours of various materials; exotic clothes and fabrics from far away, delicately crafted jewellery, and day-to-day food supplies were just some of the sights found under the welcoming cheers of traders. As soon as Mikos had entered the market, the array of concocting smells was overpowering to his nose – a mixture of charred coke; earthy fabrics; fresh loaves of bread, exotic spices, and potent perfumes hung in the air like a rain cloud ready to burst. This was, however, a kind of Donnol trademark – a complex variety of smells emanating from all around. Many people deemed it to be a good way of attracting people to the city – the allure of the odours being an enticing tourist attraction.

              To the north of this was the parliamentary building – a large, multi-floor structure that consumed the sunlight with its dark brown walls. It housed the local government officials, many of whom were more corrupt than the convicted murderers, rapists, and illegal magic wielders.

There seemed to be a thriving criminal hub in Donnol and it was getting harder and harder to contain. In recent years drug trafficking, slavery, gang-related murders, and use of illegal magic had increased nearly tenfold. The local law enforcers were growing more and more desperate for new recruits, but most of the citizens did not fancy a quick death by the tip of an ice-cold knife being thrust into their backs at night.

              The common jails were not far from the port side of the city to the south. Mikos had heard a good many rumours that long-term residents were being
disposed of
in the already infested waters to free up cells for the newer residents. How true these rumours were was unknown, but the fear-stricken people of Donnol were not quick to dismiss the possibilities. All this was public knowledge compared with the Donnol Watch jails in the central part of the city just north-west of the market – that place was reserved for criminals on the watch commander’s most wanted list. The talk of how these people were treated was more guesswork as the knowledge of what went on was on a more need-to-know basis. Rumours or not, Mikos had his own business and concerns to deal with at the moment.

              He looked at the old reptilian trader and noticed how his two sets of eyelids were blinking rather fervently. He kept his thinking face on. He knew many forms of body language and was also aware of the tainted reputation southern-bearing reptilian traders had. He hummed as he turned the gold necklace around. The owner, known as ‘Hashni’ according to his tacky wooden stall sign, leaned over, his slender tongue tasting the air as it darted in and out of his long, crusty mouth.

              ‘So?’ he hissed. ‘What will it be?’

              Mikos thought about the 200 rubos coin price tag on it; he did not trust this scaled dealer very much. Hashni continued to peer at him, his blinking now getting tedious to watch. Like most stall sellers in Donnol he wore a long brown tunic that covered him from neck to foot, a black sash loosely tied around the waist, and his trading licence badge on his chest. Being a trader himself, he was wearing a similar outfit, but in black and only three quarter length, revealing his dark grey trousers and black leather travelling boots.

All of the sellers that arrived for the mid-monthly Donnol market were required to register themselves with the authorities, paying them a nominal fee of 1000 rubos coins. This commercial red tape was the government’s way of keeping the market free of cheap traders and riff-raff that would seemingly ‘lower the tone’ as they put it. Mikos had always laughed at this. Most of the richer, well dressed traders were dishonest and underhanded, charging way too much for way too little; so the presence of small-time sellers might have given the market a sense of foundation and integrity he always reckoned. He put his thoughts back to the piece in his hand.