Wielder of the Flame (25 page)

The explosion was off in the
distance, in a different part of the city, but the flames were high and fierce.

“What was that?” Marc said what the other two were thinking.

“I do not think that was part of a demonstration,” Zildjin
added.

“No,” Sesuadra replied in agreement.

A few moments passed and another explosion lit the sky in a
different part of the city. A plume of purple flames igniting brightly only to
distinguish themselves moments after.

“Is it some sort of demonstration?” Zildjin asked no one in
particular.

“I do not think so,” Sesuadra said.

Another moment or two and yet another explosion thundered
from still a different district.

“What is going on?” Marc cried over the noise.

Screams came from a nearby street corner.

A small crowd of people came running and screaming in fright
through the street.

“Run!” someone shouted.

“Get help!” someone else cried.

“What should we do?” Zildjin turned to Marc.

Sesuadra also looked to Marc for advice.

None of the friends realized it, but they had just silently
appointed Marc as their leader, the one to which they trusted and would follow.

Marc did not think twice about the gesture, he did not even
think once, he simply acted.

He put his hand on the sword and his side. He felt a magic
surge through him.

“We should find the nearest Protectors and see if there is
anything we can do to help.”

They nodded and immediately began to walk down the streets
in search of the city guard.

They ran down several streets.

Most of the people seemed oblivious to the explosions,
seeming to think it was all part of the party.

They turned the corner only to be met with a large group
consisting of both musicians and dancers dressed in bright robes and dresses,
wall to wall. The trio began making their way through the crowd, being as
polite as the situation permitted. They were jostled and shoved. The music was
loud, there was too much laughter and singing.

Marc began to pass through, squeezing and ducking here and
there.

Suddenly he was shoved from behind and fell forward, hitting
his chest against the ground hard, leaving him somewhat winded. He could feel
someone’s hand was on his shoulder, pressing down with great strength, then
another hand was at his waist, trying to unhook his sword from his belt.

“HEY!” Marc cried, twisting and grabbing at the sword to
keep it sheathed.

Someone in the crowd stepped on Marc’s leg and tripped,
shoving the person off of Marc.

Marc rolled over quickly and thought he glimpsed a dark
cloaked figure vanish between two pairs of brightly clothed couples twirling wildly
to the music.

His two friends were suddenly there by his side helping him
up.

“Are you alright?” Zildjin brushed his friend off.

“Yeah, I—” Marc raised his voice over the music, “Did you
see that?”

“Nothing,” Sesuadra and Zildjin both shook their heads no.

“Someone just tried to steal my sword!”

“What?”

“Yeah!”

“Was it the same guy as before, at the Inn?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t get a good look at who it was.”

They were shouting to be heard over the festivities.

Just then a battalion of guards were swiftly marching down
the street and turning onto another nearby throughway.

“Over there!” Zildjin said, pointing out the soldiers.

“Let’s follow them!” Marc nodded.

The three friends pushed through the crowd just in time to
see the last of the soldiers disappear around the corner.

They raced after, trying to catch up.

“What are you three boys doing?” A single protector was
behind, also hustling to catch up to the rest of his squad.

“We want to help!” Marc advocated.

The man stopped and shook his head, “This is something for
the protectors to handle, do not worry, go and enjoy the celebration.”

“But we are trained with the sword,” Zildjin tried.

The soldier shook his head, visibly frustrated that he had
to slow down to waste time with these three while the rest of his unit advanced
further away.

“This is serious business,” the soldier said, “not
playtime,”

“All is well protector,” an old deep voice made them turn.

It was one of the Overseer’s Hands. His hood was up,
allowing them only to see his beard, dark black with reddish brown hair under
his lip.

The storm clouds began to rumble with thunder.

Sprinkled drops of water began to fall from the sky.

“These three look like capable young warriors,” the blue
robed man said.

“But sir—” the guard began to protest.

“There is in fact, something you can help us with,” the old
man continued, “Come quickly, all of you, this way.”

He turned and began to walk hurriedly in the opposite
direction.

“Come on!” Marc said, his face lighting up.

He was too excited at the thought that he was about to put
the weeks of sword training under Topar’s teaching to real use, to realize that
he remembered the beard from somewhere.

They caught up with the magician without too much effort.

“I found something quite strange, it was over here not moments
ago,” The old man was saying.

He gestured towards a fairly dark alleyway.

“Draw your swords, and be wary!” The old man said.

Where have I seen that beard?
Marc thought.

Marc felt a familiar warmth pour through him as he drew his
sword.

The three boys walked forward hesitantly, weapons at the
ready.

The soldier finally caught up to them.

Rain began to fall more freely.

“I don’t see anything,” Marc said after several steps.

The water was quickly turning the hard packed earth beneath
them into mud.

A flash of lightning lit the sky followed by a peal of deep
booming thunder in the distance.

Then he remembered where he had seen the beard.

On the spell caster who had magically inspected their wagon
when he first arrived in Kolima.

What had the guard called the man?

Safral.

There was a muffled cry of protest behind them, followed by
a thud.

The three friends whipped around to see the Overseer’s Hand,
a bloody knife clenched in his fist, standing over the now dead solider. Blood
was beginning to pool quickly from a gaping wound in the protector’s throat,
rain began washing it away. 

“Wha—?” Marc began.

A crazy look overcame the old man’s eyes, of greed and of
assumed success, and he moved his right arm in a swift, violent, sweeping
gesture towards the boys.

There was a flash of blinding blue light and Marc felt
himself being flung backwards by an invisible force.

He fell to the now muddy road with a heavy thump, letting go
of his blade.

Mud smeared the brand new clothes that Eleanor had spent
weeks creating just for him.

He got to his knees hastily, scrambling for his weapon.

He was angry, a little scared, but mostly angry. He had
gotten a bad vibe from this Safral character ever since he had first come to
Kolima, why had this man lured them into a trap? And killed a Protector? And
why them?

But Marc did not have time to answer the questions that were
going through his mind. Safral was already finishing with another enchantment.
As the Overseer’s Hand finished his spell with a flourish of movement there
were many flashes of light in front of the boys, followed by dark blue
billowing smoke. Dark blue and black liquid began forming out of the smoke,
changing and morphing into solid matter, taking shape quickly.

Zildjin and Sesuadra had been separated from their friend
with the invisible thrust of energy from the wizard.

Dark creatures formed from the liquid and smoke. They were
medium sized, with similar features of wolves, four legs ending in sharp claws,
thick matted black fur on their bodies. But their heads were shaped strangely,
with eyes and mouths like lizards. Horns and spikes poked through the thick
hide of the face and on the elbows of their front legs. They had eerily glowing
yellow eyes and dark red wine colored skin. They did not look like mere predators.
They had an aura of evil about them, beings summoned from another plane,
tainted by darkness. Five of the lizard-wolves faced Marc. Zildjin and Sesuadra
had four or five to deal with each, as well.

“KILL THEM!” Safral ordered the beasts.

One locked eyes with Marc and surged forward, excited for
the kill it would soon score.

Marc lifted up his sword defensively and inhaled quickly as
the monster leapt unnaturally high into the air.

The monster fell directly at him, razor sharp toothed jaw
and claws opened wide.

It let out a roar just before it landed on its mark.

There was a crunching squelching noise as the thing skewered
itself to Marc’s blade.

The creature’s weight sent Marc tumbling backwards landing
hard on the road again and sliding in the mud. It yelped in pain and clawed
furiously at the young man. He put one arm up defensively to protect his face.
Any other fabric would have yielded easily to the deadly claws, but the cloth
Eleanor used held up nicely. The thing scraped against the metal plate over his
right shoulder to no avail.

A second monster jumped into the fray, sinking its teeth
into his bicep.

He cried out both in surprise and from a stinging pain that
rocketed through his arm following the bite. Marc’s heart pounded furiously in
his chest. He had never been so afraid before in his entire life.

The first monster continued to snap at his face, still
yelping with a mixture of pain at the sword through its shoulder joint.

It tried to bite his face once more and he finally had had
enough.

“Get
off
me!” He yelled and, gripping his sword
tightly, shoved the monster from atop him.

The movement brought his blade free and clear and he stabbed
it into the thing biting his arm. It yelped and snarled but let go.

The one which had been impaled seemed to be bleeding more
dark strange colored blood than it should. The blood morphed into smoke and the
creature quickly vanished.

Marc stood up, shaking rain from his face.

Three of the beasts pounced at him.

Time seemed to slow for a heartbeat or so.

A magic poured from the blade, guiding his actions.

He swung the sword in a precise arc, his body propelled by
an invisible force. He slashed one of the monster’s front paws clean off and
cut through the hairless muzzle of a second.

He was surprised at the effectiveness of the blade, despite
how rusty and dull it had seemed.

He turned at the last moment from the last beast, forcing
the thing to crash headfirst into the ground. Marc could hear the sounds of his
friends fighting against the wolf-lizard beasts as well. The one without a paw
remained on the ground, but the other with half a jaw stood, shakily. Strange
byzantium-violet colored blood poured from the wound Marc had given the
monsters. The unharmed beast snarled and jumped at Marc again.

Again the sword swung, a magical glow emanated from Marc’s
hands and from the blade.

Dark purple-violet blood spattered Marc’s mantle, neck, and
a little on his cheek as the weapon bit deep into the monsters torso. The rain
quickly washed the blood away. The animal cried out in shock and pain and fell
to the ground. Mad with rage, the beast let out a sound somewhere between
high-pitched screech and angry roar, and lunged awkwardly again at the boy. He
expertly twisted around, using the slick muddy ground to his advantage, and
impaled it to the ground through the back of its horned skull. More dark purple
blood spattered upwards, to be quickly washed away by the rain. Its cry was
instantly cut short with the fatal wound, and its body fell limp.

Lightning flashed, casting everything in sporadic brights
and darks.

Some of the more heavily wounded monsters began to disappear
with a puff of smoke.

He took the opportunity to glance around, trying to locate
his two friends.

Zildjin stood atop a stack of sturdy looking crates, swiping
his blade across the faces of the creatures as they tried to jump high enough
to reach him.

Sesuadra appeared to be spinning wildly, his curved blade an
extension of his arms, matching his movements with wide swinging deadly arcs.

He couldn’t find the wizard.

Soren sat up in bed with a stretch
and a yawn.

It had been more than a several days since he had arrived in
Belwick.

Bright golden sunlight lit up the room. It was mostly bare,
but still very clean. The bed was carved out of fine dark stone and padded with
two bottom wool filled pads and a soft canvas laid featherbed covered with fine
layers of linen. A single wide and tall window was carved out of one walls. The
window was covered with an array of stained color glass depicting Dahndara, the
Divine, keeper of knowledge. A small table had been brought in when Soren had
arrived, as well as a chair, for him to set his personal things. They had also
brought a small bookshelf filled with books for him to read.

Across the wall next to the table, a giant tapestry hung.
Soren had seen many similar tapestries throughout the sanctuary. Each tapestry
told a part of a story, when separated, they did not seem to make sense, but
together they told the history of Itherin.

Soren splashed his face again, waking himself up more fully.

After meeting and speaking with Warim of his experience of
the appearance of the two beings and Marc, news of Soren’s arrival traveled
quickly to the Curator of the Library, Soren’s father. The Curator had ordered
Soren under house arrest. Soren did not resist. He was not surprised, but he
had wished things had gone differently. The Stewards and Curator lived in
quarters in the Library and the guards had taken Soren to one of the empty rooms.
At first Soren had worried about food, but a Steward Soren did not know, had
brought him everything he needed. Before he had left, Warim said that he would
personally begin a search through the vast library and records within the
sanctuary in regards to the beings of power Soren had described.

Father!
Soren thought angrily.
Why is it that you
cannot let the past go! I should have figured as much.

He dried his face and changed from his bedclothes to his
other attire.

I need to find something out and get back to Kolima,
everyone is surely waiting for some news, and some answers.

Soren sat down at the table, his stomach growled with
hunger.

Time for first meal
.

Just as he thought about satisfying his hunger a knock came
on the door.

It was not a food tray that welcomed him, but Warim. He was
dressed in his usual attire of long flowing red and silver stitched robes.

“Warim!” Soren stood, happy to see his old friend again,
“Has my father decided to let me go yet?”

“Curator be consumed!” Warim said in his old gravelly voice,
his wrinkled face read contempt for those that he spoke of.

Soren let one of his eyebrows rise.

“Gather your things and come quickly, we do not have much
time!”

“Not much time? Before what?”

“Your father wants you to stand trial.”

“Archfiend take him! He has not even come to speak with me!”
Soren tried not to let too much of his frustration show, not in front of a
friend.

“I came before them to let you free, but you must come
quickly, I found an ancient tome that has some answers to your questions.”

The old man motioned for Soren to grab his things.

“Quickly boy, you may have gotten older, but you are still
as slow as the lad I remember ye to have been!”

Soren nodded and began stuffing things into his traveling
bag.

Warim motioned for them to leave the room.

Three stewards stood outside the door, they were dressed in
the same silver and red robes of their calling.

Soren froze for a second, thinking that he and Warim were
just about to be stopped in their tracks before they could even try and take
off.

“Stall them for as long as you can,” Warim said to the
Stewards.

“The Divine guide you,” One of the old men answered as the
other two nodded.

Warim turned down a hall and began to walk quickly, more
quickly than Soren thought the old man was capable of in his old body.

“Friends of yours?” Soren asked, quickening his pace to keep
up.

Warim nodded.

They strode quickly through hall after hall, turning
occasionally as needed to follow the path Warim was following from memory.

“Why are you doing this for me?” Soren asked as they walked,
“After what I did.”

Warim paused before he answered.

“You were just a young man at the time, you did not realize
who you were getting mixed up with.”

Soren nodded.

“Clerical Assistance just was not for you, Soren, not
everyone is born into the calling they should follow their whole life.”

Soren nodded again.

“I appreciate it.”

“Besides,” Warim continued, “I believe what you have said.”

They stopped at a large set of doors. Soren recognized them
to be ones leading to the Library. Another Steward stood by the doors, wearing
the usual uniform, a large ancient book in his hand and a set of folded canvas
wrapped in leather.

“The things you requested,” the old man said, “The Divine
guide you!”

Warim gave a short bow and gently took the things from the
other’s grasp. He then had Soren open his bag and carefully place the items
inside. The other Steward gave a short bow in return, and disappeared behind
the doors, closing them quietly in his wake. 

“I believe these manuscripts and this tome hold the answers
you seek,” Warim said

“What did the tome say, what did you discover?” Soren asked.

“The beings you described, we could only find something on
the larger creature. Truly an Exalted, maybe even from the beginning.”

Warim paused.

“But the boy.” He paused again.

“Yes?”

“He must be the one from the Prophecy,” Warim said, then
took a breath, as if he could not believe it himself,

“He is the Wielder of the Flame!”