Phoenix Rising

by Alec Peterson

  Dedication

  Alec: I've always been a person of two worlds. So, it is fitting that I Thank both the Heavens...

  Odin Allfather whose trials kept me strong.

  Athena who inspired my craft & gave me wisdom

  Bastet whose children & delights always provided comfort.

  ....and Earth.

  Shelley, my wife, my partner, my absolute equal and the wellspring of my life.

  Mandi, my once and always sister & partner without whom this book would not be possible

  and Kira, my dear friend and editor who shined during my times of darkness and followed me through her own.

  And finally to all those who seek read this story hoping to find a moment's sanctuary in its pages. This one is for you.

  Mandi: To the family that loves me, the friends that support me, and the God that sustains me... Thank you from the bottom of my very grateful heart. To all my doubters, critics and naysayers...go waltz with Chirak.

  Foreword

  A little over a year ago, I was staring at one of my stand-alone stories and hating it. Hate might even be a gentle word- loathe may be more appropriate. I had looked at it, lived it, breathed it until there was nothing it hadn’t shown me before and I was bored to tears. I needed a change….so I turned back to fanfiction. I slammed out a story about one of my favorite people and had some moderate success with it, enough that it caught the eye of a much better writer than me. She invited me to an online fanfiction writer’s group that she was moderating. And as I read the posts, one caught my eye. This guy was looking for a Beta reader for a work in progress and I figured, why not?

  That was when I fell deeply and irrevocably in love with Captain Drachaen Sul. I couldn’t get enough of him, of Ceyrabeth, of Pellinore and Maul and the rest. Even only three chapters in, I had moments for these characters, lives and dreams. But…the man called Deacon, who I would later call my adopted twin brother, was burned out. I fangirled like hell, desperate to save my Legion from apathy, and he gave in. I would be invited in to their world, not just as a reader or even an editor anymore, but a full partner.

  We wrote the hell out of the story and here it is. It’s a first novel for me, and even if it never gains any sort of critical recognition, I call it a triumph. It showed me the power of passion, how you should never hold yourself back from admiring something even if you think that someone is going to think you’re a weirdo because of it. It showed me how much power is in words, both spoken and written, and how you don’t need to be physically with someone to be part of their world. I will always be grateful to these characters, and their creator, for pushing me and showing me that perseverance is strength, and that sometimes being a fangirl is just another word for being brave.

  Cheers, all. See you in book two.

  For the Legion!

  Chapter 1

  A Lesson in History

  ‘Battle is not a matter of chance, but a measure of dedication. The novice seeks battle. The master claims victory.’ – A passage from ‘Victor Vinguardis’ (Way of Victory) translated from Daymorian. Author unknown. Currently banned by the Church of Imperius

  Morning meant nothing to the man in the impeccable black uniform. It had been many years since he had seen the sun, in any conventional sense at least. But it mattered much to the others who shared his world if the bustle from the camp was any indication. Horses whinnied, people chattered, the forge began with a whoosh of fire and clang of steel. And as Captain Drachaen Sul readied himself for his day, he realized he was not alone.

  “Renala,” He stated calmly, “What a pleasant surprise."

  "Surprise! Pah!" An old woman emerged from the shadows with a derisive sound. "Nothing enters the bounds of this sanctuary for castoffs without your knowledge." The woman faced the man; he stood just over six feet, grey hair and solid build, middle-aged but lean and still strong. The confines of the tent cloaked the remainder of his features in shadow. A dim light flickered from a long pipe held in his strangely graceful fingers. "I suppose I should thank you for not setting one of your pet monstrosities on me the moment I stepped foot in your camp.”

  "The day is still young."

  Renala chuckled, "Spare me your witty threats, young man. You never exterminate anything that may prove useful to you."

  "Indeed." Sul stepped into the light. A pair of long white strips of fabric crossed over his eyes, concealing them from view. The remainder of his face bore the weight of his years well, marked only by slight lines around the mouth. He inclined his head to her. "Something that was taught to me by my wise teacher, long ago."

  "Flatterer."

  "Would you like some tea?" He motioned to the pot set on the table. Renala shook her head.

  "Your civility is...unexpected." She mused. "After how we parted, I thought...Well, every now and then life manages to surprise even an old crone like me.”

  “I detest rudeness, even within the confines of a strained relationship, and so my civility should not come as any kind of surprise. Though if you would be so kind…dispense with the illusion. It’s distracting, and the ‘harmless old hermit woman’ countenance does you little credit.”

  “There are times, my friend, when there are more important things than credit but very well,” Renala raised her hands above her head and brought them down. Within seconds, her drab robes were replaced by scaled armor in shimmering shades of violet and plum. Her face elongated, her cheekbones becoming high and sharp, “Better?” She ran her gauntleted hand through her long white hair and peered at him with yellow eyes: the only feature that had not changed.

  “Thank you. It was giving me a headache.”

  Renala reached out and touched the man’s temples, tracing the outline of the lengths of fabric that masked his eyes.

  “Are the visions getting worse?” She asked with a touch of matronly concern.

  The man smiled slightly, “Yes, but these bindings you supplied work much more effectively than the others. Things are not quite so…bright.”

  “You see too much, old friend.”

  “A burden we both bear, wouldn’t you say?”

  Renala laughed, “Come and pour me some tea."

  They sipped for a moment in silence, until Sul put his cup down on the table. Renala correctly interpreted the gesture. “You want to know why I am here?”

  “It is time?”

  "It is. She makes her way to you even now, thinking that it's her own idea, silly girl. I give you that which I value the most in this accursed world, young man. See that you value it as much as I do."

  “Has she been made aware of your…unique predilections?”

  “Ha!” Renala crowed, “Are you certain you are not an aristocrat? You are so adept at decorating your words in flowers and ribbons.”

  “I shall speak more plainly then: is your daughter Tarah aware what it is that she is seeking so earnestly?”

  “Now then, that will depend entirely on whether or not you lived up to your end of the bargain.”

  “Of course, I did. I learned long ago that it is unwise to fail in one’s obligations to you."

  Renala raised her cup in acknowledgment and took a measured sip, golden eyes boring into the man’s face, “Speak plainly.”

  “The tome you requested has found its way into the hands of the Winter Queen’s advisors, as you specified. It could hardly be more conspicuous. I imagine she will be most vexed by its presence.”

  “Bah! The girl will have more than that to vex her if the rumors of the Farcold are to be believed.”

  “And what manner of rumors are those?”

  “They are the sort that one does not share with charming, devious former students,” she smiled broadly, “As if you should be anything else.�
��

  “I am what you taught me to be.”

  “Of course you are. What a mage you would have made.”

  “Would I have been an asset to you or a liability?”

  “As if you could only be one or the other.”

  The man with the covered eyes stared in her direction for a few moments with an air of quiet amusement before proceeding, “No doubt once it is discovered the forgery will send Tarah into a frenzy of self-righteous indignation at the thought of whatever plot she believes you are concocting against her once the contents of that tome take hold of her imagination.”

  “Silly girl, I thought I had taught her better than to make such rash assumptions.”

  “You did, but the manuscript is especially convincing.”

  “Of course it is. You wrote it.”

  “At your behest,” The man’s lips curled up in amusement, “You truly have her convinced that you simply ‘lost’ a priceless tome of lore somewhere to be absconded with by some fool trader as if it were a random trinket?”

  “Oh yes, my performance was quite convincing. I must have ranted and raved about that silly grimoire a half dozen times.”

  “You did not overplay your hand?”

  “If I did, it was by necessity, to get through that hard head of hers.”

  “And to make certain that it never occurs to her that anything valuable enough to have you in such a state over its loss would have sooner been destroyed than fall into another’s hands.”

  “Just so.”

  “Then I’m fairly certain your daughter’s reaction is likely to be volatile.”

  “I should certainly hope so,” Renala scoffed. “So, what will your next move be?”

  “That remains to be seen. And yours?"

  "That remains to be seen," She mocked, "though perhaps you would be willing to lend your vision to an old friend?”

  The man put his cup down, “Oh, anything for an old friend,” His tone was dry as he gently unwove the cloth from his eyes and placed it neatly folded on the table.

  He possessed no eyelids and inserted into the sockets of his eyes were shards of multicolored glass. A latticework of scar tissue emanated from each wound and it surged and flickered with traces of energy. He reached into the folds of his coat and removed a small wrapped bundle.

  “I see you’re still sentimental,” Renala motioned toward the item in his hands.

  “It came at a great price. I always tend to keep such things close to my heart,” He slowly unwrapped the bundle to reveal a set of black cards which he slowly fanned out in front of himself in a single, practiced motion.

  “What do you see?” Renala whispered.

  He reached out and turned over one card.

  “It’s a crossing; a village. Filled with bears and spiders and wolves feasting on a pasture of red hair built on the graves of dead kings.”

  “Torvalen. I know the village. Please continue.”

  He turned over several other cards, “The inhabitants are lambs to the slaughter for the most part, but there are three cages that hold something interesting,” He ran his hands over the cards, “A lily grows in briars, a red-breasted nightingale captured in a rose bush, and,” He turned over a final card, “a dragon bound with chains."

  "A lily, hmm?"

  "Yes. She will require your assistance."

  “When?”

  “Shortly. My sentries have reported that the Taintbrood horde have almost finished hauling off the corpses of the slain in Velasgate.”

  “Pray that they all did indeed die in the battle. One does not wish to be taken alive by the Brood,”

  “Any of my forces that are sent into their territory carry two vials of poison: one for any survivors they find and one for themselves should it become necessary.”

  “Prudent,” Renala nodded approvingly, “How long until the Horde consumes Velasgate?”

  “If they are not delayed; sooner as opposed to later.”

  “And I assume your forces are nearby?”

  The man nodded, “Outside Velasgate with scouts in the Wilds and the surrounding territories.”

  “Then have your forces delay them and I shall see to the safety of our little flower.”

  “And the one other item?”

  Renala held her hands out in front of her. Whispering a few words, a portal of light came into being, widened, and a small chest dropped into the tent from midair. At her hissed command, the portal disappeared. The lid of the chest glowed, then popped open. Reaching in, she removed a small wrapped object that caused the air around it to hum.

  “You’re…certain about this?” Renala asked cautiously as she eyed the object with grave apprehension.

  “Entirely. The effects of this artifact have been most promising.”

  “By’ promising’, I assume you mean horror and madness?”

  “Which is precisely what I require,” The man took the object from her and unwrapped it; a small half-mask adorned in blue and yellow jewels rested in his palms. “Where there is magic, there is life. And where there is life…” He ran his fingers over the edges of the mask, “…there is power.”

  “So, you plan on going through with this insanity?”

  “A change is coming, and it would appear I am destined to be its herald.”

  “And if that change has to come on the broken lives of an entire world?”

  “Sacrifices must be made,” The man gestured towards his eyes.

  “Perhaps you have sacrificed too much, my friend.”

  The man only smiled and turned his attention back to the artifact, “The knowledge gained from unlocking this artifact’s secrets will serve me well and provide me with the information I need to further my goals.”

  “And then…?”

  The man simply held up his hands, “Change will happen.”

  “On your head be the consequences, old friend,” She warned, “Some things once seen cannot be unseen.”

  “How like a cloistered sister you sound, parroting the words of the church”

  The old woman cackled, “Very well then, go and do what you please, as you always have.” She gave him a steady look, “You know, I could simply kill you and spare the world your antics.”

  The man tied the wraps back around his eyes, “You could, but you won’t.”

  “Will I not?”

  “Of course not. You want to see what happens next.”

  Renala smiled like a hungry predator.

  “I absolutely do,” She reached into her robes and removed a tattered book.

  “Here,” she handed it to him, “A gift to an old friend.”

  The man, having finished rewrapping his eyes and putting the cards away, examined it.

  “’An accounting of the signing the Daymorian Accord’,” He ran his hands over the book and gave a slight but satisfied smile, “Circa one-twenty Sundered. Very impressive.”

  “It was written by a knight errant whose name escapes me,” Renala offered a grin that suggested she was the cat that had just eaten the last canary in the world, “but who went on to be a member of the original church and later a founder of the Witchhammer order. I understand that they teach according to his words even still.”

  “The Witchhammers have certainly proven resistant to change.”

  Renala snorted indelicately, “An understatement and behavior that will cost them dearly in the future,” She gestured at the book, “It is encoded, I’m afraid, based on a language that died before the Sundering. I recall that Mother War’s followers used similar encryption against the Nevaraakese,” She cocked an eyebrow, “That won’t be a problem for you, will it?”

  “Not in the slightest,” The man opened the book carefully and ran his fingers across its pages. His brow furrowed in concentration for a moment.

  “Interesting. The Witchhammers have indeed changed little. A fundamental understanding of their most basic schools of thought is certainly…useful,” His brow smoothed and he put the book down on the table, “I’ll
decode the minutiae later.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, I must see to it that any survivors from that monstrous debacle they’re calling “the battle of Velasgate…”

  “The massacre of Velasgate,” Sul interjected frowning

  “…Are proceeding along the necessary path and then I will turn my attention to the village,” The old woman leveled a grave expression upon her companion, “If we lose control of this, Drachaen, the world will follow into ruin.”

  The man exhaled a final cloud of smoke, “Then we shall see to it that we don’t lose control.”

  Renala nodded, “Very well. Now, time is moving and we are standing still,” With a smile she toasted him with her mug before exploding into a flock of birds that dove and swooped out of the tent, soaring high into the sky.

  “Good morning Captain Sul,” A level voice called out as someone else entered a few moments later, “How was your sleep?”

  “Productive,” He turned to regard the Mithrac woman standing next to the table. She was tall, as were most Mithrac, and possessed a full-figure that was mostly concealed in the robes that she wore. Her horns curled back on themselves and were tipped with peridot, giving them an emerald sheen. In her hands, she held a tonic, a large book and a supply of quill pens and ink.

  “Good morning, Atiya,” He drank the tonic and grimaced at the taste.

  The scribe opened the book and readied herself for orders, “What is your command, Captain Sul?” she asked in the perfectly even tone those like her were known for.

  “Summon the council. We have work to do.”

  *

  The cat lazily entwined itself around the legs of the man sitting in the chair. Drachaen Sul smiled and reached down to pet the animal. It purred ecstatically and rubbed against his hand. He straightened, adjusted his black uniform. “Report.”

  The assembled officers exchanged looks before one cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  “Our scouts report that the last of the Taintbrood are beginning to migrate from the field of Velasgate,” Lieutenant Pellinore stated in his crisp, concise manner. He ran a gloved hand through cropped blue-black hair which prominently displayed his pointed ears before he straightened his back and held himself at attention.