TEMPEST BLADES
The Withered King
ISBN: 978-1-932926-75-0
LCCN: 2018967718
Copyright © 2019 by Ricardo Victoria
Cover Illustration: Salvador Velázquez
Logo Design: Cecilia Manzanares & Salvador Velázquez
Cover Design: Alexz Uría, Ricardo Victoria & Salvador Velázquez
Map illustration: Marco Antonio García Albarrán.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Shadow Dragon Press
9 Mockingbird Hill Rd
Tijeras, New Mexico 87059
www.shadowdragonpress.com
[email protected]
Follow Ricardo at: https://ricardovictoriau.com/
by
Ricardo Victoria
Acknowledgments
To my wife Alexz. You are my whole world and the light of my existence, my Gift. Thank you for believing in and supporting me to share my stories with the world.
To my friends and family that encouraged me to get this book done.
And especially to Brent and Martha for being my sounding boards during the writing process and helping me to polish this story.
To Chris, Andrea, Matt, Nazario, and Stephen for graciously accepting their cameos.
To Marco for helping me give shape to my world in form of a super map.
To Salvador for bringing forth the vision that became the spectacular cover art for this book.
To the good people of Artemisia Publishing for believing in this project.
And to you reader for allowing me to share my worlds with you. I hope you enjoy reading about them as much as I enjoyed creating them.
Chapter 1
Sky Full of Light
The final minutes of the Battle of the Line.
Life is full of parallels.
I hate this, Fionn thought. He looked at the battlefield spread across Longhorn Valley and sighed. Two more of the enemy were running towards him, swords aloft. Black Fang, his own sword with its graceful and sharply curved blade, was gripped in his hand, the blade dripping blood from his last kill. Black Fang emitted an otherworldly green glow that contrasted with its silvery surface. Around him lay a dozen bodies, either unconscious or dead. These two approaching enemies were the last of that squad.
Dodging a sword blow aimed at his head, Fionn tackled the soldier, impacting with his left shoulder. He rolled his attacker over his back and threw him onto the ground, then kicked him in the head, while parrying a slicing cut by the second attacker with Black Fang. With his free hand, he punched the second man in the face, breaking his nose, before kicking him away.
The first man had recovered enough to try attacking from behind, but Fionn caught the movement, reversed his hold on the grip of his sword and stabbed back with Black Fang. Spinning to the side so the sword could gain momentum, he sliced the second man, stepping aside as entrails spilled onto the ground. No more of the enemy remained in range so he took a moment to catch his breath and relax his muscles, already tired from the long fight.
When it came to the reputed fighters of the decade long Great War, Fionn was not the kind of warrior that came to mind. Contrary to the archetype of a war hero –musclebound, charismatic, shinning smile, fancy signature moves and strength that can sunder a mountain – Fionn had both human and freefolk ancestry. This made him slender, taller than average and with a preference for speed and precision over brute strength. A white shirt covered a light chainmail beneath, the brown trousers and brown combat boots he wore matched his long brown hair. He was twenty-two, although he managed to look younger, even after six years of fighting. Only the lines around his big and expressive green-grey eyes, showed anybody familiar with him how haggard and tired he was of the war. Even with his reputation.
Reputation is such a weird thing to earn during a war. When it came to fighting in battle, Fionn avoided fancy moves. Experience had taught him that in all-out frays, the most efficient moves are the ones that were straight and clean. No sword twirling, not a free-for-all, and no spectacular flips or somersaults. Those would only get you killed. And he wasn’t planning to die, at least not today. As a result, he had earned a reputation for being an efficient fighter, so efficient that the name of his freefolk clan had become his own nickname: The Greywolf, the famous warrior with the fabled sword that had helped the Free Alliance to stem the tide of the Blood Horde during the Great War.
At first, the Greywolf thing had been a badge of honor for him. The problem was it had led to the associated belief that he was a one-man army. He wasn’t. He wasn’t a weapon that Prince Byron, or any other lord or commander, could point and release at an enemy. Nor were any of the other Twelve Swords for that matter, not at Byron’s whims in any case, even if the Prince was also his friend.
There was another problem with his reputation. It meant that he now had to face wave after wave of enemy warriors, all of them wanting to prove themselves against him. And he had to do it while evading the barrage of energy attacks from the Horde’s giant source of power, currently sitting well protected within the main enemy camp: The Onyx Orb.
It was as if the thought had conjured the reality. Fionn saw the incoming green energy bolt at the last moment and jumped away.
I really, really hate that thing.
The force of the explosion threw Fionn flying and sent him tumbling into a crater left by an earlier attack. Winded, it took him a moment or two to recover. Then he began clawing his way out of the crater and pulled himself to his feet. He didn’t see the sword blade descending until it was too late, but a white wood and crystal quarterstaff blocked the attack and swung back to cave in the skull of the enemy warrior.
“How many times do I have to save you?” Izia said, smiling at him. She leaned on her staff, her black hair framing her face. She held out a smooth, olive-skinned hand to help him up. She was no older than Fionn and had been fighting this war just as long. She was also his fiancée.
“Not as many as I have.” Ywain said with a devilish grin. Electric currents jumped and ran across the teenager’s arms at blinding speed. “Incoming, guys.”
As he spoke, he turned to face a group of enemy soldiers advancing at a run. His sword moved in an arc, cutting easily through their blades. This was too much for the soldiers, brave warriors or not. When they saw what remained of their weapons, they threw them away and started running.
“Wise choice,” said Ywain. The three of them retreated a few paces back down into the crater. Ywain was of short stature and quite slim. His messy, dirty brown hair and pale skin contrasted with the intense golden glow of his irises. His longsword, Yaha – with a handguard composed of six fully opened golden wings – glowed with the same faint color as his eyes. To most, he would look like a kid wearing a soldier’s costume. But Fionn knew better. The whole Alliance knew better. Ywain was one of the few people in the whole army who had the Gift. If anybody in the Free Alliance was truly a one-man army it was Ywain.
“I think you scared them with your unique fighting style,” Fionn said.
“You are the one
that taught me how to fight.”
“Yeah, but I was talking about the…” Fionn pointed at Ywain. Electrical currents jumped around Ywain’s body, yet the younger man didn’t seem to feel any discomfort. “Flashy effects.”
“Oh, could you two stop praising each other?” Izia said impatiently. “We have a battle to win.”
“Ok, ok. The battle is not going according to the plan,” Fionn murmured to Izia and Ywain.
“Tell me again, when have they gone as planned?” Ywain asked, stifling a laugh.
“Never,” Izia replied first.
“Exactly.”
“We need to take down that thing now,” Fionn said as he nodded towards where the Orb had just fired a second volley in the direction of the main forces of the Alliance. It was turning into a massacre.
“You know that no one will go after it to destroy it. Byron ordered us to capture it and his father didn’t contradict him,” Ywain reminded him.
“Byron is an idiot,” Izia said. “I wish someone would shut him up. Sorry, I know he is your friend but...”
“I agree,” Fionn said, painfully aware of the battle raging a few meters away from the cover of the crater. Gunfire, clashing metal, the crunch of bones as metallic golems crushed their victims, all mixed with the screams of the injured filled the air. Every few minutes the sounds of battle were interrupted by the explosions created by the Orb’s energy bolts striking the battlefield. “But that thing needs to go. It’s the source of their power. We are so close to ending this war.”
“You are proposing to disobey direct orders,” Ywain said in mock surprise.
“I can’t ask you to come with me. The king will be disappointed,” Fionn agreed, smiling, knowing the answer already.
“The king won’t care.” Ywain waved his hand. “And Byron can get stuffed for all I care.”
“I’m going with you guys,” Izia said.
“I would prefer if you stay,” Fionn told her.
“I’m not having this conversation again,” Izia replied, annoyed. “You don’t need to keep me safe. I can help and you know that.”
“I know,” Fionn sighed. “This is not about me being overprotective. This is about the plan and a part of it only you can enact. You know better than anyone in the Alliance how destructive an energy explosion can be. And that thing will create a big one. If Ywain and I are successful, we will need protection to hide behind. And only you can set up things properly. Get to Sophia and Mykir; tell them what we are going to do, that their soldiers must raise a barrier with the titanfight shields and whatever else they have. Then, get the freefolk to cast a protection spell, you know which one, on the barrier to raise it even higher and longer to protect the rest of the army. You are the only one I trust for that. As you pointed out, you keep saving my ass; I need you to do that once more.”
“I’m not happy with this idea,” Izia bit her lips.
“I know,” Fionn replied, gently holding her face and, pressing his forehead against hers, rubbing her nose with his. It was a freefolk sign of personal affection between husband and wife. For all intents and purposes, they were already married. “But while I know you can beat anyone in front of you, saving what’s left of our army is a priority.”
“Don’t you dare die on me today, ok?” Izia said, fiercely.
“I promise. I’m not planning to die today. Besides, when this is done, you and I will travel around the world. Agree?”
“Always,” Izia smiled and let him go. She turned to Ywain and gave him a brief hug.
“Make sure you bring him back in one piece,” she said sternly, ruffling his messy hair.
“I have learned to never contradict you,” Ywain told her. “I will, even if I have to drag him.”
“Let’s go,” Fionn peeked over the edge of the crater. “We have a brief window to get there. Now!”
The three left the crater at a run, Izia heading back to their lines while Fionn and Ywain crossed the battlefield and ran toward a nearby grove of trees still intact despite the fighting. They did their best to avoid the fighting. Time was of the essence.
“What excuse will we give them?” Ywain asked Fionn, mid-run. “They will be pretty pissed off.”
“We can always say that we tried to capture the Orb and blame it’s destruction on a faulty safeguard. Happens all the time,” Fionn said nonchalantly. He saw the two huge flying ‘Orca Class’ Air Dreadnoughts of the Alliance taking off in the distance to deploy more troops. Each of the large ship-like vessels would look more in place at sea, but they were propelled by giant engines fed by the power cores designed by Mykir to fly below the ionosphere, where their sensitive electronic components wouldn’t be fried. They could carry five thousand living souls each, but the Alliance couldn’t field that many soldiers in a good day. Things were getting desperate. Regardless, their deployment meant one thing: more casualties, from both sides.
Fionn increased his speed. His only concern was to end the war here and now.
† † †
The Onyx Orb loomed in front of them. It was a black sphere the size of an ancient dragon, or a building four stories high. It was rumored to be of ancient Akeleth origins – a long-dead civilization renowned for leaving their ruins full of dangerous things – and shown to possess excessive power. The Orb had been the key to the Horde’s devastating campaign that had razed everything from the Grasslands, destroyed most of the Ionis continent, collapsed the old kingdoms and spilled across the Lirian Ocean, forcing even distant realms to take action. Only the remains of the Free Alliance stood against the Horde.
It was no wonder someone like Prince Byron wanted to capture it for the Alliance. “As a safeguard against rogue magick users in the future,” he had declared in a speech. But Fionn thought that was bullshit. He had witnessed the full power of the Orb, fueling the dark magicks of the Horde, enslaving minds and casting a bolt large enough to take down a full-sized dragon. If the king had any hope of winning the war, that thing had to go, even if it meant disobeying direct orders from a friend and liege.
Fionn and Ywain had almost reached the Orb when they found themselves with a problem. They stood surrounded by a circle of dead bodies and injured soldiers. Nearby more soldiers, some even wearing the enhancing armor of Titanfight, stood waiting in a wide circle for their turn. All of them were shaking in their boots. Behind the soldiers stood two of the four leaders of the Horde: Argiol the Devil and Peremir the Warlock.
“I think this is a trap,” Ywain pointed out, breaking the silence as the pair of them stood in front of the Orb.
“What clued you in?” Fionn asked, “The soldiers surrounding us? That Argiol and Peremir are watching, or that the Orb is sitting right there like obvious bait?”
“Y’know?” Fionn yelled at Argiol. “This is getting boring. If you wanted to get us tired, this is a poor attempt. I thought you would have at least the balls for a one-on-one duel.”
Argiol hissed loudly and made his way towards them, followed by Peremir. The circle of soldiers opened and retreated to give them space.
“Why do you always have to piss them off?” Ywain complained.
“Because…” Fionn replied, readying his sword. “They are walking clichés. Just look at their wardrobe.”
“Since you started reading those design magazines, you have become really annoying,” Ywain replied, drawing his sword, Yaha.
Argiol was taller than Fionn, musclebound and carrying an enchanted tetsubo. He was wearing chainmail, with metal plates covering the upper chest. His shoulders had carved dragonwolf metal skulls as protection. His legs were covered by pants made of leather with metal plates over them. And over the entire ensemble, Argiol wore a leather vest with metal studs and spikes. The vest had a red devil painted on it that had become his symbol. He was the most violent, ruthless general of the Horde, the bane and nightmare of many kingdoms. Peremir stood
to his left. An older man with gray hair styled into a widow’s peak and wearing long robes, he was a shame to the freefolk as he claimed to be a servant of the Masters of the Pits. The warlock had been the brains behind many of the monstrosities and spells that murdered countless innocents in the campaigns of the Horde.
“The Greywolf and the Freak,” Peremir said, his tone gloating. “Nice of you to fall into my trap. It saves me so much time.”
“Told you…wait a minute…” Ywain muttered and then paused. He asked Fionn, “Why am I the freak?”
“Because you can do that thingy where your eyes glow and do supernatural stuff?” Fionn shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, right.”
“Silence!” Peremir yelled at them. “Why are you still talking? Who does that in the middle of a battle?”
“Us,” Ywain replied. “We like it that way, helps to release tension, y’know. Gives us time to keep you distracted while we find a way to beat you, that kind of thing.”
“Anyways, isn’t it too risky of you to lure us into a trap with your biggest weapon?” Fionn mocked Argiol. “I mean, the trap could fail and we could destroy it.”
“As if!” Argiol countered. “It was the fastest way to get rid of you. And with you two gone, the Alliance will lose their heart. Your old king won’t last much longer, his armies will defect.”
“Yeah, yeah right. I could say the same.” Fionn waved at Argiol, dismissing his argument. He whispered to Ywain, who was staring at Peremir. “Who do you want to take?”
The Withered King Page 1