Guardian

by P B Hughes

  Text and illustrations copyright © 2019 P. B. Hughes.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published by Lionfish Publishing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Book design by Alex Hughes.

  Guardian

  Tales of Orsidia: Book 2

  P.B. Hughes

  Contents

  Copyright

  Guardian

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Glossary

  About The Author

  Chapter 1

  Clouds of white cotton sped across the frigid November sky. It was mid-afternoon and the sun bathed the university in ever-moving swaths of light. Jude, donned in a forest green cloak, walked along the tree-lined sidewalk with quick, deliberate strides. His black hair was neatly tied into a slick ponytail that stopped at his shoulders. A leather pack, nearly bursting with scrolls and books, hung across his back. Jaw set, eyes locked straight ahead, he moved with a misanthropic air. Though his exterior was austere as ever, his insides writhed with anxiety as he contemplated a thousand questions.

  The man in black armor, he thought. The image haunted his dreams night after night—a specter amidst a spiral of flame and shadow. Who is he? He wants something from me, I know it.

  For months Jude had existed in a state of quiet terror. It was as if every time he laid his head down to rest that the man would visit, pry open his skull and climb inside to torture him.

  During the dreams, Jude would shout at the man—demand answers. But the response was always the same: silence. Despair would set in and Jude would fall to his knees and beg. Still the man would stare with glowing red eyes from the vacant sockets of his helm, while distant screams echoed in a crimson sky.

  Then Jude would wake up, whispers swimming in his head, compounding his fear. They invited him to tap into the dark energy, to use it. But he resisted, afraid of what the power might do to him.

  As a child Jude thought he was going mad when he first heard the whispering trees. In the end, it was simply his brain converting the trees’ primal desires into dialogue; something entirely logical, explicable. But there was something different about these whispers. Something sinister, something oppressive.

  When Jude heard tell of the energy Nahash wielded the day of the massacre—as if he tamed the shadows themselves into weapons—he knew that somehow the voices were related. And so he gathered every book he could find on ancient history and sank to the bottom of the library basement to find answers. Page after page, book after book, he consumed them as if he was a starving wolf. But in the end, his research proved fruitless. But that was before the librarian showed Jude the secret attic. Now, now there was hope...

  “Jude!” cried a voice behind him.

  Jude tensed but continued walking, pretending he hadn’t heard. Perhaps if he continued to ignore whoever it was, he thought, they would leave him alone.

  “Hey Jude,” called the voice again. “Wait up!”

  Jude gave a cursory glance over his shoulder. Behind him, Gregory, a gangly boy with disheveled blonde hair, hurried after him, crimson cloak flitting about his knees. His arms were laden with a precarious mound of scrolls that looked as if they might avalanche at any moment.

  Jude scowled and quickened his pace. “Not now, Gregory. I have to get to the library,”

  “What’s the hurry?” Gregory panted, catching up to him and matching his stride. “I thought you finished your final exams yesterday.”

  “Your point is?”

  Gregory rolled his eyes. “It never ends with you. School’s out for Winter Holiday and you’re still shut up in the library. I’m guessing you forgot, then.”

  Jude gave Gregory an irritated look. “Forgot what?”

  “Daniel’s sparring with that first-class swordsman today in front of Delmont Hall. Kind of an end-of-semester hurrah. You told him you’d come watch, remember?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on Jude, it was just this morning. I heard you.”

  “I only said I’d go to end his pestering, not because I intended to go.”

  “Some friend you are. Daniel saved your life back in the arena and you aren’t even willing to—”

  “Fine, I’ll go,” Jude consented with a wave of his hand. “But only for five minutes, and not a second more.”

  “Good. We’re already late as it is. Here, hold these.” Gregory thrust his scrolls into Jude’s unprepared arms, then reached around and untied the buckskin satchel slung across his shoulder. “Didn’t have time to put these away after my last exam if I wanted to catch you. Saw you out the window and made a break for it.” He held his empty bag up to Jude. “Go on, dump them in.”

  Jude replied with a sour look. It irked him that Gregory never took care of his things. “These scrolls are tools of academia, just as a sword or staff is a tool of war. They should be treated with the same respect.”

  “Yeah, yeah, haven’t got all day Professor Snob-Wad,” Gregory replied, shoveling the scrolls out of Jude’s arm and into the satchel. “Let’s go.”

  The two of them cut through the middle of campus, Gregory attempting to tie his satchel shut while on the move without success. Soon, a large white building came into view. Upon its top was a copper dome turned green from years of weathering. There, in front of the building, was a raised platform surrounded by a crowd of buzzing students, all pressing in to get a better look at the spectacle. Two boys, dressed in white tunics and leather armor, faced off upon the roped off stage. One, a red-headed boy, tall and ruddy, paced the floor like a caged tiger. Across from him hung Daniel with his back against the ropes, panting heavily.

  A pang of anxiety shot through Jude at the sight. He absolutely despised crowds—the noise, the shoving, the inexplicable feeling that everyone was enjoying themselves but him. The library called out to him; he cast a longing glance over his shoulder.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” said Gregory, taking Jude by the arm. “Come on. I want to get a better view.”

  The two of them pressed forward into the crowd.

  ◆◆◆

  Daniel’s lungs burned as he watched the red-headed boy’s every move. Despite the chilly air, his brown hair clung to his forehead with sweat. Bested once already, the thought of a second beating filled him with furious resolution. It wasn’t his idea to spar with the Imperial Knights’ most formidable Cadet. That came from his classmates. He was far and
away the best at swordplay amongst them. Naturally gifted, it seemed. But against Marcus Kincaid—two years his senior, with ten years of training—his ‘gift’ was of little help.

  “You might be able to bend the elements to your will, Miraclist,” said the red-headed boy, “but take your powers away and what are you?” He unsheathed a rapier that glinted in the sunlight. “Nothing but a helpless kitten.”

  “Hear-hear, Marcus!” cried a stocky cadet named John Wright. The boy wore a long grey coat studded with gold buttons and ornate cuffs. Everything from his polished boots to neatly combed hair was pristine, and he carried himself with confidence. He was one amongst dozens of Imperial Cadets, all dressed identically, who lined against the western railing. Marcus Kincaid’s personal fan section.

  Daniel pushed himself forward and re-gained his footing. He tightened the leather bracers around his forearms and eyed his enemy with loathing.

  “I haven’t got all day.” Marcus extended his weapon and readied himself. “On your guard!”

  Daniel’s heavy breaths fell from his mouth in billows of fog. He unsheathed his sword and whipped it forward, giving a sideways glance to his friends watching from the crowd at the edge of the platform—Jude, Gregory, Nera, Jelani, and Ari. The sight of Ari renewed his strength. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

  Marcus lunged in a flash of steel. Daniel slashed his weapon and jumped back—a clumsy move, he knew, but he deflected the attack.

  Marcus gave him a wry smirk. “Pay attention! I could have had you. Next time I won’t be merciful.”

  “Going easy one me now, are you?” Daniel replied, finding his composure. “You could have fooled me.” He sprang forward, thrusting the point of his sword at Marcus’ chest. Marcus parried the blow with a flick of his wrist and countered with a swift riposte.

  They battled with blinding speed, the sound of metal ringing through the tree-lined grounds as the students cheered. Daniel drove Marcus backward until he was nearly at the edge of the platform. Miraclist and Cadet alike cheered madly.

  “Come on Daniel,” cried Gregory. “I’ve got money on you!”

  “You can do it, Daniel!” Ari cheered.

  At the sound of Ari’s voice, Daniel faltered. Marcus seized the opportunity—he leapt forward and snapped the tip of his dull blade against Daniel’s chest.

  “I told you,” said Marcus, pulling back his sword, “to pay attention.”

  The cadets roared with delight, applauding and guffawing the victory of their leader. The Miraclists fell silent.

  Daniel sheathed his rapier with a frustrated huff. “Seven months of training,” he said, “and I almost had you. A few more and I might even beat you.”

  “You think awfully high of yourself, Sapphire Guardian.” Marcus replied, pulling a handkerchief from his belt and wiping his forehead. “I think we all agree that jealousy does not become you.”

  “Jealous of what?” protested Daniel, going rigid.

  “Of what?” Marcus repeated with an eye roll. “Of my skill.”

  Daniel reached for his staff that lay in the corner of the stage. “How about we play my game this time and we’ll find out who has the greater skill?”

  “Typical,” Marcus said, his blue eyes narrowing to slits. “When you can’t win the game you bend the rules in your favor. Well, I’ll not have it. Your headmaster asked me to spar with you, and spar I did. You lost.” He squared his shoulders before Daniel and pointed the tip of his blade to the ground. “Bow and accept defeat or I’ll wipe the floor with your limp carcass.”

  Daniel aimed his staff at Marcus. “You cross the line, Cadet.”

  “Daniel, don’t,” said Ari from the edge of the platform.

  “Do it, Guardian,” Marcus goaded. “Go on. Break the rules.”

  Daniel glanced over to Ari. In her eyes she pled for him not to let the conflict escalate. He lowered his staff. “You’re the better swordsman, Marcus—I’ll give you that. But remember, I could freeze you where you stand and be done with it.”

  “You Miraclists think you’re so superior,” scoffed Marcus, pushing a wavy strand of red hair out of his face. “But let’s not forget seven months ago when you were at the mercy of the goblin’s blades. In the end it is steel against steel that matters.”

  The Miraclists raised their collective objections while the cadets nodded in agreement.

  “Don’t let him talk to you that way, Daniel,” cried Nera. “Punch him in the nose!”

  Jude’s voice cut through the crowd: “It appears Marcus knows a thing or two of jealousy. He knows that if it weren’t for Miraclists, this kingdom would have been overrun long ago.”

  Marcus’s cheeks turned noticeably crimson despite his already flushed face. “If it weren’t for you,” he growled, pointing an accusing finger at Jude, “then the atrocity at the Investiture would never have happened in the first place. You Miraclists create more problems than you solve!”

  Daniel gripped his staff and his eyes flashed an icy blue. “Hold your tongue, footman. That’s our Alpha you’re talking to.”

  “Our Alpha, he says. Bah!” Marcus leered down at Jude. “He was the Cythes’ puppet, and yet not one among you questions the crown of authority given him? There still hasn’t been a satisfactory explanation of what happened that ill-fated day. So if I were all of you, I’d be wary of your Alpha.”

  The students around Jude began to edge away from him. Jude glanced at his peers, then the cadets. All eyes were locked on him.

  “Yeah, what did happen back there, Jude?” asked a bulky boy named Brutus suspiciously.

  Jelani placed a hand on Jude’s shoulder. “You do not owe these people an explanation,” he said in a low voice. “It is not their business.”

  “Not our business!” protested Marcus. “Thousands died and he was the cause, and you say it’s not our business? I believe it is our right to know! Who’s with me?”

  The crowd muttered collective agreements, and many of the Cadets shouted and thrust their fists into the air.

  “I bet he knows what happened to Caden,” announced Elenora Russo, a red-headed girl with a steaming temper. She had been the runner-up to Daniel for Sapphire Guardian. “Where is he, Jude? What did you do to him?”

  Jude’s skin drained of its color. He glanced at each accusing face, opened his mouth, and then shut it again.

  A large girl named Tiff spoke over the crowd: “Jude betrayed me and Gertrude. Who’s to say he won’t betray the rest of you?”

  “That’s right,” Gertrude agreed in a tiny voice. “Who’s to say?”

  It was well known that both girls hated Jude for choosing Jelani and Nera over them for his team during the Grand Investiture, and seized any opportunity they could to put him down. Despite that fact, many Miraclists nodded their agreement, and some cursed Jude outright.

  “Spill it, Littleton,” demanded Elenora. “What makes you so special that the Cythes needed you to carry out their plan? You can’t hide what happened forever.”

  Jude lowered his gaze to the ground, fists clinched. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” she pressed. “What did you say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He doesn’t know!” cried Marcus, slapping a palm to his forehead. “And yet they allow him to roam free. For all we know—nay, for all he knows—he could do the same thing again! That boy is nothing more than a volcano waiting to erupt.”

  “Enough!” yelled Daniel, taking a step forward.

  “No!” cried Ari. But she was too late.

  A blast of ice cascaded from Daniel’s staff, slithering like white lightning across the stage, up Marcus’ leg and over his mouth.

  The slicing sound of metal hissed about them as the cadets released their blades from their scabbards, ready to aid their comrade. Daniel held forth his staff, bracing for the attack.

  “Stop this at once!” boomed a deep voice from the edge of the crowd. There stood Mordecai, a look of calm fu
ry on his face. “Put away your weapons, Cadets. Daniel, release him this instant!”

  Daniel returned his gaze to Marcus. The boy grunted inaudibly, his wide eyes darting side to side. A few seconds ticked by. Daniel snapped his fingers and the ice shattered, bringing Marcus to his knees.

  “Jude is your Alpha,” Mordecai said to the students, “because he proved himself to be the most powerful and capable Miraclist in the Grand Investiture. He did not knowingly aid the enemy, nor did he have any power to stop them.”

  Marcus tried to stand but slipped on a shard of ice and came crashing down.

  “We Miraclists have no reason to distrust him,” Mordecai continued. The crowd of students parted to let the white-haired man by. “And neither do you, Marcus Kincaid.” Mordecai lumbered through the crowd, his thick fur coat wrapped tightly around him. His cheeks and ears were bright red with cold. “But Marcus is right about one thing: you Miraclists cannot rely solely upon your powers anymore. We do not know if the Cythes are able to inhibit your abilities. And if they are, you will need to be able to wield a blade.”

  “If a Cythe attacks, we’ll need more than just a blade,” Daniel replied.

  Mordecai reached the edge of the stage climbed the steps to where Daniel stood. “We must do what we can to make sure you are the best warriors you can be.” He turned and addressed the crowd. “That’s why it’s important that you cross blades with warriors as proficient as Marcus and the other cadets.”

  Daniel bit his lip.

  “Remember who your enemy is, Miraclists and Cadets. You are allies, and you will not care if the one who saves your life is a soldier or Miraclist when the time comes.” Then Mordecai grunted in a quieter tone to Daniel, “If you pull a stunt like this again I’ll have you removed from the Guardians and locked in a dungeon—understand?”

  Daniel did not reply.

  “That will be all for today, Cadets,” said Mordecai over his shoulder. “Marcus, lead them back to the barracks. Captain Weston has need of you all.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Marcus.

  “The rest of you, get to class,” Mordecai commanded the crowd.