Luther, Magi: Blood of Lynken II

by Geoffrey C Porter

  Luther, Magi

  Blood of Lynken, Book II

  Fourteenth Draft

  By Geoffrey C Porter

  Copyright 2016, Geoffrey C Porter

  Do not copy or distribute.

  Please don't steal my book. It took me over a year to develop.

  ISBN-13:

  978-1535441766

  ISBN-10:

  1535441763

  www.facebook.com/GCPWriter/ Author Facebook Page

  Dedicated to Jeffrey Breault

  Chapter One

  The ghost appeared in a swirling mix of dark and light shadows with wisps of intangible smoke. Luther looked up from tying his shoes. "She left for the temple already."

  "You need to hear this, come along," the ghost said, before motioning with his hand towards the door.

  Luther tied the laces on his other shoe before standing up.

  "Hurry!" The ghost cried.

  Luther ran out into the open air of the compound. He shouted, "Mom!" And threw open the door to the main temple.

  Mom turned and said, "What is it? Oh, Robert."

  "Yes, Robert,” the ghost said. “Balron has freed himself from Hell and is after the crown and great sword again."

  "I can defeat him once and for all."

  Great. Badass Necromancer clawed his way out of Hell, and Mom was going to throw a prayer at him.

  She scowled at Luther. "You don't know the power of the One True God. You never study."

  "All I do is study and dishes and sweep the stables." And weed and plow and harvest. But he knew he better hold his tongue.

  Mom said, "Stay here."

  Where would he go? A hundred miles north of the border with Lynken, and not even a road to follow in any direction. A bright flash of light danced around Mom, and she transformed into a hawk.

  "Do your chores," Robert said with a laugh.

  "Piss on you, Ghost," Luther said.

  The hawk took to the heavens, and Robert drifted into nothing but mist.

  Paul, an elder priest, watched all of this unfold. "Dishes or stables today?"

  Neither. He'll run away. Perfect opportunity. "Dishes."

  Luther ran to the dining hall and grabbed a wooden bowl and spoon. A big vat of oatmeal waited, and he knew he was allowed exactly one scoop. He did his best to mound as much on top of the scoop as possible.

  Paul tapped him on the shoulder. "Greed will be your downfall."

  "I'm eight years old, and I like having enough energy to move. How will I do the dishes if my hands shake from hunger, and I pass out?"

  "Would you like another beating?"

  "No, sir." He would hit hard and fast--three quick strikes, and it would be over, but damn if they didn't sting for an hour.

  "After you eat, and after you do the dishes, I want to show you something."

  Luther nodded and ate the oatmeal. For a change, there were diced apples in with the oats, and possibly even a tiny hint of cinnamon. He knew he was delusional to believe such things, but the meal did seem special that day.

  One by one, he dunked bowls and spoons into soapy water, then wiped them out with a rag. Luckily, the vast majority of the bowls and spoons had been licked clean.

  He looked. They saved the vat for him, but it wasn't empty; it had easily three scoops of meal congealed at the very bottom. Luther cleared out the pan with a spoon and felt fuller than perhaps ever in his whole life.

  Paul cleared his throat. Luther dropped the spoon. "I—"

  "It's fine, boy, come along."

  Paul turned to leave, and Luther followed. They went into a building referred to as a library, but only because they had no other room for all the scrolls, books, and relics. Paul rummaged around for a moment, then withdrew an ancient scroll and set it up under a window.

  "What does it say?" Paul asked.

  "The elder gods will use a tool of magic to bring about the destruction of all mankind. The tool will start out as human and evolve into an unstoppable force."

  "Yeah, yeah," Luther said. The priests had shown him countless prophecies and doom scrolls. His father was nothing special, even though the boy had never met his father. Luther didn't feel special, and according to the church, he was cut from the same cloth as Juxta.

  * * *

  Jason busied himself sweeping dung out of the stable and transferring it to a pile. A rider approached, and he looked up. Father. Jason waved. Dad jumped off the horse and ran right to him, picking him up and spinning him around. "Where's your mother?"

  "Inside, sewing I think."

  Wait. In one of Dad's hands was a short sword in a scabbard. A sword about the same as the ones Jason practiced with. They went inside. Jason's little brother and sister, too young for chores, were idly drawing on a parchment with a burnt stick. Jason's mom looked up, "What is it, Simon?"

  He handed the blade to Jason. "Take it. Strap it on. Ready a wagon."

  Dad turned to Mom. "You must flee. Right now. Balron has escaped from Hell, and he intends to do us all in. Flee to Weslan."

  Jason stood there perplexed. Dad shouted, "Are you daft? Put that blade on and ready the wagon!"

  The blade went around the young boy's waist. Dad embraced Mom in a kiss, but Jason was out the door already. He attached two horses to the front of the wagon and tied their cow and a third horse to the back.

  Mom came out carrying blankets. Dad said, "Let's grab that barrel of apples and load it."

  "I can't lift that barrel," Jason said.

  "I'm only expecting you to help. I can almost get it on my own."

  Jason bent at the knees, and together they lifted as hard as they could. Getting it to the wagon wasn't impossible, but lifting it up into the back was another matter.

  "Heave! Give it your all!" Dad shouted.

  He did, and in it went. The younger siblings were hauling clothes to the wagon. Dad pointed at the smokehouse. "Get a bag and load up on jerky."

  Jason did as he was told. The wagon was loaded in no time. Dad leaned in close to Jason. "I expect you to provide meat for your family every day. Take the horse and scout ahead. Hunt!"

  Every day? Jason was not that good of a hunter.

  "Make haste! Balron could be here any minute."

  Jason ran inside for his bow and a change of clothes, and they were off.

  Chapter Two

  Father Paul held a new scroll out to Luther. "Study this."

  "Okay." He started reading it. Like so many ancient scrolls of the One True God, it detailed an accounting of harvest time and summations of what was to be paid in taxes and tithes. It said the rest should be stored for the lean times.

  The lunch bell rang, and Luther put the scroll away. Lunch was a meager gruel of wheat and flax. Again, one scoop, no more, and definitely no diced apples or cinnamon. There might have been a ham hock in it, but it was hard to tell.

  Another, older boy, Joshua, pointed at Luther. "Juxta is going to destroy the world, and it's your fault."

  How could it possibly be his fault? Luther stuck his tongue out at the older boy. He was methodically washing the bowls and spoons when Joshua stepped into the room. The older boy made fists with his hands and raised them up. Luther didn't play along, didn't even look twice at the other boy. Joshua lashed out with his right fist, hitting Luther on the ear. It stung for sure, and Luther put his guard up.

  Joshua was easily four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. Blow after blow landed until Luther was a bloody mess. He fell to the ground and pretended to be out of steam. "It's your fault," Joshua said.

  Luther lay bleeding. Someday he'd grow up. He'd find a way to win in fights like that one. Joshua kicked him once in the gut and then left.

&nbs
p; Luther finished the dishes. Paul entered. "What happened to your face?"

  "Joshua."

  "You've got to stand up to him. Put him in his place."

  Maybe if the priesthood would teach real magic, Luther could. Hatred for the Church of the One True God and all its dreary attachments burned through his very essence. What Luther needed was a blade or a knife of some sort, to finish that pig of a Joshua once and for all. His only choice was to flee, but they were surrounded by wasteland.

  Days passed. Luther's face healed. He was sitting at breakfast when a shockwave of darkness passed through his heart. A black rage danced in the distance, far out of sight. A welling of power like he never felt before in his insides. The end. Father is really doing it. The end of days was upon them. No one else noticed. Luther giggled uncontrollably.

  * * *

  Dad looked Jason right in the eyes. "You're in charge!"

  Jason nodded. "You mean mom's in charge."

  "No! You're the eldest male. You're in charge!"

  Mom's in charge.

  "Simon," Mom said. "You know the rules. If you die, the boys will be priests."

  "Damn it, woman! Jason is almost old enough for the trials now."

  "Jason is nine. It won't matter, if you die."

  Dad raced back towards the castle. Jason untied the spare horse and hopped on. Mom whipped the wagon onto the road. Jason rode next to his mom until they reached the edge of the city. "I'm going to scout on ahead, try and bring down a duck," Jason said.

  "Nay, stay by my side," Mom said.

  "But Dad said—"

  "I don't care what he said. We've got enough jerky to make it to Weslan, and I have a feeling the cow isn't going to make it that far. She's already slowing us down."

  There were other wagons leaving the capital. They ended up in a kind of caravan. The sun set, and the family curled up together under a blanket. Jason stayed awake. Dad gave him a sword. Must be a pretty dangerous world. Would a short sword like his even matter in the grand scheme of things? Jason crawled out from under the blanket. The moon and stars shone down on him. He drew the blade, and light from the moon reflected along its perfect edge.

  Little brother poked his head out from the blanket. "Sleep."

  "In time, I'll sleep," Jason said. First, he needed to think things through. According to his father, Balron was the most powerful Necromancer the world had ever known. Jason realized his father was going to die. None could stand against Balron. The world would fall, and Jason would likely get the chance to use this blade after all.

  The little brother started to cry. "Come to bed. We need your warmth."

  The child was truly terrified. Shouldn't Jason be also? Jason was not afraid, but he crawled back under the blanket and held his brother until the younger boy fell asleep. Jason nodded off.

  A few days passed, and the cow was definitely slowing them down. They were with a group of a few hundred by then, and the menfolk slaughtered the beast and cooked it. They made better time the next day. The following morning, as they were traveling, somebody started shouting, "Look behind us! Look towards Lynken!"

  Jason turned. Where Lynken had been, there was just a black dot of decay on the horizon. That was the end. The end of days and it had begun. Everyone they were traveling with whipped their horses and sped down the trail.

  Chapter Three

  Dinner was special that night. Once a week the priests passed out beef or venison jerky. Luther couldn't see the blight in the distance, but he could still sense it. The darkness beat like a second heart in his chest. Black tendrils of veins started to scratch at his fingertips. He tried to shake the feeling off, to hide his hands, but the lines were black as night.

  He savored each bite of the meat, but like every week before, it was never enough. Couldn't they simply send out hunters? Breed more cows or chickens, something, to give them more meat? He shrugged the feeling off. Nobody commented on the darkness growing in his fingertips: either he was truly invisible to those around him, or they simply didn't care.

  He captured sleep in barely a moment as he lay down to rest. A hand woke him in the morning. "We must flee!"

  "Mom?"

  "Juxta is destroying the world," Mom said. "We have to try to outrun it."

  Yes. Outrun it. Luther held up his hands. The dark tendrils of whatever-it-was reached almost to his palms.

  Mom let out a held in breath. "It doesn't matter. Get a bag and fill it with as much food as you can."

  Luther raced to the storehouse. He found a saddle bag and filled half with oats and the other half with dried apples. It went over his shoulder. He stepped outside to the courtyard. Mom filled water skins from the well.

  "We won't need water," Luther said.

  "You're a fool then. There are no streams for miles," she said.

  Luther wasn't about to argue. There might be no streams on top of the ground, but underground was another matter.

  Mom leaned down. "Let's run!"

  Run? How far would they get running? She took off, though, and Luther chased after. They made it two miles before Luther's legs were on fire, and the black tendrils of inkiness bled into his palms.

  "Running is not helping!" He shouted.

  She stopped and grabbed his hands in hers.

  "What is it?" He asked.

  "Dark magic most foul." Then she smiled. "We just need to cut off your hands."

  "Hell no!"

  She laughed brilliantly. "I was teasing. It's possible to resist it if you just try to relax. Calm your thoughts. You can will it away."

  The terrain around them was mostly short brown grass that would thrive in the summer rains. Rocks dotted the landscape here and there. A great plains spread out in every direction. Mom held out a skin. "Drink some. We've got to conserve it."

  Luther took a draught. "The priesthood has magic they don't teach women."

  "Yes, apparently teaching magic to women is a big mistake."

  He took another long drink. "We should walk, right? Distance from the blight might save us?"

  "Yes, walk. Try to calm your thoughts."

  His thoughts were not raging. His thoughts were quiet. He just hoped for a way of controlling whatever it was growing in his hands. Thinking about it was making it worse, and the paths of sickness were easily two inches into his palms. And he knew it was sickness and death growing in him.

  They walked. Then stopped for lunch and heated up some oats. Survival was all that mattered. They marched north again. Three days passed this way. Luther had blisters on his feet. Every step hurt. He pushed on. The stark black rivers in his hands reached his wrists. He constantly tried to shake off the feeling, with no luck.

  Their water ran out. Mom spoke very quietly. "I told you we needed to conserve."

  Luther began to chant ancient words in the language of the priesthood. He pulled the air into his lungs and sent his senses out into the terrain around him. A stream, there. He walked over to it, continuing the chant all the while. The tone of his chant changed as he stood over the stream. He pulled upwards with his very being. A fountain of water crashed upward out of the ground.

  Mom filled the water skins, and Luther quieted the chant.

  His hands gave off tiny wisps of coal black smoke.

  "Mom, teach me how to control it."

  "Your father must decide your fate: that is the law. I cannot teach you magic."

  Luther nodded. A man he had never met was going to choose his fate. Wonderful. If he decided Luther was going to be a priest and live for the One True God, there would be a throat slit in the night. He never wanted to go back to another priest compound.

  "Let's rest here today and march tomorrow," Mom said.

  "Sounds good." Thankfully his hands did stop smoking. Running wasn't going to save them anyhow. There was something that Juxta needed to do or figure out, to put an end to the blight, or it would consume the world for sure.

  They rested the night away.

  Chapter Four


  Dawn's light woke them, and Luther prepared some of the oats. They were running low on both grain and apples. Mom didn't even take the first bite of food. "You need it more."

  They both needed it, and Luther knew better. "If you're not eating, I'm not."

  "Damn it, boy, you'll obey me."

  "We both need fuel, and you know it, or do you want to slow me down?"

  Mom grabbed a few apple rings and ate them. She closed her eyes and hummed a tiny little tune. Her words carried as if she were in a trance. "A town to the northeast. It's closest. Maybe eighty miles."

  Three days. Eighty miles made it sound so far, but three days was close. By the end of that day, the food ran out. No sense in conserving it. A cold front moved in overnight, and the pair huddled together for warmth. They woke with a slight dusting of snow covering the ground. It looked like ash to Luther, but it melted at the touch of their feet. The morning sun cleared the desolate plain of any trace of the moisture.

  With an incredibly straight face, Mom said, "Let's jog."

  No breakfast, blisters two layers deep on his feet, and she wanted to jog. "My feet hurt."

  "So do mine, but we'll make better time, and with no food, making good time is the priority."

  Luther jogged. He tried to keep his pace steady until high noon, but in the end, he fell and stayed down.

  "Are you okay?" She asked.

  "I just need a break. Didn't see that damn rock."

  "Let me see your feet."

  Luther shook his head. "I'm fine."

  "Let me see!"

  Luther unlaced his shoes and carefully removed them. His socks were bloody. The inside of his shoes had been squishy throughout their morning run.

  She wiped a tear out of her eye. "I had no idea you were hurt."

  Mom put her hand on the right foot first. She chanted an ancient healing mantra. The sores and blisters on Luther's foot closed up and healed. She did the left foot next. Luther felt a million times better, and she could have done that sooner. She fell over and curled up in a ball. He reached down and touched her shoulder as if that would help. "I'm fine," she said. "Give me a minute."