“You two are in for a treat,” the witch replied.
Four other witches joined Annie and her master tonight. There were two masters and two disciples. The masters were named Gresolda and Hembrala and they were sisters. The witch never cared for either of them and made it known over the years. They were old and haggard like she was and Gresolda had a murderous reputation. The witch recognized that Gresolda and her kind were directly responsible for the hatred commoners had for their Order.
Annie took a position in the field across from the other two disciples. She sized them up rather quickly. One had hair as red as fire and the other’s hair was black as night. She wondered why their hair hadn’t lost color yet as she now had a head full of silvery white hair. She tried to remember if she had read a passage on hair color, but struggled to think of anything.
The red-haired girl flicked her wrist and shot a small bolt of lightning toward Annie. She dodged it but was struck by a black ball of smoke that clouded her vision. She waved it away and realized the fight was going to be one versus two.
With a wave of her right hand she created a square ice shield that she held up to deflect another lightning bolt from the red-haired witch. With a push of her left hand she sent an ice sickle through the black-haired girl’s knee.
The girl cried out in pain which surprised both Annie and her master. Disciples were not supposed to be given their voice until their twenty-first year. Either the black-haired girl was over twenty-one or her master was bending the rules.
“What is this?” the witch demanded.
Gresolda shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
“It’s okay, child. Continue,” she called out to Annie.
The black-haired witch pulled the ice sickle out of her knee and threw it the ground. She looked back at her master, Gresolda, and smiled.
“Key tro layja nen tira,” the girl shouted.
In front of her appeared a large stone troll. Annie had read about stone trolls and other creatures summoned by witches. She knew that once the troll lost its head it would be worthless. Unfortunately, summoning creatures was a spell that could only be cast by speaking the appropriate words in Dranic. Annie, still without her voice, had to be creative.
“Key tro layja nen keera,” the red-haired witch shouted.
In front of her appeared a man-like creature with the head of an ox. It was apparent to both Annie and her master that neither witch adhered to rules of transitioning. Both disciples were allowed to use their voices to cast spells which put Annie at a considerable disadvantage.
“I will not stand for this,” the witch growled.
As she extended her cane to cast a spell over the battlefield she was knocked to the ground by a gust of air conjured by Gresolda. Annie saw this, but couldn’t defend her master as she was dodging and countering spells and melee swings from the troll and ox creature.
Gresolda and Hembrala stood over the witch and smiled. She understood now what was happening, the two sisters were taking the coven by force.
“Karak creal kora,” the witch moaned. Within seconds she had transformed into a raven the size of a small horse. She flapped her wings and pushed back both the usurping witches.
Annie conjured a fireball and pushed it into the ox creature’s face, setting its flesh on fire. She then conjured an icy longsword which she swung across the troll’s neck, severing its head. She jumped back to dodge another lightning bolt from the red-haired girl and threw the longsword across the field into the black-haired girl’s other knee.
Annie’s master, now in raven form, hovered over the battlefield. Gresolda and Hembrala conjured fireballs, lightning bolts, and ice sickles and hurled them at the raven, each missing their mark.
“They want to kill you, child,” the raven shouted.
Annie knew she was capable of killing every witch on the field that day. It was that confidence that her master admired about her. She looked up at her master to respond, but suddenly an ice sickle lodged itself in her abdomen.
“I can conjure ice as well, you wench,” the black-haired girl said.
Annie dropped to her knees.
Suddenly a bolt of lightning struck the raven and it fell to the ground.
“Got her,” shouted the red-haired girl.
As the raven fell it transformed back into the witch. It hit the ground hard a few feet from Annie. Annie saw death in her eyes, but heard a faint whisper. She crawled over to her master and lowered her ear to hear what the witch was saying.
“Di ley gron. Di ley gron. Di ley gron,” the witch whispered.
Annie had heard that spell before, only briefly.
“Di ley gron,” the witch choked out as she touched Annie’s lips. Then, with all the remaining energy she had, she pushed Annie’s lips and shouted the spell again.
Annie felt a wave of energy and power come over her. She felt fire in her mouth and realized what had happened. The witch had finally restored her voice.
She stood up to face the four witches that were trying to usurp her rightful place as the Raven of the Layhe Coven. She picked up her master’s cane and slammed it into the ground and shouted, “Kav dor jahal yu tril han efsee!”
A shockwave knocked the four witches to the ground. In the distance, they saw bodies emerge from the shallow grave. The bodies moved slowly at first, some falling over and some bumping into others, but there was a moment when they collectively recognized their targets and raced across the field toward the four witches.
Each witch conjured their own preferred defense - fire balls, ice sickles, lightning bolts, etc. – and fired them at the undead army darting toward them.
“Kareen jhol nehu,” Annie shouted. The four witches were locked in place.
“Let us live, child, and we will serve you faithfully,” Gresolda begged.
“Too late for that,” she replied.
Annie watched as the undead horde overtook the witches, beating them to death with their bony fists.
She returned to her master’s body and listened as she took her last breath. She closed the witch’s eyes with her palm and noticed a black feather on the ground a few feet away. She picked it up and ran her finger down its side.
Just then she felt a sharp pain in her side and heard a crack. And then another crack on her opposite side. Excruciating pain across her abdomen which moved into her arms and legs. She wailed and roared in agony. Her transition had begun.
Rinehart II
The boy king reclined in his chair in the Royal Council room. He was alone. It was the first time he had arrived to a council meeting first, and he had been there for hours. He held his hands together and looked across the table at the empty seat a Warden of the South would occupy.
The bird arrived earlier in the day informing him of Sir Ga’rane’s treason and intentions to march on King’s Square. He was furious at himself for being so blind to Gar’rane’s intentions. If only he had listened to Sir Wein’s council more or found a way to work with Sir Terric.
He stood and walked slowly around the table. His heart beat with rage and his fists clenched tightly, fingernails almost breaking the skin of his palms. He grabbed the chair assigned to the Warden of the South and threw it across the room, breaking one of its legs. He rushed over and lifted it above his head before swinging it down onto the marble floor. His fury was frantic and unrestrained.
“Your Majesty?” Sir Girfroy, Sir Hilderinus, and Sir Ogderrin stood at the door.
The boy stopped swinging the chair and tossed it aside, mildly embarrassed they had seen him.
“My lords, please take your seats,” he replied, breathing heavily.
He made his way back to his chair and sat upright in an effort to compose himself. He assumed there would be skirmishes - or even wars - eventually under his reign, but not so soon and definitely not initiated by one of his own wardens.
“So, where do we stand?” he asked.
“Ga’rane commands 100,000 troops, give or take. In the East we have 15,000 a
t the ready and in the West there are 10,000 strong,” Sir Girfroy replied, nodding at Sir Hilderinus.
“And what of the North, Sir Ogderrin?”
“Your Majesty, the North is more academic-minded than the other regions. Most of our men serve as doctors, writers, professors, and the like,” Sir Ogderrin said.
“How many men are able to swing a sword, Sir Ogderrin?” the king asked sternly.
“All told we have 8,000 or so men that are aged enough to fight,” he replied.
“So, 30,000 against 100,000? Anyone like those odds?” the King asked.
The King stood and walked over to the window overlooking King’s Square and the vast plains in front of its gates. It was a beautiful day. People moved through the streets attending to their daily chores and errands unaffected by news they have not yet heard. They have no idea what’s coming.
He looked down at the long drop from the window. For a brief moment he considered jumping, but decided against it as he’d rather die in battle if given the chance. He turned to face what was left of his Royal Council.
“Well, shall we begin?”
Author’s Note
I am incredibly grateful you have chosen to read my first novel. It was important to me to keep the text fast-paced so that you would be able to read it in a day or two. As much as I love epic fantasies I cannot bring myself to write a 400 page book and would hate to disappoint someone after they’ve spent weeks trudging through it. I began as a screenwriter and all the manuals advise that you start each scene in the middle of the action. I translated that approach to this novel and will likely do the same in all my novels to come. I hope you enjoyed it and please feel free to share your comments in an Amazon review or on my twitter (@jdmorrison33).
Acknowledgments
My wife, Heather, and our two beautiful daughters, Avery and Ally -without their encouragement and faith, I would have not been able to finish this. And my “granny” who passed away this year. She was the very first to recognize how imaginative I was.
About the Author
J.D. Morrison (1983) was born in Midwest City, Oklahoma, to Irish parents with limited means. For ten years he taught in various high/middle schools. After completing a Ph.D. in educational leadership and policy studies he decided it was time to start a series of novels about what interests him most: swords, sorcery, wars, political intrigue, and, eventually, dragons. Kingdom in Turmoil is his first published novel (Author Page).
Kingdom in Turmoil (The Seven Islands Book 1) Page 8