Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 (Preview)

by Melinda Kucsera

  “Why don't you want me to go this way? It’s not like I have a choice.” And at least a dozen mud creatures staggered toward him.

  The ghost opened its mouth, but no sound emerged since a veil of silence divided the dead from the living.

  Sarn rubbed his burning eyes. What could have spooked a ghost? His map rushed to the fore, and a new icon blinked red up ahead. It couldn’t be worse than what chased him.

  Digging his fingers into the cracks in the stone, Sarn scaled a vertical cliff. His fingers tingled as green sparks shot across them, racing over his hands and up his arms. Every muscle the spark touched, it energized. Skin contact caused the map to update, adding information about the rock. Facts and figures he had become adept at ignoring scrolled past, exacerbating the ache throbbing behind his left eye. Something touched his mind then flitted away.

  Sarn shook his head to clear it of the double vision, then the rock under his hands reshaped. Granite hands gripped him, and an image shot through his head. Yes, he understood. The rock hands extruded arms swinging him. On the third swing, it let go, and Sarn somersaulted onto a narrow precipice.

  Below, stone fists punched out knocking the mud creatures down, buying him time. How long before those vile things found a way to make the climb? There was no way to tell.

  Sarn swung his legs over the side and dropped onto another ledge his map pointed out. It knifed away from the rock formation and extended about a dozen-feet out. Alarms rang in his head. What now? Hadn’t he dealt with enough weird things today? He obeyed the warnings and crawled out to the edge.

  The ground dropped away in a steep valley. Five-hundred-feet down a group of orange-robed people boarded a small craft. He lost sight of it when the boat sailed behind a cluster of trees. A few minutes later, the boat reappeared, arrowing toward a longboat anchored off shore.

  Nolo had said something about orange robes and danger. What order wore orange robes? Not a good one if Nolo had warned about them. A burning desire to know what he’d stumbled onto overrode caution. Sarn dropped onto a smaller ledge to access a rough trail snaking down to the river.

  Halfway to the ground, he tripped when the ghost reappeared. More agitated than before, the specter waved translucent arms in a frantic negation. Sarn scrabbled for a handhold as he slid toward a two hundred and fifty-foot drop. His sleeve caught on a spur of rock, and he wrapped his fingers around it. Familiar green magic leaked out of his hands turning them sticky.

  Sarn reeled himself in until he had a stable perch on an outcropping the size of his rump. He checked his backtrail, but it remained clear of monsters for now. Thank you, he patted the rock supporting his weight, grateful it was keeping his foes occupied.

  The boat had returned, and more acolytes had boarded it. No flashes of orange on shore meant the larger vessel would cast off as soon as the last bunch boarded it. He needed to reach the shore, where he'd have an unobstructed view.

  Turning, he placed one hand flat against the vertical rock wall. Like attracted like and his hand warmed as an emerald glow edged it. A second later, his hand stuck to the wall. Since the fall had ripped his trousers, he applied his bare knee to the rock adding a third point of stability. His right boot hit a stone protrusion, and it bore his weight.

  Sarn descended until he could jump the remaining distance. Once on the beach, he rushed to the water’s edge, but the longboat had cast off already. Its profile faded into the setting sun. The gorge framed a slice of sapphire sky.

  It was late afternoon of what day? Sarn dropped his head into his hands. A weekday, he cursed. Miren had school from ninth until sixteenth bell.

  In exchange for food, the Foundlings babysat his son, but this morning, a jerk with a grudge had kidnapped him before he'd fetched breakfast. Gregori, that Jerk. Sarn punched the rock wall. Magic sheathed his fist mid-air causing the wall to vibrate from the blow. Rocks broke loose and tumbled down forcing him to stumble backward into the river to avoid a concussion. Sarn flexed tingling fingers before lowering his hand to his side.

  A small hand tugged at his heart, and the wind whispered his son’s name. Ran was a white star shining in the darkness of his head map. Was his son in trouble? Had the corruption reached Mount Eredren?

  Papa come back!

  I'm trying to.

  Sarn reached into his map and didn't stop until his fingers skimmed his son’s white star. Pain hammered a nail between his eyes. His map flickered, then exploded in a shower of sparks. Something dripped down his lips. Sarn tasted blood as the ground trembled, and the world grayed out.

  “Where are you, Papa?” Ran asked, but his voice came from far, far away.

  “Ran—?” The name ripped out of Sarn's heart and left a ragged wound behind.

  “Papa!”

  At his son's call, Sarn shifted from here to there and landed in a heap of elbows and knees. A shape leaned over his head, silhouetted against the white light blinding him. Pain exploded inside his head. Sarn screamed, and emerald tinged darkness dragged him down into its hungry maw.

  “What're you writing?” Ran fingered the rocks scattered around him. Thoughts of the little stories attached to each one reminded him of Papa. Papa had been gone for a long time.

  Uncle Miren’s pen scratched at the paper in front of him ignoring Ran and his question.

  Ran crawled to the straw tick. Sniffing, he found Papa’s scent—old wood, stale sweat and crushed pine needles. The spicy undercurrent of magic tied it all into an aromatic package he found comforting.

  Papa had never stayed away so long. Bear looked at him with concerned button eyes and extended his fuzzy arms. Ran fell into them and remembered the seeds. Spinning them, he let their soft filaments tickle his fingers.

  “Why aren’t you here Papa?” Ran sat up. The air felt lighter, warmer even—something had changed. Was Papa coming? Ran listened hard for the quiet tread of Papa’s boots and stared at the door willing him to come back.

  A hazy outline of a man fell through the closed door. White and emerald fire edged his being, and he was long-limbed like Papa. His cloak pooled around him, infused with magic, making it shine.

  “Papa!” Ran crashed into the translucent heap by the door and Papa’s magic enfolded him in warmth, brilliance, and love. Joy exploded in his chest as they were swept backwards. Pine needles brushed Ran’s face.

  Their cave vanished leaving a purple afterimage staining the forest, but the trees too were fading into a gray place. Shadows sketched gnarled branches overhead then they too streaked past. Everything was rushing away. But it didn’t matter because Papa was back! Smiling, Ran hugged Papa. Far away, he heard the rustling of papers and the scratching of his uncle’s quill.

  In time with Papa’s heartbeat, the magic’s light strobed around them. But it was the wrong color. White and green light poured out of Papa’s eyes as two kinds of magic clashed. Their struggle for dominance charged the air, heating it and making Ran’s hair stand on end. Without warning, two luminous bubbles pounced on Ran—one white and one emerald—they fought to cup him in their radiant protection. Ran smiled at their attention.

  “Ran—?” Papa said, his voice sounding squeezed. His grip loosened, and his arms fell back to his sides releasing Ran.

  Were the dueling powers hurting Papa? Worry pushed Ran back a step to check and the cold damp of home stirred the hair on the back of his neck. In Papa’s eyes, two conflagrations battled it out—one white and one green. But Papa’s eyes only ever glowed green. And they usually had non-glowing white parts and a dark spot in the center, but both were missing.

  “Papa? You look funny. Your eyes are all wrong.” Ran’s shoulder passed through Papa’s chest.

  Papa screamed and collapsed clutching his head. When Papa hit the ground, he vanished. Their cave materialized around Ran, darker than before. The two orange lumir sticks lay on the table by Uncle Miren, but their glow seemed paltry in comparison.

  “Who’re you talking to? Your father is
n’t here,” Uncle Miren said without looking up from his homework.

  “But Papa was here.”

  “No, he wasn’t. You were talking to shadows.”

  Ran shook his head. Where had Papa gone? “Papa come back!”

  Threads of magic drifted in the musty air, and Ran twined his little fingers in the glowing gossamer. He walked backward, wrapping them around his body. Ran ignored his uncle’s continued demands since his uncle had ignored him for the last two bells.

  Giving the remnants of Papa’s magic a good tug, Ran smiled. He had a line on his missing Papa. Clutching those shimmering cords, Ran curled up with Bear. He pulled on the promise binding them, reminding Papa he was waiting. Bear’s button eyes approved.

  After a few minutes of asking questions Ran ignored, his uncle threw his hands up in disgust. Muttering something about ungrateful brats, Uncle Miren slammed his book on the table.

  Score one for Team Bear. Ran hid a grin in Bear’s furry belly and maybe a giggle or two at getting a rise out of his uncle. A stray tear or two might have snuck down his cheek and dripped onto Bear’s soft nap. But Bear would never tell a soul about them, especially not Uncle Miren.

  A roach scuttled across the mattress radiating malevolence. Ran stared at the concentric rings of red winking in and out of sight around the bug until Bear swatted it away.

  “It was something bad,” Ran said.

  Bear nodded.

  Antennas poked over a pile of clothes tangling in the remnants of Papa’s magic. “Come back, Papa,” Ran begged, as he felt a tug on the tie binding him to Papa. Something bad gnawed at it.

  “Wake up boy.”

  A hand slapped his cheeks jarring Sarn out of sleep. He stared straight into the eyes of hell.

  “You’re dead …”

  Hadrovel smirked and faded out. A branch sliced through the spot the Orphan Master had occupied then withdrew as the enchanted oaks bending over him lashed out, blocking another attack.

  Shaken, Sarn lay there wincing at the pain throbbing in his brow. Tentative probing revealed no external cause for the pressure squeezing his head. Had he hallucinated Hadrovel? Or was his ghost haunting him too?

  When Sarn tried to sit up, his map tackled him, knocking him flat. He gritted his teeth as the map zoomed out to display a twenty-mile swath of the River Nirthal Valley. A fixed star pointed out his son, and it flickered demanding his attention. So did a half-dozen unrecognizable icons converging on his position. Likely they were the possessed trees who’d tried to skewer him earlier.

  Damn Gregori and his tests, how could the man do this to him and get away with it? And why’d he picked today of all days? Gregori, you selfish prick—Sarn punched the ground and last year’s leaves muffled the thud it made.

  He shoved the map aside, so he could rise without banging into any of the branches slashing at things outside their cordon. His map refused to minimize or become translucent. Instead, it obscured one eye forcing Sarn into a half-blinded stumble along the River Nirthal while he fumbled for an All-Fruit. Of course, Mount Eredren would lie on its opposing shore.

  Pain still tapped hot spikes into his head, but its vise loosened a little more with every bite of the All-Fruit. Sarn stopped when the tide rolled over his boots soaking them.

  No, screamed his magic, recoiling.

  Yes, said a new voice in his head—perhaps the other magic? Sarn shuddered. On his map, his son’s star icon brightened, calling to him. I’m coming, son.

  Eam’meye erator.

  That fell voice cut across the conflict raging behind a line of trees, silencing it. Sarn pivoted, dropping the All-Fruit core. The sun dropped behind a cliff plunging the shore into shadow. Black mud oozed between the enchanted trees in quivering, man-shaped lumps. The ghost boy shot past the creatures, dodging their still-forming arms and slammed into Sarn, knocking him backward into the river.

  Water closed over Sarn’s head. Its frigid touch quenched the fire burning behind his eyes, snuffing out their glow. Green magic retreated deep into his body away from its enemy. In its wake, another power roused sensing a vacuum. But Sarn shoved it down and kicked toward the surface.

  Clawing at the water, he fought the tide and surfaced. What had he felt stirring inside him? He had only one type of magic. Blinking to clear his eyes, Sarn caught glimpses of the world without the magic’s green filter. The forest on the north bank beckoned to him as he spat out a mouthful of water.

  A black pyramid squatted a half mile down on the mud creature infested shore he’d just left. They ignored the obsidian monstrosity fashioned long ago by Litherian hands, but for how long? What were these things after?

  A mountain overshadowed the ziggurat, and its lopsided cone was familiar. What was twenty miles east of Mount Eredren? Was it Racine? Sarn cursed. Of course, it was. What test would be complete without the risk of discovery? Damn Gregori to the coldest pit of hell for this.

  A white shape swam up startling Sarn. The ghost boy tried to catch his eyes and gaze-lock him.

  “No!” Sarn closed his eyes, and the tide pushed him toward Racine and discovery. Cold hands plucked at his clothes, catching his cloak as he swam on fighting the river. Sarn checked the mud creatures’ progress. Thank Fate they hadn’t found a way to cross the River Nirthal’s three-mile girth yet.

  The last few hours’ insanity had to be related to the events of last night. There was no other explanation for them. Ergo, he should look forward to dodging more berserker trees and mud creatures—fan-fricking-tastic.

  Switching tactics, the ghost boy pushed on his shoulders trying to sink him. And the sudden change reminded Sarn of one of his son's favorite games. Did the ghost want to play with him? His mind rejected such reasoning, but his heart accepted it. A couple of days ago, the ghost had been a living child.

  “Leave me alone! I have to reach the other shore.”

  Ignoring his plea, the ghost knocked Sarn aside. Something grazed his ankle.

  “Is there a monster in the river?”

  The ghost boy nodded and urged Sarn to hurry. They’d almost reached the shore.

  Dripping and cold, Sarn clambered onto the riverbank, and his magic swept the rocky beach. No corrupted trees or mud men waited for him. But for a moment, a face grinned at him from the depths before the waves washed it away. Sarn hurled a rock at Hadrovel’s hated visage then shook his head. Lack of sleep was making him hallucinate. Hadrovel was dead. He couldn't be part of this.

  Standing around losing his mind was not an option. Sarn had four hours until his shift began and Nolo noticed his absence. The wind cut through his wet garments making him shiver. Gregori would pay for this.

  Magic pulsed under the earth, clean and welcoming. Come run with me, it whispered, vibrating his feet.

  And why shouldn’t he? Shucking his boots, Sarn knotted the laces together and draped them over his shoulder. He dug his toes into the earth—much better. Magic seeped into his soles warming his feet as his connection to the earth sent energy tingling up his calves.

  More magic in the earth meant more enchanted trees and other flora weaving an impassable mess and likely, more corrupted things to dodge. He had no time to deal with any of that right now.

  “Papa?” Ran’s voice faded as it reverberated.

  Small hands tugged on Sarn’s heart, jerking him toward his son. The world faded to gray. Purpose crystallized into a lens focusing his magic as emerald fire arced out connecting his goal to his destination. Magic spilled out hot and electric sweeping away his sanity.

  “Papa come back—” Ran’s fearful voice trailed off.

  “I’m coming. Hold on son.” Sarn gave the enchanted tangle before him a baleful glare.

  The trees refused to budge. Green lightning crackled along his arms as Sarn threw them wide. Magic cascaded out of his hands forming a sparkling green wedge that slammed into the trees blocking him.

  “Get out of my way.”

  The ground qua
ked as the forest parted creating a straight path to Mount Eredren, twenty miles distant. Magic pushed up through the soles of his feet catapulting Sarn ten times further than his usual stride through a tunnel of trees. Hold on, son. I’m coming.

  ~

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