The Legacy (The Darkness Within Saga Book 1)

by JD Franx

  Kael struggled to his feet, rubbing his head and stretching his limbs. Just when he thought he’d finally gotten the hang of the one spell he could use, it had literally backfired on him.

  He managed to find both of his blades, and sliding them back into their sheaths, he felt the deep itch inside his chest return with a vengeance. When rubbing at it didn’t help, he pulled aside the shreds of his T-shirt—still tattered and bloodstained from the first Zakair’s sword—and looked down where he’d earlier found the red bump he thought might be a flea bite. It was gone, replaced by the image of a black, lily-like flower covering an area the size of his heart.

  “Christ,” he muttered, staring in disbelief as he tried to brush it off his flesh—to no avail. Had someone tattooed him when he was unconscious under the stairs? No—on closer inspection, there were little vines that appeared to grow out of the flower and into the flesh around it.

  “I’m losing my mind,” he whispered. With so many other things to worry about, he shook his head and pulled his shirt back down. “Worry about it later. I need to find this book.”

  Surveying the room, he found a small alcove towards the back that his outer sight had completely missed before. Even as he stared at it, he still couldn’t feel it as he’d felt the room’s other features. Inside its arched entrance stood a lectern, and on that lectern lay what could only be the grimoire of Jasala Vyshaan.

  Beyond the lectern, to his amazement, an immaculately preserved female body reclined in a transparent crystal coffin. Kael didn’t doubt her identity. He stepped into the room almost without thinking and his senses immediately returned. An inspection of the coffin with his outer sight detected all sorts of magical webs and weaves surrounding Jasala’s final resting place. He sensed he couldn’t destroy the coffin even if he wanted to. The body itself was obviously wrapped in some kind of stasis magic, having undergone no deterioration whatsoever. Her pale skin was flawless, and even in death she had a dangerous beauty about her.

  Taking the book, Kael left the Elvehn wizard to her rest. Spending the night in the tower’s basement would probably be no more or less dangerous than anywhere else, so he started a fire in the fireplace with a small pile of dusty wood in preparation for the basement’s chill. Even with the room empty, he could easily imagine its having been Jasala’s private sanctuary.

  Sitting near the fire, in a spot where he could keep an eye on both the archway and the stairs, he opened the book and allowed himself to relax for all of two seconds before the itch in his chest redoubled in intensity. Pulling off his shirt, he stared in shock. The vines radiating from the black flower had sprouted thorns as they spread across his chest. He pressed a fingertip against his flesh where the markings were darkest, but felt nothing beneath the skin.

  When the itch subsided, he pulled his tattered shirt back on. Maybe Jasala’s book could answer his questions better than the tower’s inhabitants had. He leaned back against the wall beside the fireplace and opened the book a second time when a glint from behind the mantel caught his attention. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he felt the familiar tug at his mind confirming that something was there. Even as his eyes opened, the secret behind the mantel pulled at his mind with increasing urgency.

  It took only a few moments to zero in on the lever hidden behind the mantel’s ornate wooden frame. Inspecting it for danger and finding none, Kael reached for it, but stopped short, startled by a black mist that swirled from his left hand. As soon as he jerked his hand away from the lever, the mist dissipated. Trying a second time, he saw the mist form again, curling in thin tendrils from his fingertips. The dark magic gravitated toward the lever, snaking around it until the handle was covered in black. In seconds, the mist slid down the shaft and through the crack in the wall from which the lever protruded. Touching the handle, he felt it drop and click into place with a power all its own.

  A grinding of hidden gears rumbled from behind the mantel and its fireplace as the handle popped back upwards halfway and the whole structure slid aside, revealing a narrow stairwell. Lighted sconces along the walls sparked to life one after another as they popped, disappearing around the curve of the stairs, as if to welcome him.

  He shrugged. “Can’t be any dumber than the rest of the things I’ve done today.” He stepped into the portal, closing the mantel behind him by returning the lever up to its original position, and started down the stairs.

  The spiral staircase led two flights further down into the earth. At the bottom, Kael discovered what could only be Jasala’s personal chambers. More lights crackled to life throughout the room, as if they’d waited thousands of years just for him. A large four-poster bed dominated the far side of the room, shrouded on all sides by translucent purple curtains. Pulling one aside, he gazed longingly at the luxurious silk and thick goose-down coverings, his body aching for a comfortable night’s sleep. To the left of the bed stood a hand-carved, dark grey armoire; on the right, a table loaded with what appeared to be some kind of alchemy supplies; to the right of that, a writing desk with ornate carving in the wood.

  Approaching the table, Kael found three vials of liquids. He wiped the thick dust from each: Two were labelled “Fae’s DreamWalk,” and the third “B.B. Purge.” Though he had no idea what they meant, he tucked them into the front pockets of his blue jeans; they might come in handy.

  Glancing around for threats and finding none, he continued to the writing desk and sat in the chair. The moment he did, a tabletop panel slid open on its own. Inside, he found a leather envelope with an inscription on the front:

  To the next of my line. Faithfully, Jasala Vyshaan.

  Kael stared, shocked. A letter signed by the most hated creature in this world’s history. His hands trembled as he lifted the letter from the hidden drawer, hoping he’d at last turned up something that might help him understand. Unwrapping the letter, he found two pages. The first read:

  The wisdom herein is reserved for the darkest of wizards only, those who have acquired the power to walk the blackest of paths. I cannot tell you what it says, for I have never acquired such power for myself, though not for lack of trying. If you have found this letter, it means that I failed and my purpose is now yours.

  This tower is known as the Black Arc. It and all that it contains are now yours as well. But beware: It holds many secrets. Some will be many years beyond your abilities regardless of your age and experience, it is my creation and it still holds many mysteries even to me. The enchantment on this letter will let you know when you have attained the power required to master all, including the Arc. Always keep it close to the death-flower over your heart. Only then can it speak to you. Be careful. This world has grown to hate our kind. Do not let anything from this tower fall into the hands of our enemies, please.

  And remember above all, even if it means giving your life, the locks must never be allowed to weaken.

  When Kael turned the page, the words might have been written in chicken scratch. Not a single word made any sense. He rubbed his head, the stress of his ordeal beginning to wear on him. Another dead end.

  Looking around at the long-abandoned room, with its carpet of dust covering every flat surface and a jungle of cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, Kael realized he still had to check the armoire on the far side of the bed. He approached it cautiously, checking for traps or anything that might try to kill him. Finding nothing, he ran a finger along the intricate carvings on its wooden doors. As with the lever behind the mantel, his magic reacted with the wardrobe’s lock. Black and purple tendrils coiled from his fingers like heavy, sentient smoke. It swirled its way into the keyhole. The surface carvings flared a bright purple and the heavy wooden doors creaked as they opened, revealing a walk-in closet full of clothes. His outer sight blazed with a myriad of colours. Every piece of clothing inside was enchanted in some way. Colours wafted from the clothing like sentient vapour, but he had no idea what any of them meant.

  Most of the clothes were sized for a small woman, but Kael looked f
or something that would fit him. Lycori had remarked on his strange manner of dress, and there was no sense standing out any more than he had to. The only articles that looked promising were a pair of black leather pants with criss-crossing leather ties for the crotch and waist, along with a pair of soft animal-skin boots with buckles above the ankles.

  He removed his filthy, cracked running shoes and tattered blue jeans, pulling on the leather pants. Tying up the waist strings, he noticed they had no pockets, so he grabbed his lighter and the three vials from his jeans and put them in his travel pack.

  The boots had a relatively subdued spell on them, manifesting to his outer sight as a faint swirl of white. When he slipped the boots on, the stress and pain his feet had felt all day were gone in an instant. Considering the amount of walking he’d likely be doing from now on, he smiled at the thought of ticking sore feet off his list of grievances and placed his old running shoes where the boots had been.

  “Maybe this word will have some perks,” he muttered.

  About to leave the wardrobe, Kael glimpsed a small open space at the very back he hadn’t noticed before. Pulling aside the last few hanging garments, he discovered a little table with a tiny chest on top. Hung on the back wall behind that were a hooded cloak and a set of dark chain-mail and leather armour, all seeming, at a glance, to be a perfect fit for him. Where the light hit it just so, he could discern markings all over the black armour’s surface. They resembled silver vines with barbed thorns, remarkably similar to the vines spreading across his chest. The cloak’s pattern seemed to writhe with energy as the candlelight from the room behind Kael flickered on its surface, while almost imperceptible foreign symbols danced on the black rings of the chain-mail and its matching set of gloves. The tiny but strange lettering must have taken pain-staking patience to engrave along the chainmail rings.

  Mesmerized, Kael reached over the table and touched the armour where it hung. A concussive blast thumped the closet, tossing him from the armoire.

  Landing on the bed, he twitched violently, waiting for his muscles to stop seizing and for his flesh to stop tingling.

  “Ahh, Jasala, you dick. Could’ve left a frigging note,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  Once his body finished convulsing, Kael got up, marched back into the closet, and stared at the cloak and armour. Never had he felt such an adamant desire to possess something.

  “You, my friend,” he whispered, “I will definitely be back for—soon as I figure out how to touch you. Till then, don’t you dare let anyone else take you.”

  The cloak felt sentient, so much so that he nearly expected an answer. Shivers tickled his spine as he took a deep breath and forced himself to turn away.

  But realizing he’d forgotten the little chest on the table below the armour, he turned back to open it and found only plain jewellery inside, along with two pouches of coins. He took the jewellery and coins both, dropping them into his pack.

  Exhausted, he came out of the armoire, laid his pack and his blades by the bed, shook the dust from the blankets and lay down for some desperately needed sleep.

  He doubted Jasala would mind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  What little history survived the Cataclysm makes no mention of the Northmen. The Northmen themselves claim that their island rode the waves of destruction from their homeland beyond Talohna, a place they call Sokn—the land of battle. Hard as it is to believe, there may be some truth to this. The Cataclysm rearranged many of the land masses that didn’t sink. For instance, Cethos and the Forsaken Lands are believed to have shifted forty-five degrees and migrated almost one thousand miles from where it was positioned Pre-Cataclysm. It is possible that Jasala’s devastation reached much farther than we thought possible. There is no telling how far; no ships looking for lands beyond Talohna’s vast oceans have ever been recorded to return.

  It has been established that the manufacture of rune-folded weapons was all but completely unknown in Talohna before the Cataclysm. To this day, the Northmen are unique in their practise of the craft, lending some evidence to the fact Sokn may actually exist somewhere.

  It would be wise, I believe, to grant the Northmen membership in our coalition. Their knowledge, and the new trade lands that may one day be accessible to us through them, would make it more than worth our while, not to mention having access to rune-folded weapons.

  GORMUN TENRUS

  VICE-PRESIDENT, BLOOD KINGDOMS’

  MARKET AND TRADE COALITION

  ENDWINTER, 282 PC

  CORYNTH SLUMS

  Maxwell Soryn and Kasik Blodhjorr watched the front door of Sora’s Hideaway from an alley across the way. An hour passed without a word being spoken between the two—Max didn’t need to ask why. He’d spent plenty of hours on stakeout back in Sam’s Bay, and in sniper hides as an Army Ranger before that. Talking distracted from observing.

  Kasik was troubled. It had been many years since someone had outdone the big Northman in battle. When the Dead Sisters attacked, Max managed to kill one of the vile women in the quick span of time Kasik took to draw his sword. He also noticed Max’s first thrust was at an illusion of the Dead Sister. By all rights the mistake should have cost him his life, but his incredible speed and instinct allowed him to recover and gain the upper hand. It didn’t seem possible.

  A Northman never felt envy. It was a welcome challenge when a fellow warrior’s fighting skills were superior. It motivated him to train harder, to practise longer. But this was something different. Born and bred in a warrior society, Kasik had known many great warriors, but the only ones he had ever seen move with Max’s speed and strength were the Krigare, the Tiger-Masters of his homeland. In any generation there might be a dozen who attained that rank, and they were usually twice Max’s age, and with ten times the experience. When it came to battle, Kasik respected few men outside of Kastalborg Island. Max had more than earned his respect and gratitude—he’d earned a little suspicion, too. When the time came for him and Giddeon to kill Kael, Max would pose a formidable obstacle.

  Kasik shook his head, putting his thoughts aside as a short, weasely man walked into the run-down tavern. With a nudge and a nod to Max, Kasik left the alley and crossed the street.

  Sora’s Den, as the regulars called it—the larger of the slums’ two taverns—attracted plenty of Corynth’s poor and a handful of seedy criminals. It was a place not even Kasik would enter without someone to watch his back. Information was sold at a premium between Sora’s walls, but lives were offered up dirt cheap. Upon entering, Kasik’s nostrils flared at the stench of poorly fermented grain and stale vomit. Sounds of cheap sex drifted to his ears from the upstairs rooms. Glancing past the bar at the bustling tables, it didn’t take long to recognize who he was looking for in the tavern’s far corner: two men playing a game of Bones, including the man they’d followed in. Under normal circumstances, Kasik would get his information from the second man, Dice, but today his target was the nervous little criminal he and Max followed in.

  Crossing the sticky floor, Kasik sat in a third chair while Max stood at his back facing the building’s interior with a hand on each of his swords. “Dice, good to see you again,” Kasik said through a forced smile.

  “Kasik!” the older of the two men said as he swiftly collected his namesakes from the table. “Always a pleasure. What brings you?”

  “Skitter,” the Northman said, eyeing the younger of the two men. “Been trying to find you for over an hour.”

  A bald man in his forties, with buggy eyes and a twitchy demeanour, Skitter was quick to apologize. “I been ‘round, Kasik, just a little late getting here today, that’s all, sorry you had to wait—”

  “Relax,” Kasik cut him off. “I checked for outstanding bounties on the two of you before coming. Looks like you’re in the clear again this week. Came to see if either of you wants to earn a few coppers. We found a body in the moat this afternoon, a young Elvehn girl. She was poisoned and badly beaten. I don’t suppose either of yo
u heard about it?”

  “I haven’t heard nothin’,” Skitter replied, whining. “I been working, Kasik—gravedigger hired me n’ Den to carry bodies. I haven’t talked to no one. Besides, why would the King’s champion care about a dead moat-rat, anyway?”

  Dice coughed, his eyes drifting through the tavern’s hazy interior as he lowered his voice, while at the same time sliding a bit of paper across the table. “Shit, Kasik, nothing ever happens down here no more. Sorry, can’t help ya.” He winked, and smothered a belch.

  Kasik pocketed the scrap and shot Skitter a testy look. “Dead Elvehn are always a concern. Diplomatic relations and such, you know?”

  The nervous little man glanced away.

  The Northman stood, tossing a couple of coins on the table. “Have yourselves a drink on me.” He would make sure Dice got more later. Obviously he thought someone was watching them. Considering the power of Corynth’s criminal underworld, it wasn’t improbable.

  Kasik and Max left without trouble—a rare occurrence at Sora’s, even for the King’s champion.

  He didn’t take the note from his pocket until they were inside the front door of Giddeon’s mansion. If Dice was that paranoid, he had a good reason, and they might have been followed. He frowned as he read.

  K –

  Cannot speak out loud, is some new people, been here for weeks now. Thought maybe you looking for info on dead Elvehn girl. Only rumours, but common story is an assassin guild did one of their own. If true she may have guild mark somewhere. Very sketchy details. Everyone too afraid to talk. Hear more will let you know.

  – D

  “Skitter has been completely useless for information lately. Thankfully, good old Dice was prepared before we arrived,” Kasik murmured as he finished reading the note the old man gave him. “He’s been my ears there at Cora’s for years. He says that the girl, if you care to believe it, may be an assassin terminated by her own guild.”