by Reilyn Hardy
THE LAST CHRONOMANCER
THE CHRONOMANCER CHRONICLES
VOLUME I
Reilyn J. Hardy
Mellor Publishing House
HONOLULU, HAWAII
Copyright © 2016 by Reilyn J. Hardy.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Illustrations ©2016 R. Mellor
Edited by: Kaz Vasquez
Book Layout ©2015 BookDesignTemplates.com
The Last Chronomancer / Reilyn J. Hardy.
For Grandma Jones
who believed in me first
prologue
I am seven years old when my dad leaves.
Seven years old when he puts us in the care of David Ryland, a specially trained Guardian from Barrowhaven. He is young and strong, with clear blue eyes and curly brown hair. Two decades and four years. But he is not my father. Seven years old when the Pryley volcano erupts, destroying nearly a third of our land, and covering the rest in thick clouds of ash. Seven years old when I take my last breath of fresh air, breathing in toxicities ever since. I am seven years old when the Grim War ends, but kids don’t think about war.
Kids don’t notice.
We notice the absence of parents. I have never met my mother, and my father makes me wonder if my brother and I weren’t good enough for him to stay.
I wonder what we did to make him leave.
I am a younger twin; the smaller twin. Though it is not, and has never been, a weakness.
I never hide behind Apollo. As much as we look the same, we differ within. He plays by rules, he listens. I don’t. I run off when I’m told to stay. I don’t eat my vegetables. I let my curiosity lead the way, and I let it lead me far. I let it stray me from the path my dad wants me to follow, that David insists I follow. But my dad isn’t here, and David tries, but it’s not the same. I think he knows that. I think he knows I won’t follow a path someone else set for me.
He brings his younger sister around often, Amelia. He thinks we’re a lot alike. We both have a knack for trouble, he says. Maybe we do. She goes on adventures with me — ones that Apollo refuses — as long as we don’t go too far. Her smile is contagious, and her hair dances like flames in the wind.
She is tall, taller than me. Maybe twice as.
I think I’d like to be tall too one day.
She is a Guardian, like David, and is probably keeping an eye on me for him, but it’s okay.
I don’t mind much.
I am nine years old when I decide my dad isn’t coming back. Apollo holds onto hope that he’ll return, but I can feel my own hope turning into smoke and slipping through my fingers. I let it fade; I don’t bother to reach for it anymore.
“He’s going to do great things,” Stanton Montgomery says about me. I don’t know him, I don’t care to know. He’s someone who works with David; someone who knows my father. I think he’s important, at least he dresses like he is. He looks clean, I can hardly keep my shirt clean.
People, they always want to talk about me. They talk about me, to me. Artemis this, Artemis that. But what about Apollo? Why don’t they say these things about him? Why don’t they talk about him the way they talk about me? He is the good one. He tries to keep me out of trouble. He’s quiet and soft spoken. He’s kind, and thoughtful. I remember the way he looked my father in the eyes, seven years old, and promised he’d protect me at whatever the cost. But people don’t talk about him. Not the way they talk about me. Not at all.
Yet I bask in their words. I revel, I soak. It goes to my head, I will be great. Apollo will agree, and he’ll look at me like he’s proud.
Maybe he is.
If he’s not, he wouldn’t say so. If he’s jealous, he wouldn’t say that either. He just smiles, and he pats me on the shoulder.
He agrees.
“You’ll be great too,” I say. “We’ll be great together.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe.”
I wonder if he knows something I don’t, but I’m positive he would tell me if he did.
I am eleven years old when my faith in my father vanishes completely. Eleven years old when troublemaking has doused my skin and risk reflects in my eyes. Apollo can see it, mine just a shade of gray darker. He can see the glint of curiosity and the hunger for peril.
He tries to keep his word to our father but I don’t make it easy. I don’t make it easy for anyone. Not for Apollo, not for David.
Not for anyone.
Just on the outskirts of Valfield, I came across a lake I have never seen before. I’ve spent most of my youth trying to familiarize myself with every blade of grass throughout the village, every stone, tree and pebble and yet this lake — it was new. Sparkling black waters with depth I did not know, but yearned to find out.
A woman appears, hovering above it. Though phantom-like and translucent, her hair waves when the wind blows.
I’m eleven years old when I meet her; the lady of the lake.
“Come to the cave for your hearts to race,” she sings to me, her tone filling me with unusual desire. “Come with the one who shares your face.”
Her arm lifts as she turns to point behind her.
There is a dark crevice at the base of the steep mountain that Valfield borders.
The desire swells.
But Apollo doesn’t want to come with me when I ask. He refuses till I threaten to go on my own, and he knows I will. So he tags along, reluctantly. I can hear it in his steps. I don’t notice, not at first. I don’t notice his fear, I don’t notice him looking over his shoulder. I don’t notice his paranoia, that I’m pulling him from his comfort zone. From the walls he protectively built around himself and tried to build around me.
I’m too consumed with myself.
With my excitement. My curiosity, it fuels me.
The lake is gone like it was never there. Not dried up, just gone.
Apollo thinks it was a figment of my imagination, maybe it was. Maybe I conjured the whole thing up myself. It didn’t matter, we were here. We are here, the path to the cave straight ahead. There is nothing standing in my way.
I grab his wrist and I yank him with me. We run, lanterns smacking against our forearms.
Fast, wild; tasting freedom like we’ve never had it.
He’s smiling. I think he is, maybe I just want him to.
I want him to be happy. Apollo’s never happy.
On the outside, the darkness reaches for us. Hands outstretching, fingers motioning for us to come forth. I do, and he grabs me.
“Don’t,” he says. There’s terror dripping in his voice as it trembles.
“Don’t you want to see?” I ask.
He shakes his head, he doesn’t take his eyes off of mine.
He’s frozen where he stands, he’s scared.
I should have listened. I should have. I didn’t want to, so I don’t. I don’t listen to the one person always trying to keep me out of trouble.
Trouble, it calls to me.
I don’
t listen to him.
I rip my wrist free from his fingers, free from his grasp. I think I did more than that. I think the tear ran deeper than I ever meant it to.
I wronged him, and I didn’t care.
I only care about myself. Our dad left us. We have no parents. Why should I care about anyone else when no one cares about me? My negativity rules me. I want to be free.
Apollo’s an anchor, and I’m breaking from him.
High above me, there’s a wispy silver light waving gently in a breeze that isn’t there. Apollo bumps into me and grabs hold of my arm.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” he says.
“Is your heart racing?” I ask, running my hand over my chest.
He nods, I grin.
“We should go,” he whispers.
I don’t want to, but the silver light disappears. It fades into the shadows and the light in my lamp goes out. I feel the chills crawling up my spine like the feet of spiders prickling at my neck.
“Do you hear that?” He asks me, he is tense in his whisper.
But I don’t hear anything.
“There it is again!”
I hear it now, distant hissing creeping up on us. It grows louder.
A woman emerges from the darkness. Gray skin that reminds me of a dead swampland, she has live snakes for hair. Upper body of a woman, she slithers around on a thick snake tail.
“Well, well, well — what do we have here?” She hisses, flicking her forked tongue at us. “The heirs, both at my mercy. The Grim Reaper will be so pleased —”
“The Grim Reaper is dead!” Apollo shouts, I didn’t notice he stepped in front of me. His arm out, guarding me. I notice his fear now.
I notice all of it, and it’s latching itself onto me too.
She cackles.
“Don’t look into her eyes,” he whispers to me, over his shoulder, and I look away when she tries to catch my gaze. When I look down, I see claws where hands should be. Large, brass claws. I don’t want to see anything. I shut my eyes.
There’s a quiet pop as soon as I do. I recognize that pop, I know that pop.
It’s David.
He appears in cloud of white light that dissolves around him. He moves in front of us, but his arrival triggers the gorgon to call for her sisters. Euryale screeches loudly, her voice echoing throughout the cave and they call back. Only seconds last before three of them surround us, after two more had emerged from the darkness, slithering on scaled bodies and tiny little snakes on their heads snapping at the air.
David spins his dagger in his hand; the dagger my father gave him as a thank you. His head turns, surveying the situation, and then he moves. He is swift, he has always been swift. White lights flash as he pops in and out, weaving between them at a rapid speed. Slashing and striking their reptilian flesh with his blade.
There’s a soft pop that sounds just as he appears. His weakness. When he appears behind Euryale to stab her, the pop goes off. They are waiting for him this time. Medusa strikes, knocking the blade from his hand and his head drops to the floor just as the dagger does. His head rolls to me. At my feet his eyes are staring up at me, I think I see the light leave them. There’s something caught in my throat.
Stheno licks the blood dripping from her claw.
I drop to my knees.
I can’t breathe. Oxygen has thickened, blocking my pipes.
My vision is blurring, tears are spilling from my eyes. I try to suck in air, but I can’t.
“I’m — I’m sorry,” I huff. I still can’t breathe.
This is all my fault.
Every breath I take is jagged and rough. Every time I blink, more teardrops spill. I can’t stop. My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms.
What did I do?
Apollo reaches for David’s dropped blade. He stands up beside me, I didn’t know I dragged him to the ground when I collapsed. Euryale, she taunts him.
“The tale of two, cursed for destruction. One with the strength to kill and the other, the courage to resist,” she hisses. Flicking her forked tongue, tasting the air for our scents. “Kill me,” she urges him.
“Kill her,” another insists in agreement.
I look up at him from my mess on the floor. Dry-eyed, sullen. I pushed him to this. I did this. I did all of this. “Apollo,” I say softly, and he closes his eyes.
I want to apologize.
He shakes his head, he’s telling me to stop. Not now, Artemis.
My heart is sinking.
My eyes are on him, I don’t know what he’s going to do. I don’t know what she means. What curse? We aren’t cursed.
There’s a whisper behind me and I’m shoved to the ground before I can make out the words, before I can comprehend them. I look up just as he vanishes from my sight. Nothing but the glint of his eyes as Amelia appears in another bright flash.
Apollo.
Then it registers.
“More are coming, grab him and let’s go!”
That’s what she had said, and now he’s gone.
Protecting me, at whatever the cost. Keeping his promise to our father who doesn’t deserve it anyway. I don’t deserve it either.
I am eleven years old when my guardian is killed and my brother is kidnapped.
Amelia doesn’t see me, she sees her brother. She sees his head. She drops to her knees but the tears don’t come. Not at first. Her hands reach for his face, but she pulls back immediately. She grips his vest, and collapses over, crying against his body.
I pick up the dagger and shuffle back to the darkness as more appear. More guardians, all too late. Far too late. Among them, I recognize him. Stanton Montgomery.
“The gorgons were here,” one of the Guardians say. He’s examining the ground. “David must’ve tried taking all three of them on at once.”
I wiped my eyes and I think about showing myself, but Stanton changes my mind. His words, his tone. His expression.
“We’re not letting this get out,” he says. He approaches Amelia, he stands tall and looks down at her. “Collect the Rylands,” he instructs. “We’ll say there was a cave-in.”
“But David was watching Father Time’s boys, Stanton.”
“And it’s a shame they both died in the rubble, unprotected. Isn’t it, Dimitri?” He turns away from Dimitri and waves at two others. “Seize her, now.”
Amelia tries to fight against them, she punches one of the Guardians in the nose, but they hold her down and they all disappear together. David’s body vanishes too.
I remain hiding in the shadows. I hide till I can slip out unnoticed.
I am a runaway, digging my own grave. I run as far and as hard as my legs will allow.
I trip over something on the road; I stumble and I fall, but I don’t get up. I don’t see the point.
The dagger skitters away from my hand and my nails dig into the dirt.
I cry myself sick. I cry until I can’t anymore. Until I’m throwing up on the side of the road, on myself. Dry heaves; stomach aching. There’s nothing left. I deserve nothing.
I am selfish. Deserving of pain and suffering. I am chaos and destruction. I am the absence of hope. I am the bad one, the screw up. I am the one people leave. I get left.
No one tells you how badly you’re messing up. You have to realize it yourself and by then, it’s too late. No one tells you how much it will hurt, and how the guilt will devour you till there is nothing but a shell left of what you used to be.
All I am is a cluster of scattered memories, showing and reminding me of everything I’ve lost.
Maybe I don’t want to be me anymore.
A middle-aged man named Weylan Craft, finds me on the side of the road and sees something worth saving, covered in the remains of my emptied stomach. Nearly without breath, and the absence of identity. I’m eleven years old when I become no one.
He found me once I buried myself.
Artemis is dead.
CHAPTER ONE
a curious pr
isoner
I crash face first, into the stone floor, at the feet of the Dragon King.
My arms, bound by iron shackles, clank and clatter as I collide with the ground. The slide burns my cheek. I fall on my side and land hard against my shoulder. Though I rather not get up, I struggle to straighten my posture with all of the remaining energy that I can muster.
He’s waiting for me.
The cuffs that hold my wrists captive, are caked with dry blood, from cutting repetitively into my skin. They dig and slice into my flesh as I drag my forearms against the ground. It used to hurt, but I don’t feel it anymore. I manage to sit up in a kneel, though I have trouble keeping my head from rolling forward. I can’t keep my head raised.
I am up on my shins, but I don’t have the strength to look at him. I can’t see him, and I decide quickly that I don’t want to.
I don’t want to see him looking down at me.
Not with those eyes that haunt my dreams. Eyes that close vertically first, then horizontally. Slits for pupils and multicolored irises. The eyes of a dragon.
His are angry and cold. There is no remorse — he doesn’t feel sorry for me. There is no empathy, not even pity. He looks at me like I’m nothing but vermin in his land.
In a way, I guess I am.
“Do not play games with me, thief.” His roar is loud like the thunder in a raging storm, and it echoes throughout the dark, desolate hall. The castle is shouting at me too. His eyes would probably strike me like lightning should I dare look up, so I don’t.
I’m caught in the middle of a storm.
Thief, he calls me. I’m not a thief.
“I will not be made a fool by a boy of Munfolk,” he continues. I look up a little without tilting my head. His dark legs are crossed at his ankles, one over the other and he sits in an angled, but relaxed in position. His knees point right while his body leans left, and his elbow is digging into the armrest of his throne. He is barefoot, his feet blackened at the soles and his gray breeches are burned around his dark calves that are covered in wiry black hair.
“Who are you?” He asks me again, raising a hairy brow that has a diagonal slice through the arch, lined with a small but defined scar over his eye. “Why did you come here? Who sent you?” They are the same questions, over and over again. I guess he really did expect my answers to change. I don’t care what he puts me through. I’m not going to tell him.