Chapter 6: Witch Hunt
Michael woke up early in the morning as someone broke down the front door. He heard at least twenty metal feet clank into the house.
“Where is the boy?” asked a loud male voice.
“He is sleeping. If you want, you may come back later.”
“We are here to arrest him, not to sit and have tea! Now be a good old man and tell me where he is.”
Soldiers!
“What is his crime? And don’t say fighting; a man must fight to defend himself. It is the way of life in these parts.”
“A man does not need to use magic! Now tell us or we will be forced to persuade you,” There was no answer. Michael cringed as he heard the ripping sound of metal hitting flesh and a man yelp in agony.
“Find him yourself,” answered Reno behind heavy gasps. Everything went silent for a moment.
“Search the house!” the officer shouted.
Michael quickly grabbed his belongings, including a bow he had bought during his time at Reno’s. With slight hesitation he leaped from the window, landing unhurt on the street below.
“There!” shouted a guard behind his gold plated helm. He tried to get out through the window, but the bulky armor prevented him from doing so.
The other guards scrambled around, trying to pull their commander out of the window.
“You fools! After him!” They stomped down the stairs to the back door. Michael rounded the turn just as the guards burst through.
“There! Get him!”
The streets were flooded in darkness and silence. The moon hung over the edge of a building, threatening to fall behind as the eastern side of the sky-band was lit with the hues of the coming sunrise. It was a long, terrifying run, but he made it half way through the city.
Suddenly, he saw a huge structure rise in the town square. Oh no! He thought as the truth seeped in. This was a burning post, for him!
Something whizzed past his head and clattered on the stone path, then another. He looked back at the ground to see what they were. They were arrows—fast, silent and deadly.
The archers were lined up along the entire wall, most likely to light the fire with flaming arrows. He ran through the city at strange angles, trying to dodge all the arrows, but it was impossible. One stuck into his right shoulder, another grazed his leg.
Pain shot through his entire body as he pulled out the arrow. The shaft was blackened wood with the royal creature of legend, a flaming horse with wings, engraved into it with intricate detail. The head was iron, with five hooked blades that reminded him of a cruel mountain called Hytaran Thira—in modern language, Highfiend’s Hand. This was a custom forged arrow, probably a member of his father’s Elite force.
When he finally got out of range, he had been hit three times. One arrow stuck in his right shoulder, one had grazed his side, and the other grazed his leg. The prince grimaced as he pulled the shaft from his arm.
His fight was not over, however; three guards all carrying broadswords and iron bucklers stood at the gate of the main city.
Michael stared in fear as they glared back in anger. He knew that he couldn’t get out without a fight, which unfortunately he had very little chance of winning.
The prince drew back his bowstring, aiming an arrow. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, although they clearly wanted to hurt him. Michael was about to send the dart for someone’s neck when something caught his eye. It was a barrel of lantern oil.
He quickly changed his aim to the spout of the barrel and released an arrow. He intended to break it off and cause an oil slick, but the arrow head began to glow red hot and the shaft ignited into a flying inferno.
No! There’s another count of magic, He thought as the arrow hit the barrel and ignited it. Soon the ground was lit by a giant fire, fed by the stream of oil.
He charged for the gate at full speed. All the guards stood in the way with their swords drawn. Michael drew his own sword and readied himself for an attack.
“Attack one at a time and wear him down—he is to be captured and burned at the stake!” the largest guard shouted.
The smallest guard reacted first. He was fast but not fast enough. He swung his sword like a madman, with no skill at all. Michael dodged every blow and returned an accurate strike.
As the man fell to the ground clutching his bleeding chest, the next guard stepped up. He was strong and accurate. During this duel, it took more skill to dodge and counter. Michael became aggravated and wished for an easier way to defeat him.
Remembering the flaming arrow, he thought of using magic instead. In his head, he decided to combine energy with his sword. Suddenly the blade sparked and shimmered like lightning. The belt sent heat up to his head and he began to stagger.
The guard attacked, but luckily missed as Michael staggered slightly. When he finally came to his senses, Michael swung his sword, which was now crackling with yellow strands light. The guard blocked with his iron buckler.
The shield began to spark and glow, the same as Michael’s sword. As if in slow motion, the lightning traveled up his arm and over his entire body, blasting the guard backwards, where he sprawled out and began shaking uncontrollably.
The third guard stepped in to take over. He was of monstrous size. “You think you can take me down?” asked the guard mocked.
“I was planning on it,” Michael said.
And with that, the battle began. The sound of ringing steel piled on top of the crackling blaze.
The fire was still well lit and powerful. It surrounded them, causing deadly heat. Oil also surrounded them, making a path for the fire to its next victim, and that was Michael.
“Looks like you’re going to die in a fire after all, though it is a shame that I couldn’t have watched the prince suffer at the stake!” he glanced at Michael, whose face twisted in horror. “Yes, I know all about your little secret. I know about the belt, runaway, and the source of your power,” He grinned sinisterly behind his helm.
“Who are you?” Michael asked with anger welling up inside.
Didn’t she tell you?” he laughed. “Oh, she must have died from that poison that I gave her before she had the chance. Well, I might as well tell you, even though it won’t matter after you’re dead,” He snickered and pulled off his helm revealing cruel red eyes and pointed teeth. His black hair was spiked and twisted. There were small pointed spikes poking out of his neck behind his hair. His facial features were sharp, and emphasized the malice in his eyes. His ears were angled back and pointed like sharp daggers.
“I am the one who has killed your mother and father. The one whose name will make all the people of Magentara scream for mercy! I am Malumous, soon to be High King over all the land. I’m so sorry I can’t watch you die, but I must go back to my throne,” The fire was closing in on them quickly. Malumous slunk backwards out of the blaze, leaving Michael behind.
I need to put that fire out! Michael thought to himself frantically. He knew that to pour water on the oil would only make it worse, as the oil would float on top of the water, spreading the flames even further. Wind!
Michael closed his eyes and visualized a strong wind coming from the north. A moment later he felt it. He opened his eyes and the flames were being tossed in the wind, threatening to spread.
Michael concentrated, spreading his hands out. The winds divided and spiraled around him like tornadoes, swallowing up the flames. The fires collected in the center of the cyclones, until they sputtered out of existence.
Collapsing, Michael felt the heat from the belt like before, only this time it was more intense. He felt as if thousands of tiny white hot needles were being driven into the back of his skull. His eyelids felt heavy and his entire body ached. His mind went blank as he hit his head on the cold stone road.
Michael woke up as a hand grabbed his left arm. His reflexes took over and he brought his fist against the guards jaw with a loud crack. The man’s head lurched to the side and he went limp. Michael grimaced, stagger
ed to his feet, and looked at his hands in shock—fear, even.
I killed a grown man with my bare hands, he thought as he sprinted for the forest, where he could hide. A hard lump formed in his throat, but he refused to shed a single tear into the night.
Sea of the Dead Page 6