Crossing Forbidden Lines (Guardian Series Book 2)

by J. W. Baccaro

  “Yes!” Mirabel shouted.

  “Now the battle may continue.” Seth patted the eagle’s head. Then, to his great dismay, the eagle cried out with a horrid shriek and began falling fast. “My friend! My friend! What is wrong?”

  The eagle made no response. Neither did he speak with Asiel, who’d been trailing from behind. He seemed to use the remainder of his strength to steady his wings and land Seth safely. As easily as he could, the eagle crashed onto the ground. Seth tumbled off with a light rolling of his body on the ground. Then the bird collapsed.

  Seth looked upon his body and saw blood coming out his side, yet nothing seemed present to show what caused the wound. Then—an arrow appeared—an arrow that had been invisible just a few moments ago. But who shot it? And why the invisibility? Feeling disturbed, he gently pulled it out and it oozed with a green slime-like substance—poison. Before long, the eagle died. There seemed to be nothing Seth could have done.

  King Loreus, Captain Alaric, Mythaen and all the men, especially the Zithelians were viciously tearing the Cullach apart.

  The enemy never knew of such fierce Humans. The loss of their loved ones must have pushed them over the edge, raising their strength and determination to new heights. Soon, the Cullach were few in number and tried escaping over the walls, climbing the rugged stone like insects. Zithelian archers shot them down and their disgusting boar-like bodies fell like dead leaves.

  Slaughter and death lie everywhere. Besides poor civilians still hanging from trees, housetops and the city walls, Cullach now lay decimated among the entire city. The murderers received what they deserved and the first battle looked won.

  Mirabel’s shield changed from white to yellow and its length decreased only to disappear entirely a few moments later.

  King Loreus rushed to see what happened and stopped abruptly as Seth came through the gateway helping Mirabel to safety.

  The master Nasharin looked exhausted.

  “Are you all right?” Loreus asked, still clenching his sword, dripping with black Cullach blood.

  “Yes. But from the over use of power I cannot shield the city any longer. My energy has decreased dramatically.”

  “We will meet the enemy on the field,” Seth vowed.

  “Why not in the city?” Loreus asked. “Will not the walls provide us cover?”

  “No, the stone is weakened from my lightning. It would not be long before the enemies break through. And corpses pile the grounds like clutter. Our best chance is to charge, face them openly.”

  The Barbarians began to roar, chant and howl like sick animals. They shouted war cries and in unison the word ‘death’ over and over again….the dark tone eerie. Then they clashed together their weapons repetitively, the sound of steel bouncing off the city walls.

  “They are going to attack,” Mirabel explained. “We must abandon the city and face them before we’re trapped—wait a minute, where is Darshun? Why isn’t he here?”

  “He’s looking for survivors,” Captain Alaric said.

  “No—he’s looking for the woman from Mundoria Mountain, Aurora Athena.” He sighed, foreknowing what little hope there seemed to be for Darshun’s friend.

  The ground started to tremble as the Barbarians led a charge.

  “They’re coming,” Seth snapped. “We must go now!”

  They stormed outside the gate, facing the rushing army across the field. “Archers ready,” Captain Alaric commanded. “Fire!”

  The archers took out the first two rows of infantry, giving the men time to prepare for the battle or the coming onslaught. For it seemed facing such high numbers, death would be certain for all that day. But this did not matter, if they were to die—they’d die taking many heathens with them.

  When they were about to charge there came a screeching sound from the sky that trembled the land and heated up the air. They looked above and saw an image of a dragon, at least thirty feet long its entire body consisting of flames, descending toward the Barbarians. The heathens froze in their tracks shouting, “Ghost Dragon! Ghost Dragon!” The fiery image flew into the first section of infantry like a falling star and there came a great explosion. Hundreds of Barbarians were killed, blown to bits and scorched beyond recognition. And strangely, those escaping the flames were slaughtered by an unseen object—an invisible warrior wielding a sword or…axe. “They fight with ghosts!” an enemy shouted. “Fall back! Fall back!” The remaining few retreated to the heart of their army.

  “A Dragon Spirit Lance?” Seth wondered, having recognized the flaming dragon.

  “Yes, he took it from the dragon castle after all—and has returned to fight alongside us!” Mirabel said, overjoyed at the fact.

  “You mean the Shadow Fire?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Whom are you speaking of?” King Loreus asked.

  “Watch and see.”

  Upon the field, past the destruction and flames appeared the ghostly figure. He rode a black horse and a blistering dark aura of fire danced around him. In one hand, he held a bloodstained axe, the other held a Dragon Spirit Lance, just as Mirabel said. The individual, whom Seth described as ‘the Shadow Fire’ was no other than Nayland Winveil.

  He approached, shifting his storm-gray eyes at them, his long dark hair blowing in the wind, his presence frightening the army. Even the horse he rode looked spectacular in sight, a great stallion with a harsh gaze, thick mane and hooves of steel that thumped the ground hard. “Well,” he said, “do you want to win this battle, or just stand here?”

  Smiling, Mirabel glanced to Seth. “Mortis-noir.”

  “Mortis-noir Amenua,” he answered back.

  Mortis-noir Amenua, a Wizard phrase meaning ‘should death come, so be it.’ In other words, they were to fight in transformed state. Normally, the Transformation of a Nasharin was meant for a one-on-one duel against another mighty opponent. Using that state in an army-to-army battle, involving numerous enemies with continuous fighting was always unwise. The high amount of energy burning would quickly fade. But there were times when it would be necessary, and helpful; for every kill the common warrior made a transformed Nasharin would tenfold that number. Being these Barbarians were the last enemies they must face with no more reinforcements, there’d be a good chance they could help win the battle before their energy would decrease entirely. And if death should come? It would be a noble sacrifice—the ‘code’ spoken when this finally took place. “Mortis-noir Amenua.” It was spoken and answered.

  Mirabel and Seth transformed.

  They charged forward. The two armies met with a great clash with axes grinding, swords piercing and war hammers smashing. It became an all out onslaught of rage and death with men from both sides falling, laying dead, scattered across the battlefield. While the fighting continued, the Barbarians were beginning to lose ground.

  Mirabel and Seth, fighting side-by-side annihilated every opponent they encountered. King Loreus and the rest of the men, fighting with all their spirit, tore their way through the heart of the Barbarian forces, and Nayland fought from his horse, wielding axe, walloping off many heads that day including the ugly Lord Sephyra’s.

  Having their lord killed and so few remaining, the Barbarians retreated, running toward the woodlands.

  “Archers!” Captain Alaric shouted, desiring no escape.

  With a mass of arrows whizzing through the air, Mirabel also attacked, firing lightning. Those attempting to flee were either struck down by the bow or consumed to ashes. The battle was won, yet not a soul shouted in joyful cheer. The Light may have been victorious, but the tragedy back in Zithel still felt very early and continued to pierce their hearts.

  “I see you understand the lance’s power,” Mirabel spoke to Nayland, as the mysterious Nasharin came to his side, still on horseback.

  Looking down at him he answered, “I came across a book long ago, written by the ancients of our kind. In it were enigmas of magic—white and black, along with the secrets to activate a Dragon Spirit Lanc
e. But the magic in this particular lance is gone and cannot be revived.” Nayland tossed it to the ground. “Useless.”

  “Nonetheless, you have proved to have many surprises. I thank you for your help.”

  He nodded giving Mirabel a look of respect.

  “We should search the city for survivors,” King Loreus suggested.

  “Darshun!” Mirabel shouted, suddenly remembering. “Why has that boy chosen to avoid battle? He should have been here by now.”

  “No matter, I’m sure he is fine. Probably found some people still alive and is caring for them.”

  “No,” Seth interjected. “Something is wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” King Loreus asked, twirling his sword proudly. “We’ve won the battle. What else is there to accomplish?”

  “The eagle I rode upon was not shot down by a Barbarian archer. Brother Asiel had been my eyes, scanning the enemies. What he saw I saw and no Barbarian took aim at us that particular moment. No, the arrow came from someone else, someone who had cast a spell of invisibility upon it. The arrow stuck in the eagle’s side appeared only after we crashed. I think we’re not alone.”

  “Let us find Darshun quickly!” Mirabel shouted. But taking no more than two steps did he congeal in his tracks, facing Seth with a look of horror.

  “I feel it too,” Seth whispered.

  “What? Feel what?” Loreus asked while looking nervous.

  The answer came swiftly. Deep purple lightning flashed in the sky and streaks of it traveled to the east and west sides of the field. Then the sources of the lightning appeared. On the east, stood the Dark King of Asgoth, having raised his enchanted sword. Then on the west, the Dark Queen, holding a long violet staff. Both seemed to be working off each other’s magic, a fusion of magic making their powers stronger. Releasing the spell of invisibility, thousands of Draconian warriors—the lizard folk, armed to the max—appeared on both sides of the battlefield.

  “What—sorcery!” King Loreus spoke, fear in his voice. “They must have been here this whole time, waiting for us to tire. Now we are surrounded. May the Gods of Loreladia have mercy upon us!”

  The Draconians charged.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mt. Flame

  With sunlight pouring in, the end of the tunnel loomed just up ahead. Olchemy made it sooner than expected. But he couldn’t exit yet. No, it seemed too risky while Levieth searched for him. He decided to wait for nightfall and both he and Avis sat down for a nice cup of white tea provided by the little Gnome. With apples honey and dried poultry. Dusk came.

  “Avis, I want you to remain here until my return.”

  “Why master— why?” I can transport us atop the mount.”

  Olchemy shook his head. “Too dangerous. He is probably lurking.”

  Her eyes became fearful, thinking about Levieth once again.

  “And being this close, he will sense the magic. I don’t want anything to happen to you, so I will creep up the hillside alone. Do not come out. Do not wander off. I mean it.”

  “How long?”

  “Give me three hours. If I don’t return by then, go home.”

  “You coming back. I wait. I know you coming back.”

  Smiling, he hugged her tight. “Yes, little friend, I am coming back.”

  Cautiously, he slivered out. All seemed quiet with no sign of the High Wizard. Just the stars, the moon, the oceans of sand and Mt. Flame herself.

  A spectacular mountain she seemed indeed, standing as high as the clouds this night. The mountain received its name from a tragic event said to have occurred during the first age when the desert was a land of green, flushing with life. Thousands of people lived here, a friendly and wise people. But as time passed their wisdom became foolish. They sought greed, succumbed to thievery, robbing other cultures of their riches, committed adultery and murder. So bad did the corruption become, it stank among the heavens and the gods. Some might say, the Light rose up a prophet called Jediah. He warned them to repent from their sins or a judgment of fire would come out of the mountain to destroy them. They laughed and mocked Jediah along with his gods, falling now to even blasphemy. In their minds, they were indestructible. Besides, how could a mountain of rock spawn fire?

  Seven days later, the top of the mountain exploded. Chunks of trees, boulders and other debris scattered, crashing onto the city. Then molten lava surfaced out of the newly made crater and rushed down like a river of water, swallowing everything in its path. Screams of terror sounded across the region but no one came to their rescue. They melted in flame, all except a few righteous women who despised what their people became. It wasn’t long after when the climate changed over to a dry heat—a desert. Never again possessing such luscious life. The mountain has erupted only one other time and it is said on bitter cold nights, if you listen carefully, you can still hear the screams of the wicked and feel the heat of the lava.

  With no time to waste, the Wizard hurried up the hellish mountain, climbing the side possessing the largest boulders and the most rugged of rocks, providing cover if Levieth happened to show. It’d been so long since Olchemy stepped foot here—one hundred years to be precise, where the final battle between the Loreladians and Barbarians took place, and his battle against Mirabel. Charred stone and deep craters from the aftermath of their duel were still visible…a duel of Fire against Lightning.

  The higher he went the colder it fell, some of the slopes caked with ice. But he tried to be careful. At one point, he turned around to gaze across the landscape. Though it looked long and bare, like an endless ocean of sand, the desert remained beautiful as the moon shone upon it. The light revealed a pack of coyotes he overheard earlier, singing their mysterious cries in the night. A mist of snowflakes gently drifted in the wind. However, this seemed no time for sightseeing.

  Finally reaching the top, he got onto the pathway leading to the altar. Stepping to the edge, he peeked down the crater and saw a dim red light…stagnant lava. He knew once he would destroy the Fire Crystal the lava would come alive—perhaps rise to the top. He would have to act fast. Originally, he planned on Avis getting him out of there before knowing Levieth hovered around. He could take no chances on letting her fall to harm. He’d do it alone, hopefully having the strength.

  The pathway descended around and around like a spiral and the deeper he went, the warmer the temperature grew. A strange wind blew every some odd minutes. While he existed as a wizard he was no master of Air Magic, his instinct told him there might be something peculiar about that wind. It seemed—false, created by something other than the rotation of the earth, like the flapping wings of a great bird or—Dragon. The Wyvern! Olchemy looked high and low but saw nothing. No creature stirring, all seemed quiet. “Hmm,” he mumbled. “It may be the wind, or I may not be alone.” After a few minutes of keeping still, he cautiously moved on, looking to and fro every now and again. Finally, he reached the altar which rested on a ledge extending almost a quarter of a way to the other side.

  There the mystic table stood…having a fire-red color with substance made from the same magical element the four crystals were made from, Asharian, the element of Angels. It sparkled beautifully. For a moment, he gazed upon it pondering of how this altar existed as the creation of the first Fire Wizard Guardian to walk the earth, blessed by his power and might, now only to be destroyed. But it must be done. Approaching the altar, he placed the Fire Crystal onto it and immediately the crystal began to glow red. Then, he held up his hands preparing to begin the Spell of Self-Sacrifice, which he’d memorized long ago, anticipating this moment.

  “Do you really wish to give up your powers to save mere mortals?” A voice came from above.

  Olchemy looked up and at first saw nothing, then wild streaks of lightning scattered back and forth as an old adversary reappeared from a spell of invisibility, the High Wizard Levieth. He sat upon his Wyvern, hovering in the air. Hence, the strange wind indeed came from with the occasional flapping of the Wyvern's wings.

&
nbsp; The Wyvern flew toward the path and Levieth climbed off, sending the creature away for a time. There the High Wizard stood, before his pupil, once again after so many years. He looked much the same as Olchemy could remember his hair still long and dark just as his beard. He wore a black and red hooded robe. But there seemed to be a difference—in his silver eyes. They looked further gone from reality, almost psychotic. As well as additional wrinkles covering his sunken face…there could be no doubt, Levieth fell even further under Abaddon’s control.

  “It has been a long time my old companion,” Levieth greeted. “Even I thought you were dead. Seems truth has a way of regurgitating itself.”

  “Truth? Far be it from you to say that word, giving into madness. We as Wizards have a calling to protect the earth from evil, not destroy it for selfish desires.”

  “And you consider yourself righteous?” he asked. The question sounded more like a statement. “You speak with such hypocrisy; your past is no different than mine. In those days, you spared no one for what you wanted.”

  “I have not the same heart as I had back then. I cannot deny my purpose in life, as neither should you. Please, turn away from Abaddon. We should have never resurrected him. That was by far the worst mistake any creature could have made. Return to the Light and be what the Master intended you to be.”

  “This is my true nature!” His eyes came alive with fire. “I serve no master but the Demon Lord Abaddon! Do not attempt to inflict falsehood in my thoughts. Do not dare! I server power, not weakness. A new age is dawning; all that once was will cease to exist. Now I ask you, Olchemy, join us. You will not regret the blessings. That I promise. Do not make me kill you, you and I are the only Wizards left.”