Curse Breaker: Books 1-4

by Melinda Kucsera

  Before Jerlo could argue the point, Olav opened the box. The gold light shining from it was so bright, Jerlo expected a copy of the Holy Book dusted in lumir and autographed by the Saint of Truth himself. What Joranth withdrew, however, was one of the holiest of relics.

  Joranth held up a crucifix fashioned from enchanted wood carved with loving detail. Owing to the magical nature of such wood, soft rays of sunlight rose from the crucifix—like those at the break of dawn. Beads of light moved along the wood outlining the body nailed to the cross and collected in the seven sacred wounds.

  Jerlo fell to his knees before the God of his salvation. Never had he beheld such an awesome sight. It stirred his deepest soul. As that holy light bathed Jerlo, Joranth became a vessel. Through him, God spoke and asked for a favor.

  “Swear on this cross you will make something good and worthy of the sacrifice the boy called Sarn made tonight. Swear you will never harm him and you will allow no harm to come to him. Swear you will keep him out of sight and protect him should anyone threaten him. Swear you will teach him and make of him something worthy of my service. Swear you will faithfully carry out this charge until death or I, your lord and master, release you from this vow. Swear all this and know I will never forget this oath nor its cost. I will be in your debt until death or repayment release me.”

  Visions of the Kid swathed in bandages, his multiple broken bones requiring traction, so they’d heal right merged with the Son of Man’s face. His savior cried gilded tears for the boy who’d signed away a life he’d almost lost thanks to his last guardian.

  What future that boy had now rested in the glowing mote dancing in the Son of Man’s eyes. Jerlo could refuse God nothing, and God wanted him to school this boy. Well, God had a plan, so he’d best get on with it and hope neither he nor God had a reason to regret this arrangement.

  “I so swear.” Jerlo leaned in and kissed the cross on impulse sealing the deal.

  Olav closed the lid on the holy relic, cutting off its light then left the balcony. But God’s request echoed in the silence as the Lord of All receded. His work was done here.

  Lord Joranth motioned for Jerlo to follow. Through cross-shaped cut outs, he saw Sarn still sitting at that table staring blindly at the page in front of him. The illiterate boy couldn’t read it, but he was damn well trying to commit its scrawl to memory. Maybe there was hope yet if the Kid was that canny.

  “Sarn, look at me.”

  The Kid’s head snapped up, and those freaky eyes focused on Joranth. There was nothing behind those spinning flames, just a vacuum waiting to be filled. Whatever had driven him to come here and make this bargain was gone leaving an empty vessel behind.

  “This man, Jerlo, is your new master.” Joranth laid a hand on Jerlo’s shoulder and eased the smaller man in front of him. “You will obey him as if he were me. You will carry out his commands as if they were my commands. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” said the Kid in a monotone.

  Joranth nodded. “Take him and go. He’ll do whatever you tell him to do without question or quarrel. Remember your promise to me. I expect you to make something good and worthy of my service out of him.”

  Stunned Jerlo stared at Joranth. What had he just agreed to? Sarn was supposed to be someone else’s problem—not his. Jerlo opened his mouth then closed it as a warm hand touched his shoulder. Light enfolded him, and the source of all goodness in the world stood at his shoulder.

  Protect this boy for me. Keep the flame of goodness burning brightly in him, said the Lord of his Salvation. Do this in memory of me.

  Yes, my God. Those three words released a flood of plans. Ideas bubbled up, but they centered on Nolo. Yes, his second had a young son and was good with children. Nolo would make a fine role model and father figure for this damaged kid. I’ll just hand him over. Problem solved.

  Olav was hustling him out of the Lord of the Mountain’s presence, and Jerlo had the Kid by his arm. Yes, he’d take the boy to Nolo. Who better than the Black Ranger to protect the boy?

  Sarn’s rigid posture evaporated the instant the door closed behind him. The Kid slumped against a wall, breathing as hard as a marathon runner.

  “You okay, Kid?”

  Sarn nodded and drew his cowl down until it shaded his face.

  “Good. Can you walk?”

  Again, Sarn nodded.

  “Great, then come with me. Oh, and from now on, stay out of sight and trouble. That’s an order.”

  The Kid stiffened, and his face blanked at the word ‘order,’ but he nodded.

  “Good, now follow me and shut your freakish eyes before someone sees them. I don’t want to start a panic.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To meet your new master.”

  Jerlo sped down the corridor with a lanky shadow in tow. Where was Nolo at this hour? Maybe God had sent the Black Ranger to his office. Yes, that must have been God’s plan all along. Certainty pepped his step until Jerlo was almost skipping. Eagerness to do God’s will spurred him on. So did the luminous visage of the Son of Man, whose holy relic he’d kissed.

  Who Is Your Master?

  The Present Day

  “Who is your master?”

  “You are my Lord and my God.”

  Jerlo gazed in wonder at the glorious light shining from so high above. It reminded him of the crucifix carved from enchanted wood, and the promise he’d sworn on it echoed in the stairwell, mocking him.

  “Make something of him.” The sun hung inside Mount Eredren’s peak, and it gazed at Jerlo with benevolent light and no little consternation. “—something worthy of my service.” The words ‘my service’ reverberated casting doubt on all Jerlo, and his Rangers had done for the Kid.

  “Jerlo? Who are you talking to?” a woman asked interrupting his introspection.

  Jerlo rubbed his temples with his free hand. It took a moment for her voice to register—Vanya, the oubliette—he was on his way to see Hadrovel.

  “God, who else would I be talking to?”

  “You talk to God?” she sounded scandalized by the very notion.

  “All the time and sometimes he replies. Hush now so I can absorb his glory and his commands.”

  “Are you sure someone didn’t cosh you on the head?”

  “Hush, God’s talking. It’s rude to interrupt.”

  “Then why don’t I hear him?”

  “You’d have to ask Him that. Now hush.”

  “Jerlo—”

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “Who is your master?”

  Jerlo opened his mouth to reply, but white light receded into a pinpoint then vanished. He started when Vanya touched his arm.

  “We have to go before the tide turns. Come on.”

  After one more backward glance, Jerlo followed her around the bend. Why now did God want him to revisit events from years past? He considered the golden globe of lumir caught between his thumb and forefinger, but there were no answers in its glow. So he descended one step at a time until the stairs petered out on a lightless landing. Vanya removed a key ring from her pocket, selected a key, plunged it into the lock and jiggled it.

  Two specters passed through an iron-banded door carrying a stretcher between them. A seventeen-year-old Sarn, swathed in bandages turned his head and stared at Jerlo from the litter. He raised a hand and pointed an accusatory finger. Jerlo backed away, making the sign against evil. Were they ghosts of the past or phantasms of an addled mind?

  “You did this to me.” Sarn slid off the stretcher, but when his dirty feet hit the floor, he collapsed. “Who am I?”

  Transparent versions of Su and Gregori lifted the Kid onto the stretcher. Neither one spared a glance for their boss. Sarn stretched out a shaking hand.

  “Master, why am I so broken?”

  “You’re not real.”

  “I am what you made me.”

  They bore Sarn away, vanishing into the gloom shrouding the staircase.

  The door creaked open rev
ealing a stygian tunnel. Vanya had disappeared again. Maybe she was never there to begin with. What were people but figments of God’s mind anyway?

  Jerlo entered the dark passage leading to the dungeons. Behind him, the door clanged closed, and a lock clicked. Before him, a footbridge spanned a moat. The portcullis raised when he stepped off the bridge. Translucent guards wearing barbutes stood facing away from him. They lifted their pikes allowing him entrance.

  “Jer-lo,” whispered a woman.

  “Who calls me?” He entered a long gallery lined with empty cells. Manacles lay discarded by chains snaking across the damp cell floors.

  “Your conscience.”

  “My conscience is female? Well, that explains a lot.” Jerlo slashed his bladed hand through a spiderweb, and its soft wisps clung to his hand.

  At the end of the tunnel, a woman in white stood, palms out. Behind her, a silver tree glowed. They seemed to be one being, she and the tree. Her silver raiment emitted a soft white glow, but her face was lost in the brilliance pouring out of her unfathomable eyes. “Go no further. I beg you. This plan leads to madness. There are other ways. Turn aside before—” she stopped speaking, pressed her free hand to her brow then shook her head. “It’s too late. She’s already here.”

  “Who’s here?”

  Her eyes were the full moon, so bright and beautiful as they captured his. “Remember this. A will can’t be caged, or it will sunder. Undo what you’ve done—hurry.”

  After delivering that pearl of wisdom, she faded into the tree then it too vanished. Was she the Queen of All Trees? She couldn’t be. The Queen of All Trees was a giant tree, not a woman despite the legends. And she didn’t ramble about under the mountain. For one thing, her thousand-foot trunk wouldn’t fit.

  “The once and future queen,” Jerlo muttered shaking his head at the old myth. She wasn’t real, just a fireside story that gave people hope when times were tough. What the hell did I drink this morning? Was it something I ate that’s causing all these hallucinations? It couldn’t be an attack of guilt. I’ve done the best I could with the hand I was dealt. If you wanted better results, you should have selected someone else. He cast his eyes ceilingward, but this time, God did not reply.

  “Vanya? Where the hell are you?”

  Gone but something on the ground reflected the light of his lumir globe. Jerlo picked up a silver leaf still warmed by her power then pocketed it and followed the tunnel around a bend. More cells flanked him. All were empty except the last one. He approached it like a man caught in a nightmare. A ghost of a Guard wearing Nulthir’s face unlocked the barred door.

  “He’s one of yours judging by the uniform,” Nulthir had said, three years ago.

  “Why am I forced to revisit my past?” Jerlo asked the guard who had replaced Guidron as captain.

  “We all face our pasts, some sooner than others,” said Nulthir, sounding far too wise for a man so young.

  “Who are you really? The Nulthir I know isn’t this wise.”

  Nulthir regarded him with dark eyes as calm and profound as a lake. “Maybe I am a figment of your imagination brought to life to guide you. Or maybe I’m here to make sure you confront certain things.” Nulthir shoved Jerlo into the cell occupied by an unconscious boy, and he tripped through time and space, falling toward his greatest mistake.

  A Child Caught Between

  Three Years Ago

  This couldn’t be happening. Jerlo bit down hard on the scream building in his soul. He swallowed the curses flocking to his tongue. A spiky ball of rage and worry burned all the way down to the knot his stomach had become. He was the commander. Swearing like a grunt might worsen an already bad situation. So Jerlo projected calm and called up every shred of self-control as he lowered himself down on one knee. Dread chewed on his heart as he stretched out a hand willing it to remain steady.

  For his men, he had to control the situation and limit the damage. Glaring hard at his index finger, he kept it rigid as he swept back a lock of black hair to reveal a bruised face. Despite the swollen eye, he recognized the Kid and cursed. Why did it have to be Sarn?

  Of all the stupid teenagers the Guards could have caught, why did it have to be the one boy owned by the Lord of the Mountain? Sarn lay there bleeding from scores of cuts across his back.

  The reek of urine, vomit, feces and the metal-and-honey reek of spilled mage blood made Jerlo’s gorge rise, but he fought it down. Judging from the aroma, the Kid had occupied this spartan cell for the entire time he’d been missing.

  “Why?” Jerlo let the one-word accusation fall flat. The staccato dripping of water onto the stone floor accused him of negligence.

  “Sir?” asked the Guard. By the rustle of clothing, Nulthir, a twenty-something kid himself, was shifting from foot to foot unnerved by the situation. As well he should be.

  Someone had whipped the seventeen-year-old kid until his back was a bloody ruin. And Jerlo intended to serve that fool up on a golden platter to the Lord of the Mountain. Joranth would be incensed when he discovered his most prized possession was damaged—again. Though this time, it was Jerlo’s problem. He ground his teeth in frustration.

  “Are you blind?”

  “Sir?” the guard said, but his response held a hint of uncertainty.

  Also, a good sign but Jerlo fought the smile toying with his lips. He was on the hunt now, and he’d rip the truth out of this fool one way or the other.

  “Then why wasn’t I informed?” Jerlo pointed to a patch of forest green cloth unmarred by blood or other bodily fluids. “Only Rangers wear this particular shade of green.” And the Rangers were his men, but Jerlo left that last part unsaid.

  He touched two fingers to the Kid’s throat and, after a moment, located a thready pulse. Jerlo let out the breath he’d been holding. The Kid was alive though breathing shallowly, but his pallor had an unhealthy green tint to it. Sarn needed immediate attention by a healer, damn. Why him? Why whip the one Kid the healers refused to mend?

  “Well?” Jerlo snapped at the too-silent Guard.

  “I just guard the cells.”

  “Then go fetch your superior.”

  “I’m not supposed to—”

  “Now damn it. Move your ass.”

  “But—”

  “If you’re still here when I turn around, you’ll wish you were dead.”

  The cell door clanged as the rattled Guard exited.

  “Commander?” Nolo called from outside the cell, unable to complete his question. He still hoped their missing apprentice would turn up elsewhere than this dank hole in the earth. God bless the man for his misplaced optimism.

  “We need some way of carrying the Kid out of here. He’s hurt.” Jerlo’s eyes landed on a bucket filled to the brim with vomit, and God knew what else. “And sick,” he amended, giving in to cursing at last.

  They had to carry the wounded Kid up an obscene number of narrow, twisting steps without compounding the boy’s hurts. For now, Jerlo left the problem of how to his lieutenants and prepared to confront the owners of the approaching footsteps echoing in the cell-lined corridor behind him.

  Since the Kid lay on his belly with his clothes in tatters, it took only a moment to wipe the blood away and expose the mark tattooed at the nape of his neck. Bound within a circle was the Lord of the Mountain’s personal seal—a wolf howling over a broken sword.

  A shocked intake of breath informed Jerlo of what he already knew—the idiot in charge of the dungeon had joined him. The mark was several inches long and hard to miss.

  “Lord Joranth’s got plans for this Kid. You’d better hope he survives.” Lord if you’re not too busy, I could use a miracle right now. “Whoever did this will pay. I suggest you start naming names and save the Lord of the Mountain, the expense of an inquisitor.” And Jerlo the trouble of interrogating idiots, though he already knew on whose head the blame would fall heaviest—the cat-o’-nine tales wielding thug otherwise known as the Chief Punisher.

  “How do we make
this right?”

  Jerlo shook his head. “You don’t.”

  There was no way to make this right, but his men had their orders, and by the silence blanketing the cell, he knew they’d left to carry them out. Gregori and Nolo were good men. The Rangers had their own brand of justice, and this damaged Kid was their charge. Mount Eredren would need a new Punisher by morning. The current one had a dawn date with a firing squad. A dozen angry Rangers with bows was an appropriate send off for a sociopath.

  “Get me some blankets and a couple of stout lads. I need to get this Kid into the healer’s hands.” And pray the Kid’s magic allowed the healer to do his work. One thing at a time, Jerlo reminded himself, one thing at a time. No sense in courting trouble before it arrived. The green-eyed bastard bleeding all over the cell dragged trouble around in his wake.

  “Of course, I’ll be right back with both.” The head Guard left Jerlo alone with his stricken charge.

  He peeled open one of the Kid’s eyes and cursed at the lack of glow. At least they were still a vivid green, but the too rich color had bled to fill his eyes hiding the sclera and pupil behind a solid wall of dark green.

  Rage at the Kid’s condition blinded Jerlo. Words fought his clenched teeth for freedom and broke the seal of his lips spraying the wounded Kid with spittle. Command laced his voice, but he was beyond caring.

  “You’ll get better. Do you hear me? Don’t you dare quit on me.”

  “Holy shi—” Nolo bit off the curse as he collapsed next to Jerlo, shaking his head. The Black Ranger held up a sheaf of torn papers. “They charged him with public drunkenness.”

  Anger scorched Jerlo. He’d thought better of the Kid. Sarn had led a tough life, but for his brother’s sake, he’d stayed away from drinking and drugs until now. What changed your mind? Temporary insanity? A dare? What?

  The urge to shake the Kid almost overpowered Jerlo, but he squeezed his hands into tight fists and resisted. Eighteen months of work wasted by one night’s stupidity. Was it only one night? Or was he looking at the wreckage resulting from a long fruitless chase after an elusive high?