Curse Breaker: Books 1-4

by Melinda Kucsera

  Sovvan squeezed his shoulder, and Ran shifted in his arms. I'll always be with you, my brother, my twin. Sarn thought he heard her say, then she receded, freeing him to concentrate on slipping through the growing crowd. Not just his life rode on that secrecy. He tightened his grip on his son and knew she protected him too.

  “Papa? Who's the winged lady? She looks like you.”

  “She's my twin sister, your aunt Sovvan.”

  If his son was surprised to receive an answer other than ‘I don’t know,’ he didn’t show it. Ran just nodded.

  “I’m glad you can see her.”

  “Me too. She faded out, but she’s still here. Her hand is rubbing my back.”

  “That’s my hand.”

  Ran shrugged and laid his head back down on Sarn’s shoulder and that simple gesture spurred him on. I’m tired of wandering around in the dark without a clue. You’d better have some answers for me, my Queen.

  “Watch out!” Saveen grabbed his arm and pulled Sarn to the right.

  But it was too late. Someone slammed into Sarn. Power so black it reeked of death struck him. His left palm burned as if the splinter lodged in it had caught fire. Sarn choked down a lungful of brimstone and sulfur and coughed as he stumbled into several people. Ran clung on until he stabilized.

  Turning, Sarn sought the culprit and the malevolence leaking off him in disorienting black waves. But just in the nick of time, he remembered the crowd and squeezed his eyes closed. His hand still burned, but he couldn't do anything about that right now.

  Did I chase the wrong bad guy? The question paralyzed Sarn. But it would explain how Dirk and his mundane friends had released a monster. They’d powerful help.

  The crowd jostled Sarn while he tried and failed to locate the dark thing he’d bumped into. Could it have veiled itself from his sight?

  Too many icons crowded his map and many red arrows pointed at something—

  Light-bringer! Give us your light, shouted many voices, disrupting his map. It vanished, leaving him blind and lost.

  “We need to go, please Sarn.”

  Because they were drawing too much attention. Saveen didn’t need to say it. The rising note of fear in his voice said it all. At least the burning sensation in his hand was subsiding. I hope it's not infected.

  Saveen tugged his arm and Sarn nodded. He let the youth pull him back into the flow. If I’m chasing the wrong problem, the Queen of All Trees will know. She's the one who made me forget.

  Passing Darkness

  Where the hell is everyone going? I didn’t hear anything about another protest. Straymos cut through the crowd, sword cane in hand. Its lumir pommel ground into his palm. Teasing flashes of its brilliance escaped from under his gloved hand. It was a risk wearing his finery in the Lower Quarters, but a necessary one since his lair was down here.

  With his free hand, Straymos held a many-times patched cloak closed to blend in—something he’d never needed to do in this out of the way tunnel. Precognition triggered a warning and sharpened his preternatural senses. But even his eyes needed some light to see by, and there wasn’t much. Something had shut off the lumir in the walls while he was out. Here and there, a gleam filtered through from somewhere in the crowd, and it was just enough to see something barreling toward him.

  Bodies flew like discarded dolls and slammed into the walls and each other. Straymos dodged left and flattened himself against a wall as a three-dimensional shadow blew through the screaming crowd. Pain streaked up his leg as the panicked crowd jostled him. He gritted his teeth as the shadow—a devil-made wraith—passed on.

  Straymos’ waited but the wraith didn’t make a second pass. His hand tightened on his glorified walking stick as his left knee seized up. After a moment of rubbing it, the joint warmed and loosened, but it was just one of the constant headaches that came with maintaining a body that had passed its prime decades ago. But he was working on that.

  A bunch of black-robed necromancer wannabes had ripped him from his home and shunted him into a nonagenarian. Since then, he’d done a lot of rehabilitation work on that old body. Using his flesh sculpting powers, he’d turned back the clock seventy years, so it more closely matched his actual age of twenty. But there were still parts, like his goddamned knee, which needed another upgrade and soon.

  Of course, those summoners had been horrified at their gaffe. They’d thought they were getting a full-fledged demon. Instead, their first assay into the whole demon-summoning thing had nabbed a demonic child.

  A comely youth with a cleft in his chin and a cocky twinkle in his eye made him smile. The young man rose and dusted off a tight body clad in a ruby tunic and leggings. What a fine figure he cut through the startled crowd still picking itself up. The little incident with the wraith didn’t even faze him. Well, this was Shayari where earthquakes and enchanted trees were the norm. Likely he’d attributed the wraith’s tantrum to a rogue gust of wind.

  Straymos limped after the young man. He was strutting his stuff down another tunnel, one with less of a crowd. He had good legs, long like Stray liked them. I’ll bet those legs would look good on me. And trading in his current pair would fix the whole arthritis issue.

  Yes, that boy would make victim number—Stray shunted that thought aside. No, that scarlet boy was reserved first for play and later, for spare parts.

  Stray reached out of his human shell. His shadow swelled lengthening his arm until it could trace a diamond with three rays on the popinjay’s back. No one else would see it, but if there were any more demons running around, they’d know this one was earmarked for him.

  If, who are you kidding? There’s another demon running around and a powerful one at that. No one else could trap a mortal soul and corrupt it into a wraith. There were less energy-intensive ways of making minions—like using stray cats. They made wonderful companions, and as you scaled those independent-minded creatures up, it was so easy to enhance their natural intelligence and it required so little energy.

  As his dark aura receded, it brushed something turning into this tunnel, and it flared up blindingly bright in the dim hallway. Straymos froze and so did time. That young man with the green eyes and the magic spilling out of every pore—he was here in this corridor. He was here! Stray could taste his magic. It was cold and flinty, an earth mage for certain.

  Straymos scanned the faces of the people passing him—no mean feat in the near-total darkness and a thickening crowd. Where is he? I know you’re here. Show yourself.

  “Come, sinner, to your dark Father fly. At my side, thy time is nigh,” whispered a voice that made Straymos’ borrowed blood run cold.

  “But you’re locked out.” Fear choked Straymos. The Adversary can’t be here, but that’s his voice I just heard.

  “Run!” shouted the nonagenarian whose body he inhabited. The old summoner tried to seize control of their shared body, but he wasn’t strong enough, so he shouted at Straymos inside their mind. “Run, don’t let him catch you.”

  Mosel’s words penetrated his fear and finally snapped its hold. Straymos turned and ran right into a hooded man carrying a child. Death magic grappled with life magic shoving them apart. A pale green aura flared up around the man and his son as he stumbled and vanished into the crowd.

  Straymos reeled, every sense afire as he fetched up against a column. Hatred burned in his breast as he sought the man and his son. I could have been you.

  “Are you alright sir?” asked a woman holding a violet kerchief.

  “Yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

  More polite mumbo jumbo fell out of Straymos’ mouth as he scanned the crowd, cursing his short stature. Why hadn’t those idiot summoners chosen a taller sacrifice?

  “They did, but I chose you. I ran into the circle and embraced you,” Mosel said and his wrinkly, kind face appeared in the crowd with its big honking nose dripping like the cell they’d tried to stuff Stray into.

  Stray closed his eyes. He refused to remember that time of incarceratio
n and fear. It was done. Six years ago, those fools had summoned Vail, and that psychotic demon shattered their circle.

  “Six years ago, we escaped them. We built our own life,” Mosel said. His shriveled hand squeezed Straymos’ then he receded back into their shared mind and slid into the passenger seat.

  Straymos clawed at the tear rolling down his cheek. It ran like fire scorching his insides as his gaze narrowed on the hooded head of the man turning the next corner. It was the man with the emerald fire in his eyes and a white blaze in his soul. I could have been you if I hadn’t been raised by psychopaths! How I hate you.

  For there was nothing but brimstone and darkness inside Straymos. But he could have been so much more. Straymos pushed into the crowd knocking his velvet cap askew as he fled that mage—that reminder of what he could have been had life turned out differently.

  I could have been a paragon too. You and I could have sat together at the hearth-fire of good. If I had never tasted human blood. But he had thanks to those warlock wannabes who’d thought blood-drinking might enhance his dark powers. Of course, it had, he was demon-bred.

  The beast was near the surface, straining to break free but not yet. It was too soon to feed, too soon. Mosel’s gnarled hand seized its ruff and dragged the beast back. One day the old fool wouldn’t be able to contain it, and that rough beast would slough off their human skin. But today the old fool could still hold it in check.

  Straymos was running now, bounding up the stairs at an inhuman pace, and his shadow loped along beside him as they burst onto the main level. His legs burned from the run, but he pushed himself to just keep running. They dodged statues, people, and overhanging plants until he burst onto a balcony overlooking the northern trails—the ones his quarry preferred.

  Straymos gripped the parapet until his knuckles split and claws popped out gashing the coping. Where are you? He waited. but the mage he’d almost run down didn’t appear.

  You and I will dance the danse macabre. Your magic-infused blood will soothe the beast and oh how we’ll feast. Oh, how we’ll feast. A laugh rolled out of Straymos as he felt a spectral hand on his shoulder, calling him back from the edge of madness. It was Mosel’s hand, the guilt-ridden summoner who’d tried to tame the demonic child his order had created. But Mos was too late, always too late.

  “Come back now, we have an important party to attend,” Mosel reminded him.

  Indeed, they did. Straymos watched for a moment longer then set his cap at a jaunty angle and left the balcony for nobler pursuits.

  “Did you see who hit me?” Sarn stayed away from the wall, but that didn’t stop the murmurs from undercutting his sanity.

  Light us, every stone he passed whispered. Sarn shook his head and bumped into people he couldn’t see.

  “Just a guy, but he’s gone. He was in an awful hurry.” Saveen tugged Sarn to the left. His side just brushed a column, and its cold touch sent a voice cleaving through his skull.

  Kindle us.

  No.

  “Papa? It’s so dark here. Can I have a light? I won’t drop it.” Ran shuddered and laid his hand over Sarn’s heart, where his pendant lay under his tunic.

  Oh Fate, was it glowing? It was too risky to check. Sarn angled his body toward what he hoped was a wall in case it was shining.

  “Don’t take it out.”

  Were people staring at him? Had they glimpsed the glow of his pendant through his clothes?

  “Why?”

  “It’ll draw too much attention. Leave it be.”

  The echoes of a hundred conversations drowned out any response Ran might have made. The sudden increase in noise assaulted Sarn as he followed Saveen around another bend. A thousand voices cried out, disorienting him.

  “Kindle us!”

  “Light-bringer, give us your light!”

  “Papa, watch out!”

  Ran’s warning came a second too late. Sarn banged into something and pain shot through his arm, making his hand throb. Thank Fate, he had broad shoulders, so whatever he’d struck missed the boy squirming in his arms. Too bad he was so bony. A little padding might have absorbed the blow better.

  “It was a column.”

  Ever helpful, Ran rubbed the sore spot, but that just ground the pain in.

  “Ow, just leave it be. It’ll heal.” Sarn staggered as his map formed and shattered, hammering a nail of pain right between his eyes with each abortive attempt. But it refused to stop.

  “Light us.”

  “Kindle us! Light bringer!” begged the darkened lumir crystals he passed.

  Something caught his foot. Sarn stumbled and almost fell but Saveen grabbed a handful of his tunic and hauled him upright.

  “Are you okay, Sarn?”

  “Light us!” screamed the spent lumir to his right and left. They reached out for Sarn, but he backed away, shaking his head.

  I can’t. I need my magic. I must get out of here.

  “Maybe we should go back. You don’t look so good. I can lead us.” Saveen edged around Sarn sounding more confident with each step toward the Foundlings.

  “No, I want to go out. Papa promised. I want to go where the light is.”

  If the sun was still up. Sarn bit his lip and pushed on. He’d lost all track of time but since the oaths he’d sworn weren’t compelling him to seek out his master, twentieth bell hadn’t rung yet. When would it?

  “Do either of you know what time it is?”

  “No.”

  Great, that was one more question added to the pile.

  Restore us!

  Crystals surrounded Sarn. They were dark and devoid of magic, all calling for him. Sarn pushed down the rising panic as he pivoted seeking a way free of voices and crowds, but there wasn't one. I’m not trapped.

  Other voices joined in, raising a demanding chorus that beat against his ears. Sarn backed away as their pleas swelled to a deafening roar. He staggered into Saveen almost knocking the youth over.

  “We must go. I can’t stay down here.” I’ll go mad if I do. “Please lead on.”

  The crystals they passed screamed Sarn’s name until he thought his ears would bleed from their cries.

  “Which way?”

  Light bringer! Share your light with us!

  “Sarn? Which way should I go—back to the Foundlings?”

  “No, I want to go outside where the light is,” Ran said.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going Bean Pole.” The speaker elbowed Sarn and trod on his foot as he shoved his way past.

  “Sarn, which way should I go? I think the tunnel branches ahead.”

  “I think left, but everything’s all jumbled up in my head.” Between his map’s inability to spawn and the lumir crystals screaming in his head, Sarn had lost all track of their location—not good.

  “Come, sinner, to your dark Father fly. At my side, thy time is nigh.”

  “Who said that?” Sarn shook his head to clear it, but the black spots kept eating the glow of his closed eyes.

  “This I, your only ally, say to the sky: come, sinner, thy time is nigh.”

  The dark voice slammed into Sarn, driving him to his knees. His hand burned, and its flames ran up his forearm. Your hand is not on fire. You’re imagining it.

  As he fell forward, he freed a hand from his son and caught himself, but those black spots were swelling and everything else was fading. Not again.

  “Who said what? I didn’t hear anything, Papa. Papa!”

  Chasing Sky Beams

  Aralore spun taking in the trail of devastation in her wake while her acolytes rested. They broke out bread, cheese and cured meat and filled their flagons in the cool stream flowing by her feet. Much as she hated stopping for any reason, her loyal followers were footsore and in need of a short break.

  But Aralore didn’t partake of anything but the cup of water Somnya pressed on her. After she drained the cup and handed it back, she glared at the trees barring her path. Brave of them, but useless in the long run. With a flick of her
wrist, she opened the box. The trees in front of her exploded into a shower of sparks and splinters. If she must stop, she could at least have some entertainment while she plotted her next move.

  Smiling, Aralore watched the next rank of trees sidle out of the way, creating a hole in the forest. As if that could placate her. Aralore turned the box, panning it so its black beam cut across the fleeing trees. But she moved with it, keeping the lid of the box between her and the crystal. Like a shield, that mirrored slab reflected those deadly black rays at her victims, magnifying their potency. Trees struck by that double helping of nullification exploded. Even that failed to soothe the pain burning in her breast.

  “Where is it?” Aralore demanded. She didn’t take her eyes off her fleeing prey. There was nowhere for those giant plants to go, no place they could hide from the black lumir crystal. Or was there?

  Aralore looked south-southwest at Mount Eredren’s bent cone. Could she hit the mountain from here?

  “Where is what, Preceptor?” Somnya touched the lid. Her sister-of-the-cloth wanted to close the box and shut off its unnerving hum.

  “That’s what I want to know. You remember that sky-beam we saw last month?” Aralore tore her gaze away from the mountain and regarded her seneschal and friend.

  Somnya nodded. Behind her, Velor also nodded though he looked grimmer than usual. Likely it was Hutel’s death weighing on him. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Hutel gave his life to the cause. Continuing was the best way to honor his sacrifice.

  “I remember that.” Velor suppressed a shudder.

  “Well, it originated from somewhere around here.” Aralore propped the mirrored lid against the box so the area behind it, where she and her acolytes stood, remained free of its influence. Then she gestured to the felled trees around them. “I thought I’d see something—some sign of what caused it.”

  But there was no sign that a magical event had transpired here, and that depressed her. This was supposed to be the site of her ultimate test. Where was the magical thingamabob that had created the sky-beam? Why was it not here for her to destroy?