“Are you okay?” Armifer grips his friend’s shoulder. Nuntios’s breathing is shallow, his face pale and waxy.
“Go,” Nuntios breathes, his words more ragged now. “Go get help. I’ll hold him off.”
“You won’t last much longer,” Armifer cautions, his eyes widening.
“Move!” Nuntios grabs Armifer’s arm and the two boys appear on the other side of the corridor. Armifer feels as if all the wind has been knocked out of him. He reaches for Nuntios, but Nuntios has already teleported.
“You all right?” Nuntios calls.
“Nuntios, look out!” Armifer screams. Nuntios turns around just in time to feel the acid waterfall, streaming down his body as it pours from the creature’s mouth.
This is all a bad dream. Just a dream. I’ll wake up soon. Armifer repeats this in his head as he sees Nuntios fall to the ground, writhing in pain. Then, just when things can’t get any weirder, a man tumbles through the wall. His spiked hair is fiery russet, and he wears a copper overcoat.
“Stay there, Armifer,” the man urges. “Nuntios is beyond your help.” Only later will Armifer wonder how the man knew his name.
The man runs towards Nuntios’s twitching form as the beast looms over the helpless youth. “Back off!” the man yells. He throws a golden sphere, and it lands in front of the creature. It expands, creating a gilded shield over Nuntios’s body.
The demon swipes at it curiously, but hastily retracts its paw with a hiss. It makes a loud shriek and turns angrily to find the source of its pain. The man makes no motion to hide and faces the beast defiantly, now holding a golden flame in each hand. The creature moves to rake at the man's face, but he promptly blasts it with a sparking shaft of radiance. The ray hits the fiend square in the chest, and it shrieks again, forcing Armifer to cover his ears.
It rears its head back to spout its acidic spittle. The rain begins and splashes everywhere. The man raises a shield to protect himself while Armifer cowers. “Enough!” the man raises his hand, presumably to torch the creature again. As he does this, Armifer hears a faint coughing sound. Nuntios! Armifer crawls out of his hiding place and makes his way toward his friend.
“Nuntios, Nuntios can you hear me?” Armifer whispers. There is only the slightest rising and falling of the boy’s chest, but it is still there. Armifer crawls faster, wary of the raging battle beside him. The man, his face shining with sweat, raises both palms towards the sky.
“Death will come to you in many ways!” He thrusts his hands forward, and a stream of fiery daggers spring forth, slicing at the monster in every way possible, spreading flames up its sinuous torso. Dark blood begins spilling out across the floor from the struggling beast, but it is not enough. “Die now!” The monster incinerates as the man's ministrations bathe the hallway in their glow.
The man then runs to Nuntios, who is barely twitching, raw scars tracing his side, his clothes sizzling with the acid of the monster’s spit. The man picks up his limp body, cradling it in his arms. “I’ll be back for you,” he tells Armifer, who is still lying on the floor, distraught.
“Wait!” Armifer yells. “Who are you?”
“Demetri.” He takes a running start and leaps into the wall, leaving Armifer alone, crying in a hall of blood.
16
school orientation, but with more screaming
Say what you will about Demetri and Sorem, but the Sanctuary is incredibly luxurious, Arden thinks. Tapestries and mosaics cover the pristine white walls. The ceilings are high and are either painted with frescos or have large skylights. Gold-plating covers the door handles and window frames and the floor changes seamlessly from fine hardwood, to marble, to the rich carpet as the assembled teens go from room to room.
The drawing room Demetri has dumped them in is no less impressive. Antique-style tables are set around the walls, usually with Renaissance paintings above them. The room is dominated by a large white L-shaped couch with a matching love seat and recliner. In the center of the seating is a sleek glass coffee table, supported by round metal balls instead of legs. This combination of old and new only adds to Luna’s confusion, and she can’t hold it in any longer.
“So, when will someone tell us what this is all about? Please, this is just getting too weird,” Luna says, making urgent motions with her hands. Ámpelos turns to face Arden.
“Do all English people sound so …?”
“Yep.”
“Hey! You’re English too, whether you like it or not.” As they dissolve into petty squabbling, Terrance and Callida look around awkwardly.
Terrance shifts uncomfortably in his seat. This mansion seems like a safe place. Better than the executive’s boat by any means. But I don’t trust these other kids. I can’t understand anything they’re saying. His eyes shift from side to side, unease growing in the pit of his stomach.
Callida rolls her eyes and stares up at the ceiling. They claim that they saved me, and yet I am in a prison. None of the windows would smash. There are no vents, none to be seen at least. And for the life of me, I can't find a door—one that leads to the outside anyway. The noise of bickering still sounds. She is tempted to ask them what’s going on, but she hesitates. Better to be silent. None of us knows anything yet.
Sorem enters carrying a wooden box with a golden flower inlaid in the lid. Everyone looks up expectantly.
“Now, I know there has been some confusion since you arrived.”
“Some confusion!” Luna says, scandalized. Sorem lets out a sigh of resignation as if expecting an outburst. “You have taken all of us from our homes after some seriously bizarre shit happens, told us we have ancient magical powers, then dumped us in a mansion that we can't leave and instructed us to wait. Wait for what, pray?”
“She has got a point,” Ámpelos chimes in, a smug look on his face.
“Alright,” Sorem continues, “Demetri will return soon but, in the meantime, I need to give you these.” She opens the box to reveal gleaming silver flowers, engraved with strange runes. “These are irises. They will allow you to speak and understand any language. It’ll become more useful when there are more of you,” she says ruefully. “But, for now, you’ll be able to talk to Callida and Terrance properly.”
“I can speak English!” Callida shrieks defiantly. The room sits quiet, shocked by her sudden eruption. “Just saying.” She feigns a keen interest in the ceiling and ignores the stares of the others.
“All right then,” Sorem says, clearly frustrated by the constant interruptions. “All you have to do is place the flower at the base of your throat. The magic will then be absorbed through your skin, and you may speak freely.” They would be less confused had she told them to pat their head and rub their stomach at the same time.
“It will leave a flower shaped tattoo, but you kids these days think that’s cool, right?” She nods encouragingly, trying to mask her own uncertainty. Luna crosses her arms, clearly having none of it. Arden and Ámpelos look at the box with obvious skepticism. Callida’s neck is still craned up, examining the ceiling. Sorem beckons forward once more and finally Terrance steps up to the plate.
Hands shaking, he makes his way towards the box. He gingerly puts a hand in, as if into a box of sewing needles. After reaching for a flower, he grasps it carefully. Feeling rather stupid, he pulls down the collar of his shirt, pressing the cool metal against his throat. Raw energy pulsates through him. With a loud hissing sound, he falls backward and the flower vanishes.
“Somebody catch him!” Sorem shouts. Callida grabs him by the scruff of the neck seconds before his head goes slamming into the coffee table.
“Thanks,” he says dryly, hoisting himself up.
“Glad to be of service.”
“Now if everyone would just get on with it! It’ll be bad enough when there are twelve of you!” All their attention turns to Sorem, who is exasperatedly waving the box in the air. One by one, they reluctantly reach into the box and pull out a flower. Arden is about to place the metal to his throat wh
en Sorem reaches out to stop him.
“What?”
“Sit down first, please.”
“Ah, right.” As he sinks into the sofa, they all laugh throatily. Arden joins them, because, for the first time in many weeks, he has heard the sound of true laughter. He doesn’t have much time to enjoy it, however, as a loud commotion soon sounds in the front hall.
“Sorem! I could use a little help.” It’s Demetri. Sorem rushes out of the room, making her way towards the noise. The group sits in silence for a moment.
“Are all of you just going to wait here?” Luna remarks. “Sissies.” She gets up and turns to follow Sorem.
“Luna, wait!” Arden calls, running after her, and the rest soon follow. When they reach the foyer, they find Demetri and Sorem hunched over an unconscious boy. They crowd around, murmuring softly and pushing for a better look.
Callida opens her mouth to ask “what’s wrong with him?” but closes it as soon as Demetri turns the boy's head. The entire right-hand side of his face is an angry crimson. Scars and welts spiral down his side like symbols of an ancient language. Even his clothes are singed black.
“Get him to the saluber room, I’ll take care of the kids,” Sorem says softly.
“What happened to him?” Terrance breathes.
“Some things are meant to stay asleep.”
Terrance scoffs. Avoiding the question much? Demetri carries the unconscious boy to a room with a strange symbol over the doorway—a single serpent, wrapped around a golden staff. A blue glow emanates from the entrance.
“Demetri, you know I’m better at askelpae, you talk to them.” Sorem slams the door shut behind her. Questions flow out of Callida like water from a burst pipe.
“Who is that? What did that to him?” As an afterthought she adds, “And don’t change the subject.” She crosses her arms as if to seal her defiance. The others soon follow suit. Demetri nods then beckons them back to the large entrance hall. There, they sit on one of the marble benches lining the walls. The benches are almost like pews, which seems fitting for such a cathedral-esque place.
“It is time you knew. But first you must hear a little history.” There is a collective groan, but they soon quiet down, like prisoners waiting to hear their sentence.
17
the group questions Demetri’s mental health and then listens to a bedtime story
“In the times of the ancient Greeks,” Demetri began, “leagues of sorcerers ruled a great empire.”
“Oh yes, and I have tea with the queen on a regular basis,” Luna says sarcastically. Demetri gives her a look, but continues.
“Magic could be learned, but after … the dark ages … few had the potential to learn. Those who could were revered as gods. There were twelve main branches of magic and fourteen in total. Each young sorcerer had to choose one path to follow. People are born with inclinations towards specific branches of magic, but ultimately the branch of magic one follows is the choice of the sorcerer.” The audience nods silently, convinced that Demetri is crazy but enraptured by his story.
“Then the Blade of Thorns came. It, whatever it was, used trickery to turn the people against magic. A series of night attacks began. Only those who could not do magic were targeted. The Blade of Thorns, in the form of a hooded figure, convinced the people that the sorcerers were responsible and that the only way for the attacks to stop would be to wipe out the sorcerers.
“At first, the people balked. Once, magic was common but, after the decimation of the sorcerer population during the White Plague, magic was now so rare that people were hesitant to wipe out this great phenomenon.” He pauses for dramatic effect, relieved to see that no one is rolling their eyes.
“Then the children started going missing. One by one, the homes of the people were shrouded in black. It was unusual to find a family that hadn’t lost one of their children to the ‘night crusaders.’ By then, the people had had enough. They rose up, burning the schools of magic, pillaging the sorcerers’ houses, and killing all who could practice, or believed in magic.
“No magical community in the world was safe. They were all burning. The sorcerers fled, taking what knowledge and valuables they could carry with them. They ran far and wide, being chased by the ragtag armies of the ungifted. Of course, they didn’t know that the ungifted were receiving subtle aid from the dark magic of the Blade of Thorns. Some pleaded ignorance. Others were killed in battle. Finally, they came to a last stand in Greece. After running from an ongoing war for months on end, the sorcerers stood their ground and fought.”
“What happened next?”
Demetri smiles at Terrance. At least somebody cares. “In the Battle of Prodita, the majority of the remaining sorcerers were eradicated. The young and upcoming sorcerers sacrificed themselves so that the old magic magisters and the small children could escape. That was the day when the downfall of the gift began to snowball.
“For centuries, the sorcerers lived in hiding. Many attempted to hide in the Labyrinth and were swallowed up by the darkness. No one ever emerged from those foreboding gates. Others tried to seek refuge in the Underworld, the supposed secret cities that guarded the path to the Source. Not even the necromancers lived to see another day.
“In later ages, the sorcerers began to rebuild. By then, the gift had been long forgotten. They established a series of secret schools of magic around the globe. The children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren of the survivors established the school and tried to seek out the ungifted with akalme, an innate openness for magic.
“However, as the years went by, the children became tired of hiding and turned their backs on the gift. The already dwindling magical populations began to die out slowly. But there were some who lingered. One of them was Magister Sapienter, the man who built this place.”
“Okay, you’re saying a human built this house? I thought it was like, aliens or something.”
“Arden!” Luna cries, smacking her brother’s arm.”
Demetri looks at them with bemusement, then continues. “More years passed and people found books of strange names and incantations at the site of the battle in Greece. They thought that the sorcerers, who were once revered as gods, really were gods. Each class of magic became a god, and all of the schools of magic became temples to these so-called deities. People came up with stories and cemented this religion into the Greek culture. And thus the gift of magic was forgotten.”
“So, there’s no problem then?” Luna asks.
“Sshhhh!”
“But, to this day, the Blade of Thorns still lingers in the darkness, waiting for the chance to annihilate all mahi, like you. You see, all magic comes from one origin of power, located deep within the earth. This power, called the Source, was split equally between the sorcerers. Stelarian was the power of the servants of the Dila, the bringers of light, and Subter was the power of the dark deities, the Maghta. They represent the basic struggle between good and evil.”
“Umm, cliché much?”
“Callida, zip it.” Luna snaps.
“When the sorcerers dwindled to a few underground strongholds, the light of Stelarian went out. Slowly, but steadily, the Maghta gained more control of the Source. When the Maghta gain full control of the source, they will stop at nothing to eradicate all other life. Only the re-awakening of the forgotten gift will restore the order needed for the sorcerers to return, and the fire of Stelarian to be relit.
“The last of the great magisters, fearing that this day of urgency would come, created the Arrows of Alux, from his most prized possession, an amulet forged in the fire of Stelarian. When all twelve of you are gathered, we will have all the arrows, and relight the fire.” Demetri looks up at them solemnly, his eyes an eerie glowing amber in the light of the setting sun.
18
storing one’s arrows, questionable tattoos encouraged
“I’m certain that you’re crazy now,” Luna remarks, inching away from Demetri. Arden and Ámpelos nod in hearty agreement.
Terrance leans against the wall, arms crossed. Why does it matter? he thinks. We’re still trapped here.
“Even if it is true, how does your ‘history’ relate to us?” Callida asks darkly. Demetri’s eyes flare with anticipation.
“That’s just it. You are the first of the twelve. When all of you are assembled, we will perform the ritual with the arrows you recei—”
“I don't ever remember receiving an arrow,” Luna quips.
Terrance looks down at his sleeve, almost guiltily. If I say nothing, I can forget. I can go home. Pretend these things never happened. But it would not be right. “I’ve got one,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Demetri nods appreciatively while the others look with raised brows. Sighing, Terrance rolls up his sleeve to reveal intricate black lines, tracing the form of a shimmering arrow. With no hesitation now, he grasps the skin firmly and pulls at the tattoo. The arrow rises out through his skin, as pristine as it was the first day. The golden fletching sparkles in the fading light.
Demetri grins. “That is the first, the first seen in many decades.” He holds his hands up in benediction. “You have given me hope.” Terrance nods, a wary smile glued on his face. “Luna, Arden, we have yours,” Demetri says as he pulls two arrows, one silver, the other gold, out of his pocket.
“Uh, gonna tell me why?” Luna asks.
“Sorem and I were the first,” Demetri says with a thin smile. Luna remembers how she and Sorem controlled the moonlight and nods slowly, but is not entirely convinced. “Ámpelos, I would suggest checking your jacket pocket.”
“You think something ‘magically’ appeared in my pocket? Yeah, right,” Ámpelos remarks, making mocking air quotes. “Fine,” he says when he realizes Demetri is still looking at him, “I’ll just reach into my jacket pocket and—" He breaks off mid-sentence as he feels something cool and metallic.
The Rise of the Fourteen Page 11