Prophecy Of The Guardian (Guardian Series Book 1)

by J. W. Baccaro

  Nayland took the gifts, then stabbed a large chunk of the lizard meat with his knife and held offered it to Mythaen. “And I will give you this.”

  Mythaen took it and ate a piece. Ah, dear heavens! Talk about rancid. This is the worst meat I’ve ever tried, he thought. But not to be rude, he smiled, well, at least a little, fighting the horrendous taste in his mouth. “The festival begins at nightfall.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “All right.” He stood up and headed toward the woodland stretching off Mythaen's land.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I wish to be alone. To meditate.”

  “Oh—well,” he called to Nayland who was already a good distance away, walking as if he had to be somewhere—and somewhere fast! “Are you coming tonight?” There was no answer. Mythaen watched him wander off his land and enter the wilderness, disappearing within the trees.

  “I spent all this time searching for him—cooking for him, and when I finally find him he just gets up and leaves? How rude! Though, he did save my life. I cannot be too harsh. Still, what a strange, irritable individual.”

  A few hours later, nightfall came, and the festival began.

  The fire pits blazed. People cooked varieties of food ranging from beef, chicken, fried cheeses, and breads to marinated grilled vegetables. The wonderful smells were enough to draw the farthest of animals. Music was being performed while men and women danced around the great bonfire.

  The men were all dressed handsomely while the women were astonishing, wearing long puffy dresses with colors fitting for spring. They’d stain-painted their eyes and lips with berry juice, strutting around in outrageous high-heeled shoes. Most, wore their hair down—long and wild. They sparkled in the night and it was clear many were looking for a husband, as must be common during the festival.

  Then a dark figure came strolling past the fire, around the dancing. He wore a black cloak, and many eyes shifted to him.

  “Nayland!” Mythaen shouted, calling him over.

  When he approached the table, all eyes were upon him, looking him up and down. He avoided direct eye contact but made clear he was not enjoying their ‘study’ of him by deeply grunting or clearing his throat and casting a quick glare their way.

  “Welcome, friend,” Mythaen greeted, rising up to meet Nayland, a pint of ale in his left hand, a rotisserie-cooked chicken leg in his other. “I’d like to introduce you to my family and friends.”

  For the next five minutes, Nayland could not have been more bored, going through all the typical mundane hellos and how do you dos? As if anyone really cared how a foreign stranger was doing. He met Captain Alaric and his wife, Mythaen's sister, his mother and father, then few of his neighbors. Elwin also remained present but there’d be no need for introductions with him.

  “Please, sit. Let me get you a mug of ale.”

  “If you insist,” Nayland grunted.

  Mythaen rushed away.

  Nayland took a seat, furthest away from the others, careful not to look at them.

  “So, Nayland,” Alaric spoke, “I heard about your heroic act this afternoon. I thank you for saving my nephews.”

  “Do not make a big issue about it.”

  “Oh, well—as you wish. Although I am grateful, and I would like for you to know that.”

  Nayland glanced at him with a look of annoyance, letting Alaric know he wasn’t joking about the big issue comment, then fixed his eyes back toward the shadows.

  Alaric meant to speak, but Elwin quickly tugged on the sleeve of his cloak, shaking his head. “He’s not fond of conversation,” Elwin whispered.

  Talk then became seldom, even among family members. No one seemed to be able to think of a subject, especially with this stranger avoiding all eye contact, accompanied by his unfriendly aura. What was the point of him even being there?

  Thankfully, Mythaen returned about five minutes later, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He handed Nayland a large mug with creamy foam drizzling down the sides. “Here you go. It's freshly brewed. And my Uncle Alaric’s recipe.”

  “Uncle is the master of ale!” Elwin knocked his mug against Alaric’s for cheers. “This is your best ale yet!”

  Alaric chuckled. “Appreciations, Elwin. It’s been aging in oak barrels for quite some time, brewed specifically for this very night. I do hope our guest enjoys it.”

  “It is a drink,” Nayland grunted, “that is all.” He took a few swigs making not a fuss about the taste; in fact, his face remained expressionless. Taking his eyes away from the darkness, he began looking around at the people singing and dancing.

  “So,” Mythaen began, “if you don’t mind my asking—we never had a chance earlier—where are you from?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “That doesn't say much,” Alaric commented.

  “I’ve been wandering the earth all my life.”

  “You haven't a home or family?”

  “…the earth is my home. But family I—I have no one, no memory, no one.” He gazed at the bon fire.

  “Well, now you have family here,” Mythaen offered. “You’re always welcome.”

  Nayland looked at the statue sitting next to their table and studied it. Complex in feature, it stood about eight feet tall of a woman with large breasts, long wild hair and beautiful eyes sparkling with emeralds. But it also sported a long cat-like tail, clawed hands, along with the legs and feet of a lion. “Is this a representation of your god?”

  “Goddess,” Alaric corrected. “One of them. Her name is Boireann, Queen of Beasts. At each table there’s a different deity, like there.” He pointed to where a giant seven-foot male warrior statue was erected, appearing to be riding a pillar of cloud and holding additional cloud-like images in its palms. “That’s one of our elemental Gods. He is called Akash, the God of wind and we worship him alongside Boireann. We worship all the Gods.”

  “Wind,” Nayland muttered.

  “Yes, that is Akash's element. Do you have any Gods?”

  “No. Most assuredly none like this.”

  “There are a few in this city who do not worship Loreladian Gods either, but it’s no concern. They’re respectful to us. What’s forbidden are deities of death and destruction, and the blackened arts of sorcery, of course.”

  “You people seem familiar to me. Have you’ve always lived here?”

  Alaric shook his head. “This is our second city. A long time ago, we were forced to abandon our original land because of war.”

  Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “Where was this land?”

  “In the far northeast. But it’s now ruled by the blasted Cullach race.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s a tragic tale I’d rather not discuss, not at this moment anyway. Now is a time for celebrating, aye my nephews?”

  “Aye!” Mythaen and Elwin said in unison, and the three knocked together their mugs of ale, spilling some onto the table, and also onto Alaric’s wife—who looked far from pleased. Then they chugged the delicious drink down with a seeming rush of warm happiness now beginning to fill their bodies, and especially their heads.

  A horn blew and King Loreus the Second approached the crowd, stopping in front of the bonfire, his amber eyes capturing the light.

  All bowed before him, even Nayland out of respect…with only a mere tipping of his head.

  Loreus thanked those who put on the festival, gave a short, noble speech about the people of Loreladia, and began a brief history of the city He answered a few questions similar to what Nayland asked Alaric, about their origins and their gods. Pacing to and fro, the King surprisingly managed to stay on his feet the entire time, avoiding any spills or forms of clumsiness.

  It became a little disappointment for those among the crowd, hoping to get in a good laugh. For some it was disconcerting, as they’d placed bets on how soon Loreus might fall.

  Loreus called the elders to rise and stand among the great bonfire to tell stories about the Loreladian deities engraved in stone a
t each table. The stories were hardly interesting, and Nayland could do little to pay attention. When they finished, all the people, except for Nayland bowed in worship to the engraved images. Next, the main dishes were served and everyone indulged into the finest poultries, beef and luscious deserts.

  Nayland finished his meal, swallowing the last ounce of his second ale and by chance glanced over at another table, noticing a group of men staring at him with mocking gestures. “That table, on the far right…” He tapped Mythaen on the shoulder. “Who are they?”

  Mythaen looked, and frowned. “Eh, no friends of ours. The man with the long dark hair and scar on his face is Damacoles, a master and teacher of the fighting arts. Those next to him are some of his students. But Damacoles is far from noble, and so are his pupils. The one to his left with the crude face and spiky black hair is Daemon, his number-one student. Many believe Daemon has committed numerous murders around here.”

  “The motive?”

  “To cover up the truth of his master’s evil. You see, there are rumors Damacoles practices sorcery. He’s lived in Loreladia for over one hundred years, never aging beyond the look of thirty, never sick. His methods are cruel, his teachings barbaric.”

  “Is that any reason to suspect sorcery?”

  “What human is blessed with such features?”

  “Surely, you need more proof than a mere ‘aging factor.’ ”

  “We did, or at least, some did. But before the evidence could be brought forth, they were found beaten to death. And for more than a few reasons it was suspected Daemon had done the killing. Though, we have no hard evidence against that. Not yet.”

  “If this Damacoles is so powerful and engaged in Blackened Arts, and evil, why does he not attempt control over your city?”

  “Because he knows that there is one, perhaps two in Loreladia who could crush him in an instant. So, he delays for a time. Though, if anything were ever to happen to these fighters, I dare not think what type of rebellion Damacoles might begin.”

  “What style of fighting does this Damacoles know?”

  “An unorthodox, barbarically brutal style. You want no part of him or his students.”

  “Interesting...”

  “Damacoles…or his students?”

  Nayland didn’t answer. His thoughts seemed more concentrated on these ‘two fighters’ Mythaen mentioned who could defeat this supposed sorcerer of Loreladia.

  Just then, Daemon glanced at Nayland and whispered something to his companions. Whatever it was—clearly meant to mock, for they all laughed aloud and obnoxiously. Then, Daemon and two others rose from their table and walked toward Nayland.

  “What’s this?” Elwin slammed down his mug. “They’re coming over here!”

  “They won’t dare do anything with the captain of the king’s army here,” Mythaen assured him.

  Damacoles' students stopped next to Nayland and looked down on him condescendingly. Daemon was tall, about six feet with broad shoulders, high cheekbones, and sickly pale skin. His reddish-pink eyes revealed a haughtiness beyond conceit. “Ho, stranger. I noticed you didn’t bow down or give homage to the gods.”

  “He’s not a Loreladia, so he doesn’t have to worship them,” Mythaen balked. “You know that Daemon.”

  “I’m not speaking to you, silence your mouth.”

  “How dare you talk to me that way! Disrespecting your elder. I’ve served in battle before your time.”

  “Oh? You mean the infamous war King Loreus spoke about, a war you lost?”

  Mythaen attempted to rise up, but Alaric grabbed his arm and held him down. “Wait,” Alaric whispered.

  “A wise uncle,” Daemon sneered.

  Though perhaps it wasn’t for fear of his nephew being hurt that Alaric held him back, but curiosity of this stranger and what he might do.

  Daemon continued, “So, who are you to sit and eat at this table and not worship Loreladian Gods, huh? Such an act shows a dishonor to our city! Whether they’re your gods or not doesn’t matter. In my presence, you will bow down before them...and before me.”

  Nayland gazed at the bon fire and didn’t seem to be paying any attention.

  Daemon stepped closer. “Hey fool, are you deaf? I’m talking to you!”

  Slowly, Nayland turned his head and glared at him.

  Daemon grinned. “Good. I see you’re not completely stupid. Now descend to your knees, touch the ground with your face and beg the gods’ forgiveness. Then bow before me, kiss my feet and beg my mercy.”

  His companions laughed, feeling certain they had this stranger right where they wanted him, in complete dire humiliation and before everyone.

  Just then, a mysterious wind came out of nowhere, with a chilling howl, the bon fire flickering. Nayland’s almond-shaped eyes flashed. “I will say this one time only, go back from wherever you came and never...stand...in my presence...again.” His voice echoed out cold—eerie.

  The entire festival went quiet...all eyes were upon them.

  “Why, I believe this fool is threatening me.” While a bit of fear rose in Daemon's voice, it quickly changed over to conceit. “Wouldn’t you say, fellows?”

  They all laughed, rather hysterically in response.

  “You’re as foolish as you are ugly. Let me smack some sense into you a few times and we’ll see if your disrespectful attitude remains the same toward our gods.” He grinned. “And toward me.” He swung a hand at Nayland’s face.

  Nayland swiftly grabbed hold of his wrist, twisted and thrust it back at him.

  Daemon screamed in agony at the crackling bone, falling to his knees.

  His companions pulled out their weapons and attacked in rage.

  Rapidly, Nayland stood up, avoiding a sword slicing through the table where he just sat.

  They charged after him, weapons held high, one aiming for his upper torso, the other his throat, both of them nearly striking each other after Nayland dropped, rolled and maneuvered out of the way. Looking to and fro, they found him four or five feet behind them, standing still, his glare ever upon them. They pursued. Dodging blow after blow, moving like the wind, his opponents’ could not land a hit, nor follow his movements—child’s play they were, not even worthy of a real duel.

  Nayland decided to end it immediately. Dodging another swing, he countered by kicking the enemy in his gut as he crouched over spitting out blood. He brought down his heel against the middle of his back, plunging him straight to the ground.

  The other had grown frantic and cowardly, standing still while trembling all over. He stared down at his unconscious friend then glared up at Nayland. He looked panicked as he hollered in rage, storming forward.

  Nayland threw a fast kick, striking his forearm, knocking the sword from his hand. He kicked him again, this time hitting his right femur. Bone fragments splintered out of the man’s skin, then he finished him off with a fanciful spin kick to the face, sending him to the ground beside his fallen comrade.

  Finally, Daemon arose while massaging his wrist, then took his other hand and unsheathed a long double-edged sword. “You...” He growled, sheer rage filling his tone. “I’m going to cut you in half!” He charged Nayland and swung.

  Nayland ducked, avoiding the attack, jumped into the air, flipped over him, landing parallel to his back and jabbed an elbow into the middle of his spine.

  Daemon stood still, his eyes twitching, his expression showing awe. Then he collapsed to the ground like a dead man.

  “None of you shall ever fight again,” Nayland spoke quietly.

  For a moment, all was silent. Then someone among the crowd shouted, “It looks as if the gods have provided us with some battle entertainment tonight too!” They cheered for Nayland as a few guards carried Daemon and the others away to be charged for harassing a visitor—and more than likely to get medical attention.

  King Loreus approached, accompanied by some of his soldiers.

  Nayland became uneasy.

  “Have no fear, you’ve done no wro
ng,” King Loreus assured him. “Those heathens got what was coming to them. Tell me, what is your name?”

  “...Nayland.”

  “Nayland, I am King Loreus the Second. I’m honored to have you here as a guest.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed slightly.

  “This is the one you spoke to me about, is it not, Mythaen?”

  “Indeed he is, my King.”

  “Well, I am glad to have met you, Nayland.”

  “My King, why don’t you stay and have a few drinks with us?” Captain Alaric asked. “I don’t want to toot my own horn, but this is probably the finest batch I have ever brewed.”

  Loreus smiled. “Already had more than I should have. Besides, I have a few matters to attend to back in the castle, like deciding the fate of Daemon. You all enjoy yourselves and the remainder of the festival.” Glancing once more to Nayland, nodding his head in courtesy, the king turned around—meaning to leave, but knocked himself into two ladies who were passing by.

  —Well, one lady, and she in turn knocked into her friend, and her friend into her husband, and her husband into his cousin, and down all five went, along with the pints of ale each individual was carrying. The ale spilled onto the ground as everyone tumbled over one another, disoriented and confused.

  At first, many among the crowd thought the incident was due to folks drinking too much ale—until the king was seen rising from the pile.

  “Dear friends, I am so sorry!” Loreus helped each of them stand, patting them down to make sure nobody was hurt.

  “It’s all right, my King,” one of the women said, though she didn’t look Loreus in the eye. The others passed him a quick glare and stormed off, back toward the barrels of ale.

  The king sighed, not daring to look at Alaric and the others, especially the new comer Nayland. He ventured away quickly, being sure to walk in the shadows.

  “Poor Loreus,” Mythaen spoke, although at the same time a smile sang over his face. “You’ll have to excuse him, Nayland. He’s not the sharpest on his feet.”

  Nayland said nothing, just observed the on-going festival and cluster of people dancing.