Prophecy Of The Guardian (Guardian Series Book 1)

by J. W. Baccaro

  Another kicked burning wood at the Troll.

  Pieces scattered and flung over toward Seth and Darshun, lighting up their shadowed darkness. Having no time to move, they were seen.

  “Intruders!” a Dark Elf shouted, taking up another Sythra arrow and shooting it at them.

  Instantly, Seth grabbed Darshun’s arm and jumped out of the way.

  The arrow struck the mountain, exploded violently and rocks fell in front of the tunnel, sealing them on the outer ledge.

  “Arm yourself,” Seth commanded. “We will be fighting after all.”

  Excitement flooded Darshun. “All right!” He launched in for the attack. Though, it couldn’t be helped, witnessing the violent mayhem before him only boiled his blood to join in with the thrill of the fight. He took on two Cullach at once, exchanging blows with each, back and forth, to and fro—the clashes of steel loud and fierce.

  Then the Cullach began arguing with one another about who would get to slay him.

  “He's mine!” one hollered, sending his next swing at the comrade.

  Blocking, the comrade responded, “I need not heel to you. Stupid fool!” He struck back with a thrust.

  The other sidestepped. Enraged, they took their attention off Darshun entirely and fought one another, hacking away at each other's limbs until both struck a fatal wound in unison.

  Before Darshun knew it, there lay two Cullach corpses at his feet—one was missing a hand and a leg, with a sword driven into his heart, and the other was missing an arm, a shoulder cap and a head.

  Still in awe at what he‘d seen, Darshun rapidly ducked at the feel of an arrow whizzing by. He turned around to find the Dark Elf.

  “Die, Human!” it sneered, shooting another arrow.

  Only Darshun didn’t need to duck this time, nor side step. Apparently, the pointed-eared, burgundy skinned creature thought Darshun was standing a few feet from where he actually stood. Fortunately, the arrow wasn't another Sythra crystal but common steel, as it ricocheted off the rocks. “Stand still!” he roared, now unsheathing a sword and attacking thin air, swinging high, low, and then thrusting forward.

  Darshun stood there, eyes widened, unsure of what to do.

  Obviously, this was the effect of Olchemy's powder. The Dark Elf must’ve been hallucinating.

  It just didn’t seem right to kill him like this. Causally, Darshun stepped a little closer to the poor frantic creature and tapped him on the shoulder. “Behind you!”

  Clumsily, the Elf turned around and caught a hard blow from Darshun's fist. He dropped to the ground unconscious.

  “That wasn’t very exciting.” Darshun felt disappointed at the lack of competition.

  Little did he understand that it wasn’t over yet. He turned to Seth and discovered half a dozen dead Cullach and one other Dark Elf scattered across the ledge, Seth’s sword drenched in their blood.

  His uncle was now fighting the Troll.

  Sidestepping a jab, the Troll quickly pinned Seth’s arms against his own body, fashioning him like a needle, then lifted him up and threw him against the mountain. He ricocheted off the rock, tumbling to the ground beside the Troll’s feet. It rose up a foot to stomp his guts out but was hit in the back by a blast of fire. Turning around, it saw Darshun, coated in flames. “Nasharin, ha!” it spat mockingly, and stalked toward him.

  Thrusting both arms forward, Darshun cast two streams of fire—bursting from his palms.

  The flames covered the Troll’s entire body, then went out like a candle, causing no effect to its stone-like skin. “Foolish Nasharin.” Its voice a deep rumble. “Your fire can’t harm me.” The Troll raised a spiked club.

  Darshun raised his sword. They clashed, but the strength of the Troll’s blow stung his hands, and he stepped back. Again, the Troll swung, this time knocking Darshun’s sword out of his grasp. Having lost his weapon Darshun clenched a fist, focused a great amount of power and punched the Troll in its stomach, his fist sinking into the abdomen, stretching back the dense muscle and tissue so that the outer skin folded over.

  The Troll stopped and backed away, gasping for a breath—then a few seconds later, it smiled. “You weakling,” it sneered and hit Darshun across the face with its hand.

  He fell to the ground, dazed.

  The Troll swung down its weapon, going for the back of his head, but a green glowing sword intercepted, clashing against the club. The Troll glanced aside, witnessing Seth, with green light spherically rotating his presence. His eyes flashed with power, and with his sword, he pushed the Troll’s weapon away from Darshun and against the Troll itself. It tried pushing back but was outclassed in strength. The club cracked in half. Then Seth jumped up and, with a fatal swing, he chopped off the Mountain Troll’s head.

  His lifeless body fell with a great thump.

  “Darshun, are you all right?” Seth asked, helping him stand.

  “I’m fine, a little dazzled is all.” Darshun glanced over at the Troll’s decapitated head. “Wow, was that thing strong!”

  “You’re young; there’s still so much to accomplish, my lad—”

  “Uncle, look out!” Darshun shouted, pushing Seth out of the way, as a Sythra arrow screamed by, striking a section of mountain, and exploding, causing a mild avalanche.

  Enraged, Seth turned around to face the villain, one final Dark Elf. It went to reload another arrow—probably Sythra—but Seth waved a hand and the corner section of the ledge where the enemy stood—the ledge split apart and dropped off the mountain, taking with it a screaming Dark Elf. Seth faced Darshun with a glare. “Where did he come from?”

  “Um—well, I knocked him out with a punch.”

  “You knocked him out?” Seth looked angry, but kept his voice at a mild tone.

  “Yes, uncle. Because of Olchemy’s powder, he was attacking an illusion of me. He couldn't fight. It didn’t feel proper to kill him like that. You know?”

  “I see.” He descended to his original state, giving Darshun a look of questioning. “Darshun, this is war. Those creatures attacking us have committed more evils than you can imagine. They have no right to live. They hate the Light, they hate both you and me and everything good stands for.”

  Darshun wanted to argue that the same could be spoken about the Nasharin race. They were, after all, hated by the other races of Light for the same supposed reasons. Then again, actions speak louder than words, and the actions of Nasharins, historically speaking, had never been anything but noble. The same could not be said about Dark Elves. Besides, had Darshun not seen it take a shot at them, both Seth and he would be scattered across the ledge in pieces right now. That weighed heavy on his heart.

  “Don’t even think it, Darshun,” Seth warned breaking the silence.

  Darshun stared at him, feeling confused. “Think what?”

  As if having read Darshun's mind, Seth answered, “Do not obsess on what could have happened. We are alive thanks to you. Next time, show no mercy. Because those we fight, know not the word. If the choices had been reversed, you would be dead.”

  He sighed. “I understand. You know, Uncle, there are times when it is difficult to distinguish you from my father.”

  Smiling, he replied, “Mirabel and I have a similar past, have seen many of the same things, been through the same wars. It's natural.”

  The door to Azarius’ lair opened, and out walked Mirabel and Olchemy.

  Noticing their sweat and heavy breathing, Olchemy asked. “You two were among the fighting?”

  “We were seen and had no choice,” Seth explained.

  “How strange,’ Mirabel observed. “I couldn’t sense your energy beyond that door.”

  “Neither could I,” Olchemy added. “The magic must keep all sound, energy and force out. Azarius probably created it like that. For what reason I do not know.”

  “No matter.” Seth shrugged. “Did you find the lever?”

  The Wizard nodded, holding up two brown leather sacks. “As well as plenty of Sythra arrows. It seem
s the Dark Elves had been storing them in here. I dislike touching these demonic things. Nevertheless, they shall come in handy when entering Zithel. The sacks both Mirabel and I carry contain a couple dozen. Come, we must give them to the archers.”

  “All is well, I gather?” Captain Alaric shouted, his voice coming from beyond the rocks that had fallen in front of the tunnel earlier, blocking the Loreladian men inside. He’d helplessly watched the battle through a hole just big enough to peak through, only now deciding to break silence, realizing the threat was vanquished.

  “All is well,” Seth answered.

  “I assume you found what you were looking for, because the doorway that Troll passed through has reopened. We can proceed up the mountain.”

  “Captain Alaric of Loreladia,” the Wizard called out, “Step back from the rocks.” Portion by portion, Olchemy levitated the fallen debris away from the tunnel entrance by a simple waving of his staff.

  Remembering the battle against the cave serpents when Olchemy did the same thing, Darshun loved watching him cast this spell, objects of solid weight simply floating up into the air and ‘flying’ to another location. It may not have been such a big deal for Mirabel or Seth, but Darshun had never seen anything like it. He still couldn’t come to grips with the fact he was journeying across country with a pure-blooded Wizard—a race he’d always hoped still existed for real and not just in stories.

  They walked back to the Loreladian men, then handed out the Sythra arrows to the archers, giving them heavy warnings of how dangerous they were and strict instructions on what they were to do with them when reaching Zithel. Though not all felt safe carrying the fire opal, crystal-like arrows, they knew their chances of surviving proved much higher with the weapons.

  “Where’s Nayland?” Darshun asked, seeing how the stranger was nowhere to be found.

  “We were wondering that also Dar,” Mythaen said. “Before the doorway opened he was here, and after—well, he just vanished. My guess is he’s walking to the top of the mountain.”

  “If he’s seen atop, our entire strategy of creeping through this mountain is ruined,” Darshun seethed. “Ugh! Why did we have to bring him along anyway?”

  Darshun had a point, and all present seemed to know this.

  “We best go now,” Mirabel prompted.

  They ventured on, ascending higher and higher, and soon the lanterns mounted to the rocky halls disappeared, replaced by moonlight.

  “We’ve reached the top,” Olchemy announced. “The tunnel’s exit should be right up here.” Then he stepped on something that wasn’t quite the ground beneath his feet, making a wet and squishy noise. He instantly halted. “Wait.” He knelt down and touched a slimy substance and felt its oval shape. It was a decapitated head, and after adjusting his eyes he saw arms, legs, and torsos going all the way to the exit. “There are dead Cullach before us. Nayland’s doing, I assume. Prepare yourselves.”

  Cautiously, they walked out of the tunnel, and by the moonlight, they discovered Cullach corpses scattered across a lightly wooded landscape, and Nayland sitting next to a tree, calmly smoking his pipe.

  Darshun could’ve sworn he saw a grin when meeting the stranger's eyes.

  “So you’ve made it,” Nayland casually commented. “Shall we continue?”

  “Why didn’t you wait?” Darshun asked.

  “For who…you?”

  “Yes, of course us, who else! You could’ve been killed.”

  Dumping what was left of the tobacco onto the ground, he looked directly at him. “I’m not as inexperienced as others.”

  Darshun walked over to him with a glare in his gaze. “What you did wasn’t wise, Nayland. If even one of them had gotten away, our advantage would’ve been lost!”

  “No one escapes my wrath, boy.”

  “Even so, that doesn’t excuse your actions.”

  Nayland stepped closer to him. “I cleared the path for you, and you give me grief? Pathetic fool…Step away from me.” His eyes flashed.

  Darshun could sense a deep anger within him, deeper than what he revealed.

  Yes, deep inside Nayland must be a warrior of cloak and shadow—hidden deep. For the amount of carnage he’d displayed atop the mountain made that clear. The gruesome bodies scattered to and fro were hardly recognizable. Some of their eyes were popped out with a bubbly substance slowly foaming from their mouths; probably struck by the venom of the cave serpents Nayland kept. Perhaps he’d coated his axe with the glands. But how was this destruction possible? Darshun doubted he—or even Mirabel for that matter—could cause such slaughter without being in Transformation. Nayland wasn’t Nasharin, but there was definitely something odd about his character…good or evil.

  “Enough of this,” Mirabel interceded. “What’s done is done. We must prepare to take Zithel.”

  Darshun and Nayland continued to glare at each other with neither turning away. Finally, Darshun took a deep breath, letting go of his tension, and stepped aside.

  At that moment, the silver eagle Asiel descended from the sky and landed on Seth’s shoulders. After the two spent a few moments of communicating together, Seth faced the others with an uneasy look. “Sacking Zithel is going to be more difficult than we’d originally gathered. Asiel tells me the city walls are heavily guarded, and even with the Loreladian soldiers we’re still outnumbered greatly.”

  “Then we’ll enter another way.” Mirabel glanced at the slain bodies around him. “I only pray you all can turn off your sense of smell. Wearing armor stripped from Cullach isn’t a walk in the meadow.”

  “Disguised as Cullach seems to be our best option,” Seth agreed, “It’ll give us the element of surprise, but it still won’t be enough. Once the enemy realizes who we are, they will attack tenfold. I can see what Asiel sees, and it’s doubtful we will accomplish much, let alone storm the walls. If only we had something more.”

  “...I will cast the Spell of Lost Time,” Olchemy offered, in almost a whisper.

  With a rare display of shock, Mirabel and Seth quickly faced the Wizard, with widened eyes.

  “Wha—what is that?” Darshun asked, curious at their unusual display of surprise.

  The Wizard met his gaze. “When a Wizard is born he comes into this earth bearing one specific spell granted to him from above. No training is required to cast it…no teaching is needed to understand it. The spell is ‘instinctual,’ you might say; a test to see what he shall do with the gift, being it can only be used once in a lifetime. The spell I’ve been given is very dangerous and complex, but it could benefit us greatly. It has to be done at the precise moment, after the sun has risen for seven minutes. The spell consists of a gray cloud that covers a multitude of enemies of my choosing—though no more than what the magic can handle—and traps them in ‘time,’ making them defenseless. If I can cast it over the Cullach guarding the walls, we may have a chance.”

  “But won’t the others within the city see this?” Darshun asked.

  “All eyes that gaze upon the cloud, besides all of you and the Loreladian men, will see what I allow them to see, and nothing else. Can you understand how this spell could be dangerous in the wrong hands? I’m thankful I never used it during my wicked years. Once I cast it, we will have five minutes to accomplish our siege over the wall. By then the spell will vanish, so we must be quick. This is the most important part, so listen carefully…I must dispense of the cloud in precisely five minutes and zero seconds, if not, anyone remaining within, including you and I—will be trapped in time or what we Wizards call ‘Limbus,’ forever! Another price one pays for such mysterious magic. We have to be fast.”

  “Incredible!” Darshun exclaimed, nearly jumping off the ground.

  Olchemy tilted his head. “The consequence of this spell doesn’t frighten you, Darshun?”

  “Well, sure—a little. But it sounds so fascinating. I can hardly wait to see it—especially in the coming onslaught. Yes!”

  The Wizard glanced at Mirabel, then back to Darshun, and
smiled. “Nasharins, such strange folk, especially you young ones with your love for battle.” He laughed.

  Darshun did not understand what was so amusing.

  Olchemy still looked amused as he turned away. “Let us be off.”

  ~~***~~

  At early sunrise, the guards standing by the gates to Zithel noticed a small group of ‘Cullach’ coming toward the city.

  “That’s the patrol from the mountain,” one guard observed. “Why are they returning?”

  “Something dreadful must have happened. Open the gate. Let them in.”

  Slowly, the gate lowered and the ‘mountain Cullach’ approached with their heads stooped low.

  “You there…” The main guard pointed at them. “What news of the mountain?”

  The seemingly downcast Cullach ignored him and held a staff into the air.

  The sun fell dark, a rumbling noise of a tornado could be heard, and a smoky gray cloud rose up from the pasture of grass, spreading around and above the walls of the city quickly.

  Only those among the Light witnessed this change.

  Olchemy had cast the Spell of Lost Time, and for the next five minutes, they stormed up the walls with the grappling hooks and slew over a thousand helpless Cullach. Their bodies fell on the outskirts and Darshun, for a moment, felt sorry for them. With this mysterious spell, they just stood there, frozen, helpless—clueless to what was happening….Mindless warriors. They never stood a chance. Then again, neither would the Light if this Abaddon’s Spell of Destruction was cast. Darshun kept reminding himself of this to justify the killing as he jabbed his sword through another one’s chest, setting his foot against his belly, then kicking him off the wall.

  Oh, and alas—the spell, what a gloriously bizarre spell; being within the cloud was phenomenal, like a dream with everything moving in slow motion. While radiant fuchsia, red, gold, and orange-yellow lights shined down. In Darshun’s mind, the power of Wizards truly did come from Angels, who in turn came from Abidan—the God of the Light.

  When the last Cullach fell…just in the nick of time…Olchemy cast the cloud to the heavens. It disappeared and he felt the power leave him for forever; it’d been used wisely for all were safe.