Arcane (The Arinthian Line Book 1)

by Sever Bronny

  “Or a wolf,” Augum said, wishing he had his sword with him.

  There was a rustling followed by what sounded like a child’s sob.

  “Shyneo,” Bridget said. “Who’s there—? Show yourself!”

  Pine branches parted revealing a dirty young boy in ragged cloth, sniffing and rubbing his eyes. He looked to be five years old and reminded Augum of Leland.

  “Mommy—?”

  Bridget surged forward. “A child—! Come here, little boy, come out from under those branches—”

  “Wait—!” Leera said, but it was too late. The boy flashed a greedy smile and crawled over the ruined wall, where he suddenly began transforming—the skin rapidly grew hair, a snout formed from the nose, and his hands took the shape of paws.

  Bridget screamed as Leera and Augum snatched her away from the wolf-like creature. Its eyes shone the color of blood, its body twice the size.

  The moment the transformation stopped, the beast pounced, snapping its black-toothed jaws. Bridget barely got her hands up in time as it clamped down on her right forearm. She raised a bloodcurdling shriek as the wolf-thing started thrashing, tossing her around like a rag doll, knocking Augum and Leera aside.

  Spitting snow, Augum remembered something about the Shine spell, something he had yet to try.

  “Shyneo!”

  His palm ruptured with lightning. He lunged at the thing and grabbed a chunk of its squishy flesh, concentrating on giving it a shock. Yet the moment he touched it, he knew he had lost arcane control; his body stiffened, the space around him warped, and time slowed.

  He found himself sitting on Mt. Barrow, extending his hand towards a stone. A moment later, he was back in the tent at Hangman’s Rock, reaching for a claw. Suddenly he was flying over the Tallows, lightning blazing at rapid intervals, a looming mass ahead. He sensed what was coming before it happened—a ripping flash and a surging heat. As his world blackened, something sizzled and yelped.

  When he opened his eyes, he had no idea how much time had passed, or where he was. His body shivered and he appeared to be lying in snow. He saw a freckled girl’s head framed in starlight, eyes tearful and frightened. She started shaking him.

  “Get up, Augum, get up!”

  He gave her a lost look. Who was she and what did she want?

  “Get up—Bridge needs our help—!”

  Upon hearing Bridget’s name, it all rushed back—along with a wave of nausea that made him wobble. He scrambled to his feet, trying to keep from throwing up. “Where’s the thing—is it gone?”

  “It ran towards the castle after you shocked it. Bridget’s hurt! We need to take her inside.”

  He rushed to Bridget. She gave him a wild look that raised bumps on his arms. Hair stuck in clumps to her shiny forehead. The robe on her right arm was shredded and stained with blood.

  “There’s snow in my eyes,” she gurgled.

  He and Leera exchanged looks before hoisting her up. Leera grabbed Bridget by the waist while he wrapped her good arm around his neck.

  Bridget cried out in pain. “When Father returns, we’re going on a journey …”

  “She’s delirious,” Leera said. “Bite must have been poisonous.”

  They stumbled toward the castle. Along the way, Augum spotted the creature’s footprints in the snow. His heart nearly stopped when he saw they led straight to the castle doors—and they were open.

  Bridget’s skin now burned through her robe. “It’s so pretty outside. I don’t feel well, Mommy.”

  “Hang in there, Bridge—” Leera said, voice infused with panic.

  They made it through the repaired outer doors. Augum felt his body stiffen as he braced for an attack.

  Bridget was now slurring her words like a drunk. “Water … thirsty … tell Father … I’ll return,” then her eyes rolled back into her head and her body slumped.

  They carried her through the inner doors, which were also open.

  Augum scanned the foyer. “Mya, Sir Gallows, anyone—we need help here—!” His words echoed up the castle stairs as Bridget’s head lolled about between them.

  From somewhere above came the sound of frantic shouting.

  “Let’s take her to Sir Dollard Canes’ room,” he said, hoping Mya was there attending to the injured knight.

  They trundled along as fast as they dared to the second floor, where Canes was recovering; but upon entering, they discovered Mya absent and Canes asleep, forehead beaded with sweat, bandage soaked through with fresh blood.

  “Next room over—” Leera said. They rushed Bridget next door to a dark room with a dirty bed. Lighting their palms, they laid her down, carefully placing her injured arm on her stomach. She stirred, moving her lips.

  Leera placed her ear close. “Did you say something, Bridge—?”

  “Oxy …”

  For Augum, the word brought back memories of identifying herbs in the forest with Sir Westwood, though he could not quite remember what oxy looked like.

  “I think it’s some kind of herb,” he said. “I need to get my sword and find Mya, maybe she could help.”

  Bridget’s head shifted from side to side. “The man … no hair … oxy …”

  “She’s trying to tell us something,” Leera said.

  “Bald … arms … water …” and she passed out.

  Augum locked eyes with Leera. “The fountain—!” they chorused.

  “She must mean oxy is near the fountain,” he said. “You stay here and keep the door shut. I’m going to get my sword and make a run for it.”

  Leera nodded and started tearing pieces of cloth from the feather-filled mattress. He guessed she was going to start binding the wound like Mya would have, though he knew blood loss was not the concern here.

  “Aug—!” she called as he was closing the door, freckled face glistening in the watery light of her palm. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  He closed the door and ran as fast as he could up the steps, screeching to a halt on the landing between the second and third level where he found two people sprawled on the floor.

  “Shyneo.” His stomach plunged when he recognized Mya. Her almond-shaped eyes were closed, long jet hair splayed out around her head. She had a bite on her arm, but thankfully still breathed.

  He palmed her forehead; skin was fire hot. He needed to find that herb immediately.

  He glanced at the other body. Amongst the armor was a big red bush of hair—Sir Fostian Red. The knight was pale, bloody, and completely still.

  Augum continued racing up the stairs and into his room, where the blade stood in the corner. He tore it from its sheath then grabbed his waterskin, fumbling to tie it to his waist. Water would help flush the poison …

  Hurry, hurry, hurry!

  He bolted from the room, halting at the foot of the steps to listen, breath escaping in short bursts. Shouts echoed from somewhere above. He glanced over his shoulder and happened to spot Fentwick standing before Bridget and Leera’s door.

  “Fentwick, we have an intruder! Go down to the second floor and guard the room Bridget and Leera are in. It’s the one across the way with the closed door.”

  “As mine lord commands.” Fentwick limped off, screeching, “Hark, knaves, villains and foes! Hark, for thou shalt lament thy deceitful ways!”

  Augum wished the clumsy thing would go faster. Sword in hand, he sprinted up toward the fourth floor. As he drew close, he heard a loud growl and then Gallows’ voice.

  “Edrian—get behind it!”

  “I’m trying, I’m trying—!” Castor said, before suddenly screaming.

  Augum raced up the rest of the steps to find the beast tumbling with Castor. Blood sprayed as Gallows tried to pry them apart. Nearby, two more bodies lay on the floor—Sir Wilbur Brack and his brother, Sir Wilfred Brack. The Nightsword held a battle stance before the library doors, blade drawn. He gave Augum a cold look. Muffled cries came from behind him; everyone else had to have barricaded themselves in the library.
/>   “It’s too damn strong!” Gallows said through gritted teeth.

  The Nightsword took a step toward them.

  “No, Sir Quick—stay and guard the door in case the other one comes back—”

  Other one? What other—something slammed into Augum from behind, sending him sprawling. The sword flew from his hand and clanged down the stairs. He did not even have time to get up before the thing was on him, jaws snapping. He twisted and flailed, trying to punch and kick it off, all to no avail—the beast was far too strong.

  His left arm exploded with white-hot pain. For a moment, he thought someone was branding him. He screamed as the searing pain drove deeper, one jarring movement at a time. He chanced a look and saw black jagged teeth sunken into his flesh. Malevolent red eyes stared at him. They reflected the end of his life; all his aspirations, his dreams, everyone he cared about—all of it would end soon. They made him think of his father.

  Murderer … damn you!

  He stared back, determined not to show fear. Another hot surge of agony shot through his arm and a warm feeling began to course through his body, helped along with every beat of his heart.

  The poison …

  The thought crystallized his focus. Existence became just him and the beast, eye-to-eye, tooth-to-flesh. Pain subsided to a dull thud as he felt the familiar sensation of time slowing to a crawl. Clarity returned and the space around him warped, as if he was peering through a glass globe. The thing gradually growled—a low-pitched, stretched guttering. He watched it carefully, waiting for the precise moment. The energy within him ebbed and flowed, desperate to go wild. When the moment came, he steeled himself and slammed his open palm into the side of the beast’s head.

  “SHYNEO!”

  The time dilation allowed him to see the lightning emerge from his palm and spider around the thing’s head. Lightning fingers crept through every one of its rigid hairs, circling its crimson eyes and tearing the pupils apart.

  As the last of this energy expelled, the beast exploded backwards in a percussive burst of light. It slammed into the far wall, leaving a bloody splat stain. As it fell, time rapidly sped back up, so much so that Augum vomited from the onrushing nausea, acid burning his throat and mouth.

  He slipped around as he fought to stand in blood and vomit. The smell was almost enough to make him pass out.

  He blearily took in the scene—Castor lay in a bloody heap, Gallows wrestled with the other wolf-thing, and the Nightsword still had not intervened, even though Gallows looked to be losing the fight.

  “Help him—!” Augum gurgled.

  “No!” Gallows said. “Guard … library!”

  The Nightsword gave Augum a cold look—and did not move.

  Augum’s arm stung as if it had been plunged into a molten vat. Just don’t look at it, he told himself.

  His vision tunneled, shrinking down to the size of a grapefruit. He descended a few steps, stumbled, and fell down the rest. He felt around the landing before becoming dimly aware he was gripping his sword.

  Standing up was difficult. The black tunnel widened and closed as if breathing. He could barely feel his body as he staggered to where Gallows rolled with the beast. He raised his sword over what he judged to be rotten fur and thrust downwards with all his strength. The sword plunged deep into flesh. He placed all his weight on the pommel. It pressed against his stomach. Something strong flailed underneath and promptly tossed him aside as if he was made of straw. There was a long moaning shriek and then quiet.

  “Is … it … dead …?” Augum slurred.

  Gallows rolled away from the furry mass, covered in blood.

  “Unnameable gods … it bit me. The vile thing bit me! Where’s the other one—?”

  Augum, too tired to inform him the other one was dead, simply shuffled off holding his left arm, leaving the sword embedded in the beast. Gallows called after him but he just kept going. There was no time; he had to find the fountain.

  He careened through the black door of the forest room. “Shyneo,” but his palm did not light up. “SHYNEO!” Still his palm refused to light. He was vaguely aware that what had actually come out of his mouth was probably gibberish. He stumbled forward in the dark, determined to find the fountain anyway, but tripped and fell face-first into the foliage. He knew he needed to stand but it just felt so good to rest, like curling up beside a warm fire after trekking all day in the snow.

  He did not know how much time had passed, but when he became conscious that he was not doing anything, he fought to stand. Then something fantastic happened—he could see the path! Ever so dimly, the moss on the trail glowed, lighting his way.

  He barely felt his feet squish into the moss. He passed through waves of hot, cold and nausea. Shakes came and went like the light of a teetering lantern in a storm.

  Sir Westwood’s face swam before him. “When you do not have a torch, use the light of the moon. When there is no moon, use the stars. When there are no stars, use the moss. When there is no moss, disappear …”

  His vision narrowed down to the size of a plum as he stumbled through the bush, grabbing branches for support with his good arm, the injured one dangling uselessly.

  Suddenly there was the fountain, right before him. He wavered, trying to recall why he had come, when his vision closed completely and he fell. He did not feel the impact with the ground however, only a cold sensation as his head plunged into the shallow pool of water. Thirsty and delirious, he took a large gulp. Water had never tasted so fresh. The cool liquid invigorated him instantly. His senses roared.

  He sat up, dripping. “Shyneo.” His palm fluttered to life. The light and pain faintly pulsed to the beat of his heart.

  He had come here for something, but it was like trying to think through a fog. The water’s clarifying effects already began to wear off. From some distant place came the thought he was dying.

  He glanced at the fountain. He could rest here, just a little nap …

  The stone statue of the bald man peered at him, serene and calm. Did it just smile—?

  He thought goose bumps rose on his skin. He lifted his arm to check if it was so, only to see torn flesh and oozing blood. Bile rose up his throat as a wave of nausea blackened his vision. Before complete unconsciousness overtook him, he plunged the arm into the basin of water. There was a prickly sensation, as if a thousand ants began nibbling. It was strangely soothing. When the sensation went away, he removed his arm. The bleeding had stopped and the wound seemed to be slowly closing. He gawked at it, unsure if he could trust his eyes.

  Although the wound became less of a worry, flushes of heat and cold surged. His entire body ached. There was still the poison, and it was winning. Vision once again narrowed as a distant field of yellow grass flickered below. All he wanted to do was go to sleep.

  Must … stay … awake …

  He loosened the waterskin and with a shaking hand filled it in the pool.

  “So how are things coming along, Augum?” Sir Tobias Westwood asked, a straw of wheat in his mouth, curly gray hair unkempt as usual. He sat cross-legged on the ground across from him, dressed in a brown leather jerkin, mustard hose, steel gauntlets and field boots.

  “Not so well, Sir …” The voice in his head somehow did not match what came out of his mouth.

  Sir Westwood spat on the ground. “Oh? Why is that?”

  “I can’t seem to get my thoughts together …” The dark closed in.

  The old knight squinted up at the sun, sweat glistening on his brow. “It is rather hot out. Maybe you should have a drink of water.”

  Birds chirped, grass rustled softly. Augum put a hand between his eyes and the bright sun, thinking it indeed was hot out. “All right … one drink … don’t let anyone know …”

  Sir Westwood crunched the straw in his teeth. “Focus, Augum.”

  Augum let his head fall into the fountain and this time, like a man lost in the desert, drank as much as he could. When he raised his head, cool water dribbled down his chest
. The black tunnel retreated, but not completely. His arm tingled.

  “Ah, that’s better. Sir, do you think we could rest now?”

  Sir Westwood picked at dirty fingernails. “Of course not, we are in the middle of training. Now tell me, Augum, what did you come here for?”

  “What did I come here for …” The question seemed deep and profound. Indeed, why was he here? What purpose did his life serve? Who was he really? It was such a good question; Sir Westwood always asked good questions …

  Suddenly it hit him.

  “I came here for … I came here for an herb! You showed it to me once …”

  “I did indeed. You remember—it was a grassy knoll and there was a large spruce bent at an awkward angle.”

  “I remember … it was a grassy knoll … there was a large spruce bent at an awkward angle … and you showed me a plant … black shoots and blue leaves.”

  “Black shoots and blue leaves.”

  The tunnel tightened.

  “Was it … was it oxy, Sir?”

  “Oxy.” Sir Westwood spat on the ground.

  Augum followed to where he spat and saw black shoots and blue leaves everywhere. “Oxy …” He began scooping it with his good hand. After he grabbed all he could carry, he turned to Sir Westwood.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  The old knight smiled.

  Augum crammed an oxy shoot in his mouth and chewed. It had a milky, acidic tang. His heart immediately quickened and Sir Westwood disappeared, briefly leaving an afterglow. Had that all been real? How had he found his way without his palm being lit—?

  “Shyneo.” His palm sputtered to life, weak and still tied to the beating of his heart. He examined his injured arm. It had almost completely healed. There was no time to gawk at the miracle of it though; he had to save the others.

  He raced through the wild growth, through the black door, and on down the hall, skidding to a halt as he spotted a bloody Nightsword slumped against the library doors.

  “Hello—? Anyone here?”

  From behind the door came the muffled voice of Gertrude Grinds. “One of them is still alive! Seek shelter, Augum. Seek. Shelter!” It was followed by muted cries from the servant girls.