The Spirit of The Warrior: The Axton Empire book 1

by Ryan Copeland

  However, as he walked along the small lane to the next-door tent, he became aware that all sound ceased as he approached. He could feel hundreds of eyes fixed upon him as he walked on, unsure of what their feelings towards him right now were. He didn’t care, though, all his thought and will was bent on seeing his friends again.

  The warriors of the empire began to part down the middle, offering Michael a clear path to the tent's entrance. Each of the men clad in leather bowed in reverence as he passed. Some he recognized from his trip to the Imperial City, and they, in turn, offered a faint smile and a reassuring pat on his shoulders. The sentinels, however, eyed him with a measure of mistrust, as was their nature. They were, after all, the elite guards to the most powerful man in the known world. But what they and anyone else there couldn't know is the unwavering trust and friendship earned by him to their future emperor. How he, just a boy of sixteen, had called fire and lightning down from the sky and helped smote a demon called from legend. They would never know the tears cried for him and the struggle against evil done for his mission.

  Just outside the tent opening stood Mychala, she alone of the assembled host smiling broadly at the young Mage. She approached him and placed a heavy dragon scaled hand on his shoulder.

  “Do not be afraid,” she whispered. “Inside, you will not find a mighty and vengeful emperor, nor a bloodthirsty ranger. Instead, you will find a grieving father and a lover hoping to save the one they love most, and two proud and mighty warriors who hover between this world and the next.”

  “Which bloodthirsty ranger do you speak of, Mychala?”

  “The Ranger’s First Sergeant, Trevin Moore.”

  “But why would he be in there with Tiberius, when ---” but Michael stopped himself. All at once, he understood what the Dragoon was trying to say. Michael’s heart broke all over again, now for Trevin as much as for the emperor.

  "Who watches over Shayla?"

  Mychala removed her hand from his robe and bowed her head. "I had the honor of watching over my mistress, but I can feel our lord stirring the world beyond. I am no longer needed in there; the Son of Axton will be her guardian now."

  Michael nodded, not entirely understanding what she meant, but deciding now was not the time for questions. He pulled back the flap and entered the dark and musky tent.

  Unlike the one he had awoken in; this tent was shrouded in near darkness. Dozens of candles were arranged in a ring with a giant black banner hanging from the tent's apex. Inside the circle of candlelight, he could see the faint but familiar figures of his friends lying still upon two heavy wooden beds.

  They were lying next to each other, only a foot or so apart. Their arms rested at their side as if asleep, and both wore freshly cleaned simple black and white clothes. In the dim light, Michael could see Tiberius’ usually shaved head had begun to grow a faint amount of stubble. The Dragoon, beautiful as she was, looked almost peaceful and content with her long black hair sprawled out on the pillow she lay on.

  To him, they seemed peacefully asleep, but he had never seen people on the verge of death in a wakeless sleep before. A lump grew in his throat until his eyes looked beyond them. Seated on two small stools, hunched over in thought, sat the two most powerful men in the empire.

  “Hail, Luke Alexander Axton,” Michael began, the lump throbbing in his throat. “Supreme… Supreme…” he stammered.

  The emperor rose, and after two quick strides, rushed to the young Mage and embraced him as if he were his own son. Michael melted in the emperor’s arms and began to sob quietly into his fur skinned clothes. Finally, the emperor broke their hug, nodded approvingly at the Mage, and beckoned him to join them by Tiberius’ side. Michael then saw Trevin, the valiant and brave First Sergeant. His eyes were bloodshot, and his lips trembled.

  “Well met, Brother of the Magi,” Trevin croaked.

  “Hello, Master Trevin,” Michael replied, placing a tender and understanding hand on Trevin’s shoulder. Their eyes met, and in the darkness of the tent, they knew the bond between each other for Tiberius was complete. Michael’s as a companion and trusted friend. Trevin, as a long unrequited and passionate love.

  “Did the Supreme Sorcerer not ride with you, sire?” Michael whispered.

  “He did but had thought it best to leave Trevin and me alone in our vigil,” the emperor replied, motioning for Michael to sit. “Now. Please tell us what happened, and do not leave out any detail of your journey.”

  Michael slowly sat on a small wooden stool between the two grieving men. After a moment to collect his thoughts, he began to recount their adventure in full. The two did not interrupt him as he went on and on for long periods. He knew he had been at it for hours when he felt a sudden chill flow up his spine, a sign that the sun was begging to hang low in the sky. When he had finished, he slumped down, exhausted.

  The two men stared at the boy for many heavy moments before the emperor stood and began to pace as he was prone to do when in deep thought. Trevin, however, continued to stare, bewildered and confused by what he had heard.

  Finally, Trevin cleared his throat and said, “I must confess, I find your tale both amazing and frightening at the same time. The Narzeth conjuring the power of magic is most troubling to my mind. And this talk of dwarves, and Revenants,” he thought for a moment, choosing his next words carefully.

  “I do not doubt your honesty, nor your integrity, Michael. It’s just a little hard to wrap my head around.”

  “Aye,” the emperor said as he paced. “But did we not find a Narzeth in crimson robes when we arrived in the field?”

  “We did, Your Majesty. But—"

  “And did you see any lie in this young man’s face?”

  “No. No, I did not. Though my skill with the Sight is not as great as yours, it was plain enough that Michael spoke true.”

  “Curious though that we have not found any of these dwarves. Do you have any idea where they could be, Michael?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Michael answered. “The Shaman… Bruce… he sacrificed himself against the Revenant, but by his sacrifice made known the power of the Narzeth. Yet for Catherine and her warriors, I cannot know. Last I knew, they were still in the village and in the trenches with Master Rogers.”

  “We searched the village when we arrived,” Trevin said. “My rangers saw many strange footprints in the snow and soot, but no sign of the villagers nor of dwarves. And Master Rogers’s body disappeared shortly after we arrived”

  “Disappeared, sir?” Michael asked.

  “Aye. The Berserker had fallen near you and the Dragoon. We moved them all into this tent. Yet when we came back inside, his body had vanished.”

  “What of the Narzethian Wizard?”

  “Damian is with him in a tent on the outskirts of our camp, surrounded by one hundred of my best knights,” the emperor replied. “He too hovers between our worlds, but gods be damned if he passes before we get some answers from him.”

  Michael was at a loss for words. To have lost a man as fierce as Tygahl and that their eternal enemy had begun to use magic was more than he could bear. Not to mention that this Narzethian could harness magic while the Magi remained powerless was more disturbing than anything he could have imagined.

  Suddenly, his mind turned to Michelle and the villagers they had fought bravely to defend. He thought to ask what had become of them before his logic caught up to his worry. Trevin and the emperor had not said a word on the state of the village because there was nothing left. Tears began welling up in the corner of his eyes. He slumped down further in the stool, overcome with sorrow such as he had not felt in his entire life.

  All through the rest of the day and into the night, he sat vigil over his companions. Not once daring to move out of respect for their friendship. It was just after midnight when his stamina began to fail him. He let out a quiet yawn that he stifled at once, hoping he had not offended the two men he sat with. The emperor placed a hand upon his knee with a kindly smile and bid the Mage re
turn to his tent and rest.

  “I am sorry I cannot continue, Your Majesty,” Michael said.

  “Do not apologize, Michael. You fought just as bravely as your comrades. You deserve a little respite. Go.”

  And after a slow bow and a brief nod to Trevin, Michael slowly exited the tent. A full moon shone down on him. The air was bitterly cold and stung his weary eyes. Yet, now that he was outside the warm tent, he felt awake and rejuvenated. The men guarding the tent were huddled asleep amongst fires in the wide lane in front of the tent. Despite their training and innate distrustfulness, they paid the Mage no bother.

  He walked up and down the vast rows of tents, peering inside here and there to see the various soldiers and knights within fast asleep. On the edge of the camp, he could see rangers and archers posted high in the few trees remaining in the forest, keeping watch throughout the night. Those that noticed him offered a reverent nod, while others seemed to look right past him and into the distance.

  The sleepiness he had just felt seemed to be washed away from him in the open air, and the sudden urge to walk in the moonlight overcame him. No, not overcame him. Compelled him. He turned and looked upon the burned village awash in the brilliant moonlight. He slowly began to walk towards it, eager to see the destruction that had been wrought upon it with his own eyes.

  As he walked, he contemplated the story he had told to the emperor and Trevin. And how, after all he and his companions had been through, they were still no closer to answering the mystery that had started their quest. Nor, for that matter, had they come any closer to ascending the Ice Steps to reach the outpost beyond. To make matters worse, King White seemed bent on open insurrection against the empire. If his evil and malicious fury were to spread, who knows how many other kingdoms would come under his sway?

  How can a man’s hurt ego and pride lead to the death of so many innocents? Michael thought. Dark thoughts for dark times.

  To make matters even worse, the Narzeth had now returned and aligned themselves with the traitorous King. And, apparently, have begun using magic in their evil schemes. Magic, Michael reminded himself, that the empire's own Magi could not seem to use. Mystery upon mystery stacked against them, yet somehow tied together. Had he more wisdom, he might have been able to see the threads that bound their woes together, but for now, his mind was numb to the dangers outside their little slice of the world.

  It was a half-hour later when Michael arrived at the burnt wooden wall that had encircled the Village of Rogers. The bodies of the undead enemy littered the ground, all having felt the wrath of Tygahl’s rage. The wooden buildings beyond were a mess of burned embers and soot. The once snow-covered square where he had stood with Catherine and Tiberius was now scorched black. He walked amongst the destroyed homes and buildings, a great sorrow welling up inside him.

  Had all this been in vain? He thought sadly. Had we, in our hubris and anger at the king, forgotten what we were truly fighting for? Yet if we had not detoured from our path to the Steps, this village would have been waylaid anyhow. What was the point in our delay if the King would sack this village one way or another?

  The grief and sorrow overtook him and sitting upon a small bench just outside the square, Michael buried his face in his hands and began to quietly cry to himself. Time seemed to stop around him, and the cold seemed to disappear from his senses. All he was consumed with was the feelings boiling over inside of him. He had no idea how to help his friends, nor how to continue on the journey he still had yet to complete. Hopelessness and grief consumed him, and he cried on unceasingly.

  “Do not be sad, young one,” a familiar motherly voice said from behind him.

  Michael was on his feet in an instant beheld the last person he had expected to see. Bathed in the pale moonlight, small but still powerful and present, stood Catherine Stonefoot. Her face, as always, bore the familiar look of comfort and knowing. Michael’s rage reached its peak. No longer able to control himself, he marched towards her as quickly as his hobbled leg would allow him.

  “You!?” he growled. “Where in the hells below have you been!? Do you not know what’s happened here!? Do you not care!?” He screamed and raged at her, yet her expression never faltered.

  “I have been here,” she replied. “Waiting for you.”

  His anger boiled over. “Me? You’ve been waiting? For me!? What about Tiberius? And Shayla? What about the villagers? We were supposed to protect them! I was supposed to protect them! And you! You and your dwarves were supposed to keep them safe!”

  She looked up at him, her face the mask of calm and love. “The villagers are safe, Michael. Miss Bearborn is quite the formidable woman and has led them to safety beyond the glade. They await word to return.”

  Michael stared at her blankly, letting his rage subside with relief. But still, questions lingered in his mind. “Where have you been?”

  “Walk with me,” she said, turning to leave the square.

  “I lingered here while you and Bruce battled the Revenant. I communed with the Father, asking him to give you and Bruce wisdom and strength,” she said as they slowly walked amongst the burned building and out into the unburned woods beyond. “And he did not falter or fail us. Even now, he is locked in battle with the dragon king over the soul of the Dragoon.”

  “What are you even saying?” Michael asked. "The Father. The Dragon King. The Spirit of The Warrior. How can they even help us in our world? Their realms are beyond us. Their spirits and wills are contested there. We need help here and now."

  She stopped and turned to look at the Mage. “You believe in dragons from ages past, yes?” she asked.

  “Of course. We have seen their bones, and the books in the Citadel are well stocked in the history of dragons,” Michael replied, growing impatient.

  “And you know of the Father. And of The Warrior Spirit?” Catherine went on.

  Michael was growing impatient now. “I know that you and the berserkers believe in a Father. Just as the rangers believe in The Spirit of The Warrior. But where are they? I don’t see them. Do you?”

  “Know this, young Mage,” Catherine said, firm and resolute. “Gods, demons, spirits. Monsters, dragons, angels. These things are real. Though they no longer walk this world, their spirits endure in the world beyond. Shayla believed in Kazduhl, the dragon king, because he is real. Tygahl believed in the Father because he is real.”

  “I don’t believe, Catherine. How can you believe in things you do not see with your own eyes?”

  She smiled and held her palm face up in front of him. She spoke a simple word in her people's language. In an instant, a brilliant flash of light appeared from the nothingness in front of him. He stared dumbstruck at the magic in her hand. Calm and inviting. Warm but not burning. He was mesmerized by the light and struck frozen at the swiftness from which she conjured it.

  “You believe in magic, yes? Yet magic was not here before I called it. Magic was not here until you learned to wield your wand. Magic was not here until you made the earth rise with the power of your will alone. So, you see, you believe in the power of the unseen.”

  Michael was silent. No words of logic or rationale could begin to describe what he felt. For the first time in a long time, he conceded that things beyond his understanding and knowledge were real. She closed her palm and stood, staring him in his face.

  “Besides,” she said, her smile returning to her face. “You saw the beyond yourself, rather you knew it or not. You saw pure magic. The purest magic resides in the world beyond our world, and only by our mortal wills and determination can we call it down to us.”

  His mind raced, trying to remember anything of the sort before a great understanding dawned on him. “My dream,” he said.

  “Aye, your dream,” she replied after removing her hand. “You were given a gift, Michael. You saw things no one else has. And it was real. Know that. It was as real as you and I are.”

  His head was swimming, but he refocused and remembered his friends. “My fr
iends are suffering, Catherine. I need to save them.”

  “Then you had best go save them, Mage,” she replied, with a motherly smile.

  “I don’t have the wand anymore. Bruce used it to destroy the Revenant, and I fear the wand was destroyed along with him and that beast.”

  “The wand is a tool. Just as the Ranger wields his sword and the Dragon Knight her lance. They are tools. It is the one that wields those tools that can make them do what they are intended to do.”

  “Maybe. But I have not the strength to do it without the wand. And even if I did, magic is not as strong in the world as it used to be.”

  “Aye, you speak true. The wand was made and imbued with the Father’s power. It is a direct connection to the river of magic that flows unseen around us.”

  Michael was growing exasperated at her words. “So, how can I help my friends?”

  She smiled again. “Michael Deerborn answer me this and think before you speak. Do you know and believe in the powers beyond at work in the world around us?”

  Michael broke her gaze and stared about him. The breeze was gone and rendered the woods still. His mind cleared, and he thought about what he had learned and seen since departing the Imperial City. He thought on Shayla and her tale of how the Dragoons received their blessing. He thought on Tiberius and his power Sight. He thought of the Narzethian wizard and the evil power he had wielded.

  In his mind’s eye, he could see Tygahl standing tall and strong, proclaiming the power of the Father was in him. Could see the magic he had conjured from nothing when he laid dying in the woods so long ago. He saw a great sphere with a raging storm engulfing its surface. And he knew. In an instant, he knew.