Heroes of the Crystal Star (Valcoria Book 1)

by Jason James King

  “I suppose,” he said, “part of it comes from being a soldier.” He stared at the crystal blue star pulsing softly from an unfathomable distance. “But the rest comes from having a cause.”

  “I’as don’t get it.”

  “When a man finds something to believe in, something greater than himself, he can do anything.” Sitrell’s breath caught as he realized he had just quoted his father.

  “An what’s yer coz?”

  “I don’t really know anymore.” He shook his head. “Life used to make sense, but now I feel as though I don’t understand anything.” He bowed his head and then turned to look at Yuiv who was staring at the same crystal star.

  Sitrell started as his gaze fell on the boy’s face. To his utter astonishment, Yuiv’s eyes were glowing. Not simply reflecting the lights in the night sky or the newly ignited cook fire crackling a few meters away, but actually glowing blue, the same crystal blue as Trysta Jiann.

  “Yuiv…” Sitrell gasped.

  Yuiv turned his shimmering stare on Sitrell, a questioning look on his face. “What?”

  “Your eyes…” Sitrell was cut off by a sudden explosion of shouting.

  He whipped around to see three riders gallop out of the darkness into the light of their cook fire. Each of the three men wielded a weapon and had the dark complexion common to the descendants of Aukae. We were followed! That thought, coupled with the realization of his uselessness in battle, crashed down on Sitrell, chilling his blood and igniting a panic inside him.

  He watched in impotence as his escort of three Royal Guards attempted to engage the group of riders. One of the riders, a bald, dark skinned man with a spear, broke free of the tussle and rode in Sitrell’s direction while his two comrades leapt from their horses with an acrobatic expertise that could mean only one thing—they were highly trained warriors. Imperial Guards!

  His conclusion proved all too true as he watched the two Aukasian men laughing as they dueled with the soldiers of his escort. It was a pathetic sight as the two Imperial Guards were clearly toying with the Hirathi guards, apparently allowing them to live longer than they had a right to in such a mismatched conflict.

  “Sitrell!” Yuiv shouted, calling him back to the moment just in time to see the bald, dark-skinned rider dismount in front of them. Cursing himself for hesitating, Sitrell reached to his belt, drew his flintlock pistol, and attempted to take aim. To his horror, the bald man spun his spear down at Sitrell’s hand, the steel point striking his weapon and knocking it into the darkness. Sitrell stared up at his assailant, bracing himself for a spear thrust through the heart, but it didn’t come. Instead, the Aukasian soldier glanced down at the bandages visible under Sitrell’s coat, and apparently deciding that he was no threat, turned his attention to Yuiv.

  The boy whimpered as he scooted backward across the ground. He attempted to rise, an action which the Aukasian soldier foiled by bringing his spear up and pressing the point to Yuiv’s chest. That forced him back to the ground with a thud as his head hit a rock.

  “For pity’s sake, he’s just a boy!” Sitrell found himself shouting, but the Aukasian did not react. He stared impassively at Yuiv who was trembling beneath the point of his spear.

  The sound of a shot reflexively drew Sitrell’s gaze to the two Imperial Guards fighting on the other side of the cook fire where the tall, long-haired soldier held a smoking flintlock pistol inches away from the face of one of the Hirathi guards whose body then crumpled to the ground. Two other corpses lay at the feet of the Aukasian men, making Sitrell and Yuiv the only survivors of the raid. Not survivors, Sitrell thought, just the last to die.

  They were going to die.

  Sitrell forced himself to look at Yuiv. He would watch the boy die. As terrible as it was, he felt an obligation to witness it. After all, didn’t Yuiv deserve to have a friend in his last moment? Someone to mourn for him even if only briefly―for Sitrell was confident his execution would follow soon after. Yes, he would watch and mourn, for he had decided that Yuiv was more than just a lost orphan clinging to him for stability. Yuiv was his friend.

  Jalek stared down at the boy quaking beneath his spear. Try as he might, he could not muster the will to run the child through. He had never really wanted to kill him, and the only reason he tried to now was to spare the lad torture at the hands of Iok and Nadal. Picturing what the two sadistic Imperial Guards might do to the boy, images that turned his stomach, he offered a silent prayer to YaJiann for the courage to follow through with his strike, but nothing came. It was as though he could not physically bring himself to harm him. Frustrated, Jalek gritted his teeth as he locked eyes with his victim, and that’s when he saw it. His eyes! Jalek stared down at the boy in bewildered astonishment. They’re glowing!

  The crystal blue light emanating from the Lisidran urchin’s eyes was hypnotic, catching Jalek’s gaze and trapping him in it so that he couldn’t look away. As the azure glow burned brighter, something seemed to pass from the boy and into him, an invisible electric force that resonated throughout Jalek’s entire body, shaking him to the core. It invoked a recurrence of the powerful feeling Jalek had experienced earlier that day, the sensation of an inner fire springing to life in his chest. Again Jalek felt all his weariness, pain, and physical presence vanish, replaced by a feeling of magnified strength and endless energy. What was happening to him?

  “Well done, Jalek,” commented Iok in a flat tone as he approached from behind. “You managed to defeat a child and an invalid while we took on three of Amigus’ finest. I am glad to know we can count on you to do your share of the fighting.”

  “Where’s Sen, Jalek?” asked Nadal as he walked up to stand a few paces behind his left shoulder. “You said he was with this company.”

  Jalek found himself unable to turn to face the two Imperial Guards. Instead, he remained transfixed on the boy’s glowing eyes. As he stared into those two liquid pools of luminescent blue, he felt as though he were somehow connecting with the boy on a level that transcended the realm of the physical, as though their very souls were communicating. In that moment of pure spiritual union, he felt bound to the boy in a way that was stronger than family ties, patriotic oaths, or religious vows. In that moment of unsurpassed, pristine clarity, Jalek realized he couldn’t kill him. No, he had to protect him.

  “You think this boy can tell us what’s going on?” Nadal asked as he shot a glance at Iok.

  “Oh, he’ll tell us.” Iok chuckled. “I once put the famous General Hostar to the question. He was supposedly so tough that everyone said he was unbreakable. Well, by the time I finished with him, he was crying and calling for his mother.”

  Nadal laughed.

  “We’ll get what we want out of this filthy Amigus waif,” Iok said.

  “Give him over, Jalek,” Nadal said as he shoved past, forcing Jalek’s spear to the side with his left hand. “I want at him first.”

  To Jalek’s surprise, the trembling boy cast a pleading look at him as if he felt their connection and knew of Jalek’s determination to help him.

  That unspoken plea was the catalyst.

  With a speed Jalek had never thought possible, he shot his right arm forward, caught Nadal by the scruff of his cloak, and flung him backwards, hurling the large man through the air as though he weighed little more than a child. With a startled cry of pain, Nadal crashed into the cook fire a dozen feet away. He rolled back and forth on the ground, flailing in a desperate attempt to pat out clinging flames. Jalek shot a warning glare at Iok who stood dumbfounded at the surprise display of unnatural strength.

  “You will not touch the boy.” Jalek’s voice resonated over the plain, louder than any mortals’ should.

  “Your eyes…” Iok stammered as he shrank beneath Jalek’s withering stare.

  Jalek wasn’t sure what Iok meant, but he did feel something happening to his eyes, as if the fire inside him were blazing out of his sockets.

  Iok’s cowed expression faded as indignation dispelled his fear. H
e raised his sword and shouted, “How dare you! You self righteous Aelic zealot.” Iok tensed as he settled into a preparation stance with his sword raised just over his head, the point angling downward toward Jalek.

  “I’m going to kill you, slowly!” spat Iok. “But I don’t think that will be enough for me, no.” He shook his head. “I think your insults entitle me to more than just your blood. I think that after we take Salatia Taeo, I’m going to return to the empire and find your wife.” Iok smiled. “Yes, I know you’re married. I saw her once. You brought her to the emperor’s ascension ball. She’s a pretty one, Jalek, with that curly, dark hair and those long legs.”

  On his peripheral, Jalek saw Nadal scrambling to his feet and making to retrieve his sword. Iok continued his tirade, which Jalek knew, though all too sincere, was also a strategy for giving Nadal enough time to recover so that they could strike together. Why wait for Nadal? Could it be that Iok was afraid to attack him alone? No that was ridiculous.

  “You owe me, Jalek, for denying me my pleasures this morning. I’m going to get what I deserve, though, from Lady Larale.” Iok flashed a malicious grin. “I’m going do to her all the things I was going to do to that Amigus chit! How does that sound?”

  Nadal closed in on his left flank. The moment he had dreaded had come, yet for some reason, he found that he was not the least bit afraid. The power burning inside him lent him a level of confidence he had never before known, and quelled all fear. He was ready for them.

  With a signal glance to his companion, Iok rushed forward and the fight began. Jalek leaned aside, flowing like a reed around Iok’s descending blade. He whirled the spear, blocking Nadal’s cross stroke. The same motion that pushed the sword away evolved into a counter strike. Jalek twirled his spear and brought the point down, tearing a large gash in Nadal’s sculpted bicep. Nadal cried out in pain and reprised with a wild sword swing which Jalek ducked.

  To the consternation of the two Imperial Guards, Jalek continued to dodge and parry their increasingly fiercer attacks. His motions were so quick and smooth that it felt as if they were practiced rehearsals, as though he knew what his attackers were going to do before they did it.

  Jalek felt as though he could do the impossible, and so he tried just that. Channeling his internal fire into his legs, he pushed off the ground and launched himself twelve feet into the air, twisting in an arc over Iok and Nadal and landing gracefully behind them. Not allowing them time to recover from their astonishment, Jalek willed his inner fire into his right arm swinging his spear in an upward motion, slamming it into Nadal’s back. The point slid through the man’s torso unhindered by bone or sinew and exploded out of his chest in a spray of blood. Nadal exhaled and then went limp, dying without so much as a groan or comment from his stunned comrade.

  Before the fire returned to his center, Jalek gripped his spear with both hands, lifted Nadal’s corpse into the air and swung the man to his right like a giant fleshy flail. The spear broke as Nadal’s body hurled into Iok, knocking the man hard to the ground and parting him from his sword. Covered in his comrade’s blood, Iok floundered, desperately looking for his weapon, but it was too late. Jalek appeared standing over him, the splintered haft of his spear held aloft in his right hand. Iok shot out his arm in a desperate attempt to grab his sword lying on the ground just inches outside his reach. He stretched, brushing the handle with his fingers, but before he could grip it, Jalek plunged the splintered spear into his outstretched arm, causing him to cry out.

  Jalek stared down at Iok, pale and trembling, as he feebly tried to extract the large piece of splintered wood from his arm. He expected to feel pity for the defeated man, but instead he only felt an intense disgust. Iok was a monster who had raped and murdered women and children, a man who did nothing to contribute to the good of the world, a man driven by lust and greed incapable of offering anything but pain and misery. Iok was a destroyer and YaJiann taught that such people did not have a place in His kingdom, but were to be cast out into the cold of the Void, their souls wandering forever through the cosmos as worthless vagabonds.

  Jalek leaned down, directed his inner fire into his right arm, gripped Iok by the throat, and lifted him from the ground and into the air.

  “Jalek!” Iok rasped, “Have mercy.”

  Jalek stared up into Iok’s face. “Mercy?” He scoffed. “Mercy is for those who possess the same, who themselves can show compassion. You are past that. You are only a destroyer.”

  “Please!” Iok tried to scream as he struggled against Jalek’s iron grasp.

  “You won’t hurt anyone ever again.” With a sharp twist of his wrist, Jalek snapped Iok’s neck and let him fall to the ground. He turned from the two mangled corpses lying at his feet to face the Amigus orphan boy watching from his place on the ground several feet away. His eyes were no longer glowing. Instead his mouth hung open, a look of profound shock framing his pale face.

  He’s safe! That thought, as satisfying as it was, was the trigger for the sudden withdrawal of Jalek’s power. As if doused with cold water, his internal flame snuffed and his sense of physical self crashed back into him. Jalek collapsed to his knees under a crushing weight of fatigue mixed with unbearable pains in his legs and arms. To make matters worse, his perfect confidence had evaporated, leaving him with an assortment of worries and fears and one terrifying realization. I’m a traitor.

  Jalek hadn’t started the fight to save his own life. No, it had been to protect an enemy of his country. Someone who had been on course to deliver critical information to the leaders of Amigus, information that could ruin their campaign and cost their army thousands of Aukasian lives, lives of loyal patriots, and innocent soldiers like Malik. Not only would Jalek be the cause of all those deaths, but he could very well have laid the groundwork for Aukasia’s ultimate defeat.

  What would Azanoth say?

  I will cast you out of the House of Larale, Jalek thought he heard his brother reply.

  “Azanoth,” Jalek whispered before falling forward onto his face.

  Sitrell watched with a sense of incredulous relief as the remaining Aukasian soldier fell to the ground and passed out. He still couldn’t accept what he’d seen as reality. The man had fought with speed and strength that Sitrell had never before seen or thought possible, and his eyes! They glowed crystal blue just like Yuiv’s. Sitrell turned to look at the boy. He had risen and was walking over to the fallen Aukasian soldier, the man who had saved them from certain death. He was an enemy soldier to be sure, but one to whom they owed their lives. Why did he save us? He had seemed so intent on killing Yuiv until his eyes started to glow.

  “Yuiv” Sitrell softly called, the moment somehow demanding reverence.

  The boy ignored him as he knelt over the unconscious man and laid a hand on his bald head. He closed his eyes and muttered something as he wrinkled his brow in apparent exertion. After a moment of this, Yuiv opened his eyes, which were again glowing, and collapsed backward to the ground breathing hard. After a moment, the crystal blue light faded from his eyes.

  “He’ll be okay” he said, still breathing hard from the exertion of his ministration.

  Whatever the injury suffered by the Aukasian soldier, it had vanished. The man was still unconscious, but no longer struggling for breath. Yuiv had cured him. Sitrell realized he had just witnessed miracles every bit as supernatural as anything recorded in the Salia Kitha. Perhaps Taeborn’s Second Wonder wasn’t a lie, he thought. Perhaps his father and brother weren’t gone. Maybe there is still a chance for me to know.

  The crown showed Yaokken how to build a weapon greater than anything ever crafted by the whole of the human race. With it, Yaokken, who now called himself Imperator, could rain destruction down from the heavens and subdue the other nations of the world.

  Interlude I

  Slave of Fate

  Etai stood in the quiet dark of the early morning hour staring down at the small, stone grave marker rising more than a foot out of the ground at his feet
. It was an irregular shape, cut from granite and rough along the edges, but for the most part square. A tangle of wild grass and thistles had grown up around the headstone, forcing Etai to search for the better part of an hour before he found it again. Yet there it stood, looking much the way it did the last time he had come to visit, save that the name he had chiseled into the monument’s face had all but worn away. I’ll have to fix that. He swore for what was probably the hundredth time. He knelt down and reverently ran his fingers over the one letter still visible on the face of the headstone.

  “I’ve been away too long,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  He tried to make it to the gravesite as often as he could, but over the long years his visits had become more infrequent, sometimes even separated by decades, and it likely would have been another ten or twenty years before he could have made it back had it not been for the “Call.”

  Etai had been far away in the east, across the ocean, when the Call had come as it always did; a forceful pull on his mind that afflicted him with an oppressive anxiety until he obeyed it. Though always subtle, the Call was an inescapable cord binding him, an invisible leash tethered to his very soul. Early on he had tried to resist it, not so much out of rebellion as out of ignorance, but in the end it always overpowered him. He always had to obey. He was surprised to find that he still resented that. After all this time, he thought that he should have come to accept the reality of his indentured servitude, but a part of him still balked at the idea. The resultant spite could only be repressed when he reminded himself that he had chosen his fate. No one had forced it upon him.

  As it often did, the Call came at an inopportune time, ordering Etai to even greater inconveniences and forcing him to abandon whatever he was engaged in. That irked him, for it wasn’t as though he had been neglecting his duty. In fact, it was his charge that had carried him across the great deep to the uninhabited ruins of the eastern continent. Yet he knew that his frustration was pointless. There was nothing that could be done. He was a slave of fate, blown about upon its currents as a leaf upon the wind. Silara, that’s what he had been called, a word that meant “Slave of Fate.”