by Nikolas Rex
Wielder of the Flame
by
Nikolas Rex
Copyright © 2015 Nikolas Rex
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author
Copyright © 2015 Nikolas Rex
All rights reserved
ISBN-10: 1514770334
ISBN-13: 978-1514770337
To Mac, for not giving up.
PROLOGUE
An old man raced down the winding corridors of an ancient library.
The Destroyer had finally found him.
It had come for blood, at the very least.
The old man’s midnight blue robes flowed behind him as he ran, resembling a banner in the wind. Strands of long, wild gray hair poked out from underneath the brim of his cowl. In one hand he grasped a small murky orb about the size of his fist. The thick, colorless substance within it sloshed around sluggishly, awaiting instruction. Ornate, golden, braziers lined the walls, their bluish glow revealing a path he already knew by heart.
Sounds of battle echoed through the hallways behind him, good men sacrificing their lives to give him enough time to escape. They were loyal protectors of the Ascendant Sages, warriors who had been born and raised in the Keep. They would defend the old wizards to the death. A deafening roar echoed over the clash of swords.
The noise triggered painful memories of conflicts past and the old man’s blood chilled in his veins because of them. He hastened his step in response.
“Doth-na-klin!” He said to the orb in a commanding voice, awake and arise.
He preferred to use Runemagic when preparing an orb to travel the Unseen Paths. It was a more precise way to structure the enchantment, but required a more stationary stance to execute accurately, and he could not afford making any mistakes in forming the runes with the gestures of his free hand as he ran. So he settled with an incantation in the old tongue, the language of the Exalted.
It was only a matter of time. He thought as he began the spell. His leather shod feet still made quick thudding sounds against the floor as he passed swiftly through the library.
There were only a dozen trusted people who knew of the plan to gather the six remaining crystal shards and hide them across Lyrridia. Even fewer knew of the enchanted map which specifically pointed out their locations. And only he, one other surviving Ascendant Sage, and the Oracle, knew of the six orbs that connected to Unseen Paths which lead directly to those shards for their swift recovery.
Had one of the dozen been interrogated? Or had it been the other Ascendant Sage? If it had been one of the dozen, then their enemy would only know of the existence of the map and that was the least grave of the possible cases. He knew it could not be the Oracle, having just conversed with her less than a fortnight’s time ago, and the thought relieved him, but only somewhat.
He did not have time to dwell on such questions now and shook his head to focus on the enchantment, uttering the words of power through wheezing breaths.
The roar sounded through the hallways again, closer this time.
The old man stumbled, the orb almost slipping in his sweaty grasp. He recovered and re-secured his grip on it. It was a delicate thing, easily broken. A problem he and the other Ascendant Sages had tried to solve long ago, but to no avail.
In truth, the old man had no idea what would happen if it was destroyed. The purpose of the orbs was to allow one to walk the Unseen Paths. The magic inside was drawn from the Great Crystal itself, the bringer of magic into their world. Unless prepared and contained with the proper enchantment, it was highly unstable. One of the Ascendant Sages held to the theory that the destruction of an orb, prepared or not, would cause an outward explosion of enormous proportions. The massive sphere thus created would move without direction or control, with no instruction of what to transport, or from where to when. The magic would simply obliterate any and everything in its vicinity.
He did not want that.
He skidded around the last corner to face a staircase. A large door offered sanctuary at the top. Without hesitation the old man took the steps two at a time. His legs ached in protest, but he did not stop. He continued to mutter the words to mold the substance within the sphere, sifting through its essence to open an Unseen Path to the Oracle. The orb flashed a brilliant white, illuminating the old man’s countenance. As the light faded, a hint of blue emerged from its center. He was close to finishing the spell. He knew it would be ready when it became blue—a dark, pure blue of the sky on a warm, cloudless, day.
He arrived at the top of the stairs. As he reached for the gold ring handle, he hastily checked the intricate golden inlay scrawled on the polished surface. The rich brown color of the door made it easy to see if any of the ancient symbols were blemished, which they were not. He yanked the heavy door open, the hinges creaking from its weight.
The old man struggled to catch his breath. Sweat dripped off his brow. A dark tunnel lay before him.
Covering the orb with his free hand he turned his attention to the darkened hall and spoke a single word of power “Aceso!” Bright blue light lit up the narrow space as instructed by the Sage.
Before he could step through the threshold and shut the door behind him, however, the roof of the hallway at the bottom of the stairs exploded inwards and a gargantuan beast crashed through, landing heavily against the floor. The old man whirled to face the intruder. It was a fiend dredged up from the depths of darkness and death, half wrought of black mists and the other half a ghastly mixture of rotting flesh, scales, sinew and bones forming together a monstrous dragon.
It raised its enormous head, locking eyes with the old man. Hate radiated from the fiend’s terrifying glare as it opened its maw to roar. Molten slag dripped from its blackened teeth.
The Ascendant Sage slammed the door shut behind him as the thing below belched a torrent of flames up the stairs. The door, an ancient artifact from the Illuminated Era, was no ordinary wooden thing. It was old, but it should stand against the beast long enough for the old man to accomplish what he needed to. The door glowed bright, evaporating the monster’s fiery attack upon contact. The creature’s frustrated roar was muffled behind the now sealed door.
The Ascendant Sage sprinted to the end of the tunnel. The beast would break through soon. Though it would be unable to fit through the passageway, the old man knew of what—who—was to come.
The blue light guiding him down the hall lit this spacious chamber as well. He ignored the many shelves of books, scrolls and tomes on one side of the room, walking straight past his large desk littered with feather pens, ink bottles, and books, to stand in front of the far wall, whereupon hung a large tapestry depicting a beautiful landscape of the surrounding region which had been woven with breathtaking detail and color.
A thundering boom crashed against the door in the hall, and the entire room shuddered in response. The creature roared with fury.
Boom!
The room quivered and cracks began to appear along the wall, ripping several maps and sea charts carefully nailed to the stone, as well as a detailed anatomy drawing of a dragon.
Boom!
A stack of artifacts and scrolls resting upon a display in the corner of the room tumbled free as the room shook, spilling a set of brown leather gauntlets embedded with emeralds, a wooden bowl and cup laced with gold, and rolls of colorful and rare silks across the floor.
Ignoring the damage, the Ascendant Sage stared at the tapestry and made a number of swift and methodical gestures with his hand against a portion of the tapestry level with his chest. A silver light glowed in the path he traced, forming a rune. With the symbol complete, he pressed his hand against i
t and the heavy cloth began to change. It fell away, turning into sand, and vanished upon hitting the floor, revealing a large metal door underneath; a vault.
A beautiful and carefully carved inscription of characters lay across the surface of the metal. Once more he traced a few symbols, forming a set of silver lighted runes, the cypher. The silver light began to spread out through the indentations with a life of its own and then flashed brightly and disappeared. A deep thump followed and the creaking of wheels and mechanical workings within sounded as the vault door slid slowly sideways into the wall. There was a final lurching crunch and the vault was open.
BOOM!
The walls quivered.
The inside of the safe was large, but occupied with nothing but a pedestal in its center, standing half as tall as the old man. Upon the pedestal lay a small, dark metal box about the length of the man’s arm and as high as his hand from his wrist to the tips of his fingers. Its surface was of one continuous design. The six orbs lay inside, resting upon red velvet, already prepared for travel. An object shaped like a metal rod lay next to the box. Its exterior was designed like the box except for the engraving of a small winged figure surrounded by flames on one end. When activated by the proper magic, the rod opened to be the enchanted map.
BOOM!
More cracks.
He grabbed the case holding the map and stuffed it into an inner upper pocket of his robes, and wedged the box underneath his arm.
As he exited the small space he waved his hand. The door rumbled back into place and the tapestry began to reappear, covering the now empty vault.
“Caminho tras semita,” path across the way. He muttered to the orb. The pale blue color was solidifying within the orb. The enchantment was nearly complete. He need now only retrieve his staff, and leave this place.
Running over to another display of magical items on the right wall that had not yet fallen to the floor, he took a long staff from among a number of other weapons. The polished, dark red wood shimmered in the firm grip of his hand. He paused. The pounding had stopped.
The old man’s heart paused as well.
A loud creak and the clatter of wooden pieces rang out as the door was torn asunder.
A swift rush of wind echoed through the room.
The old man spun around, holding the staff between him and the entrance to his chambers, concealing the orb in his other hand under his sleeve.
A giant figure stood in the entryway of the chamber clad entirely in black armor.
Ancient runes were etched into the metal of the armor, with the effect of absorbing nearby light, as well as other enhancements. Spikes protruded from the shoulders, arms, and gauntleted fists. A horned helmet adorned the figure’s head, with a faceplate shaped like a skull covering his entire face except his eyes, which bore unending fire and the very depths of the netherworld itself.
The same dark mist which encircled the monster in the tunnel and stairway below, curled in and around the black figure.
“Keeper,” the armored giant spoke. His voice mirrored his appearance, dark and booming.
“Tremos,” The old man spoke the name with disdain.
“It is over Keeper, you have nowhere else to run. Now give me the map.”
So, thought the old man, he knows only of the map.
His heart soared. There was hope still. He need only finish the orb’s preparations. He began to think the words to finish the spell, but it was his least favorable technique, one that other Sages had mastered with ease.
“I was atop Garduan’s Keep when you fell,” The old man said, trying to stall by bringing up the past.
“Irroth could not stop me then, and neither can you, now.”
“But he hindered you from getting the Summoning Stone.”
“He succeeded only in destroying himself and his allies. You and your order are at an end Keeper, you have become too old. I would not expect you to understand such power anymore. You can either give me the map now, and I shall grant you a quick death, or you can struggle, after which I will still find the map, so there really is no other choice for you.”
At an end... The old man repeated in his mind. That could only mean that the other Sages—
Tremos seemed to read the old wizard’s mind and said, “Oh yes. Rohtan put up quite the struggle before the end.”
The Protector. Keeper thought at the mention of the Ascendant Sage’s real name. Dwell forever in Alfhyym, my good friend.
“How does it feel, Keeper, knowing you are the last?”
“You are at a place far beyond mercy!” The Keeper shouted with resolve, “Power and bloodshed is your existence now. You will have to kill me and search for it yourself.”
“You test my patience, give me the MAP!”
“NEVER!” the Keeper yelled. A powerful white lance of energy burst from the top of the staff, shooting at the dark figure.
Tremos reacted with equal speed, bringing up his armored hand. The mysterious black fog snapped together and intercepted the white magic.
There was an echoing boom as the two powers collided, rattling the many adornments in the room. The two opposing magical elements crackled angrily.
The white flared with brilliance and strength, reversing the direction of the darkness, but only briefly. The dark surged forward, pushing the light away, back towards its wielder. Bright sparks erupted from the violent struggle of power, splashing across the floor, searing into the dark marble. One side of the room radiated with bright light and the other was cast into deep shadow.
The Keeper shouted with resolve. The exertion he had gone through earlier had taken its toll and had left him without much of a reserve of strength to draw upon.
Just a few more moments, The Keeper thought silently.
The dark figure lifted up a second hand, increasing the effectiveness of the dark energy flowing from him. The corrupt power surged forward and it seemed Tremos had won.
“You have come now to face your death!” The dark figure proclaimed, his voice twisted and vile.
The Keeper struggled to maintain his white energy but the darkness was almost upon him. Sweat dripped from his nose again.
His whole body felt weak.
He sank to one knee, bowing his head in exhaustion.
I have failed, the old wizard thought, I am no Keeper.
His very bones seemed like they would crack from the strain.
“ENOUGH!” Tremos roared and sent a thrust of magic down the dark energy.
It struck the old man with immense force, throwing him into the air like a rag doll.
His staff shattered into a million tiny splinters of glittering wood.
The metal container holding the six orbs also flew from underneath his arm.
The old man spun once in the air, head over heels flinging towards the far wall. He glimpsed the dark magic as it overtook the metal box.
“NO!” He cried out.
The container erupted with a brilliant flash of burning multicolored energy.
If Tremos had known what the box contained, he would have taken more care in killing the old man. But it was too late. The dark magic shattered the box and all of its contents, flinging the wild energy held inside each of the six globes free with tremendous force.
Instead of exploding outwards, the dark energy absorbed the orb’s free magic. All the orbs’ raw power went straight back to the source, the armored giant Tremos, hitting him with several times the magnitude of the attack he had sent at the Keeper.
Tremos let out a bellow of agony.
The Keeper spun in the air again.
So this is how it ends. The Keeper thought, seeing his own doom flashing before him.
The orb in his own hand activated and he felt himself wink out of the room.
Not so, a soft, soothing female voice said, reaching through the ether like an invisible string stretched out to an infinite length to touch the Keeper's mind.
It was the Oracle.
Chapter One
&
nbsp; The Cat and the Sword
“Marc, Marc, Marc,” Victor said, shaking his head and pounding one of his fists into his palm with each syllable, to emphasize his point, “You made a big mistake.”
A group of nine boys stood in the city park not far from their school. Victor, the leader of the group, stood in front of Marc. Two of the older boys pinned Marc’s arms behind his back and he hung almost limply in-between them. The rest of the gang, five other boys, surrounded them in a circle. They all wore their sports Letterman jackets, except for Marc.
He didn’t have one.
Though as tall and athletic as any of the boys present, he had been overtaken by their numbers.
“Talking with my girl.” Victor slammed his fist into Marc’s stomach.
Marc let out a groan of pain, doubling over, but the other two boys held him on his feet.
He was no stranger to bullies. His so-called family moved around often, making him the new kid in many schools. It meant he never had any friends, and was always a year or two behind when it came to clothing trends.
Loner.
Besides these things, Marc didn’t know why the star quarterback and most popular guy in school had bothered to initially single him out. Like a bad nickname, once it stuck, it was impossible to shed.
Falling for Victor’s girlfriend had only made the situation worse.
“Touching her.” Victor punched him again.
Marc’s eyes began to water from the pain, his vibrant indigo irises shining fiercely.
His heart pounded in his chest. Fear coupled with anger showed clearly in his outward expression. He was angry for being held against his will, angry that Victor could get away with hurting him. Seeing Marissa suffer directly because of Victor, as well, poured salt into the raw emotion.
She deserved to be with someone else.
Marc had found her at her locker that morning, crying because of Victor. Summoning the courage within himself, he talked to her, tried to comfort her, and even patted her on the shoulder.