Mark of Fire (The Endarian Prophecy Book 1)

by Richard Phillips

  The queen’s laughter caressed his ears, a mix of condescension and trust.

  “Oh, Arn. Over the years, I have learned to trust my judgment of others, and while it might be possible that someone like you could fool me, I rather doubt it. No. I think that I will allow you to play out your part in this, trusting that your role shall be for the good.”

  Arn felt his body grow less rigid. “That’s . . . good to hear.”

  “Besides,” said Elan, “I will have the entire season to observe you before you and your friends depart. The winter storms will soon close the mountains beyond Endar Pass. To leave here before spring would mean certain death.”

  The news that he was trapped here for the next few months left Arn momentarily speechless.

  Seeing his consternation, the queen placed a hand on his arm. “Let us rejoin the others. During your time here you will learn more of the prophecy of which I have spoken, and you will have the chance to make up your own mind as to its meaning.” She stopped and pointedly gazed at the assassin again. “I suggest that you take full advantage of this opportunity.”

  Then Queen Elan turned and led Arn back to the feast. Throughout their walk, he sensed her Endarian bowmen gliding silently through the moon’s shadows.

  29

  Hannington Castle

  YOR 413, Mid-Autumn

  The cowled figure shambled along, painfully working his way down the hallway that led to the secret entrance into the chambers hidden beneath Hannington Castle. Kragan stepped through the stone wall, emerging inside the bedchamber. A half sneer warped the face hidden beneath the cowl.

  Moving to the statue, he placed a hand on the branded shoulder of the marble woman. He mumbled as he moved, drawing a variety of lesser elementals to place magical markings on the floor surrounding, working up the concentration necessary for what he was about to attempt.

  He stared at the marble figure, the image of the prophesied she-wielder who had haunted his dreams all these centuries. And no matter how many images of her he created, he’d never found her. Until now.

  Kragan trembled. She was strong, much stronger than he would have imagined she could be at this stage of her training. Pain shot through his head as he remembered the firestorm that she had rained down. He spat, hitting the white marble idol. The decision he’d made was one he’d been forced into. For the power he would need to defeat her, he would have to take the ultimate risk. If he survived, Rafel’s daughter would pay for what she’d done.

  Kragan moved to the front of the white figure. He mumbled an incantation, and the marble changed to flesh and blood, no longer a stone figure. It was a living woman, the image of the prophesied one.

  His mind reached out into the elemental mists, going deeper. He found himself in a chamber that glowed with a dull-red heat, a glow that cast slinking shadows within corners and niches. The only thing Kragan could see clearly was the outline of a reclining form stretched upon a couch before the fire blazing in the hearth. He braced himself.

  The figure rose from the couch to tower over him, grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him into the wall. Kragan gasped as the air rushed from his lungs. He forced himself to look at the primordial, Kaleal. What the wielder beheld—a massive, bronze-skinned being with slitted, golden eyes exuding sensuality and power—took away what little breath remained in his chest.

  A low rumble that sounded something like a laugh worked its way out of the primordial’s throat.

  “Kragan. You have survived quite long for a human, but your arrogance is about to hasten your demise. Yet I can see that you have already taken a beating. Is it vengeance that made you so desperate to confront me? Has the desire for revenge clouded your awareness of my power?”

  Kragan struggled to speak, but only a squeak made it out of his mouth. Summoning all his will to protect his throat from the primordial’s squeezing fingers, he fought to avoid losing consciousness.

  “Kaleal! If you kill me now, you will lose the one thing that I can give you that you can otherwise never have.”

  As Kaleal tightened his grip again, overpowering Kragan’s will, the wielder felt the blackness close in around him, distorting his vision to a tunnel that narrowed as he watched. Then the primordial relaxed his grip. Kragan felt his face smack the stone floor. A fit of coughing racked his body. When he looked up again, Kaleal stood over him, waiting.

  “Frail one, what is this great thing that you desire to give me that I am incapable of taking? There is nothing in your world that I want.”

  A wave of exhilaration shot through Kragan. He had the primordial’s interest. “Isn’t there? I’m relieved to hear that you are not upset that the one of prophecy walks the earth unmolested by you. Are you biding your time before you attempt to crush her?”

  Kaleal’s slitted pupils widened, his lips curling back to reveal fangs. “Do not dare to play games, wielder. Get to the point now, before I decide my curiosity is not worth this trouble.”

  “Very well. I am talking about the prophecy of the Endarian, Landrel.”

  The primordial slammed his fist into a wall. Stone fragments flew across the room.

  “And it was Landrel who bound you here without access to the world of men and Endarians, all those thousands of years ago, was it not?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “I believe that part of the prophecy dealt with you while part of it dealt with me, and yet another dealt with the witch. You cannot escape from this trap unless you are willingly called forth by someone with sufficient skill. Unless I am mistaken, you have already had the unfortunate opportunity to test yourself against the will of the witch, as have I. Yes, I see it in your face. Now to my offer. I will release you from this trap and give her to you.”

  “You fool. As soon as you arrived I was free. If I choose to possess your form, I will once again walk freely through your world.”

  “Yes, and you will be free to face her once again, most likely with more discouraging results.”

  The primordial paused for several moments, studying Kragan as if he were prey.

  “What I offer you,” Kragan said, “is a partnership in which we share this body and use our joint wills to subdue her.”

  “And what do I gain from this arrangement, little wielder?”

  “You get your freedom to roam my world, toying with it as you please, except in matters pertaining to my interests, and you get the prophesied witch to possess and do with as you will.”

  Kaleal stroked the golden fur on his head, his eyes never leaving Kragan. His decision was unexpectedly swift. “The bargain is made.” A cruel smile settled on the primordial’s lips. “But you expect me to enter a body like that? I think not.”

  The mists dissolved, and Kragan found himself back in his bedchamber, standing across from a ghostly projection of Kaleal.

  “Prepare to receive me,” said Kaleal.

  A fog descended on Kragan, swathing him in a boiling mist that entered his body through nose and mouth. His chest heaved outward, and his lungs seemed to burst.

  Then the mist was gone, replaced by a red film that covered his eyes, a film formed by bursting vessels of blood. Kragan’s body convulsed on the floor. He thrashed about, crashing into the wall and then the statue standing in the center of the room. He squirmed into a ball and hammered his head against the floor in a vain search for oblivion. He cried and begged for death.

  Ever so slowly his body changed, gaining in height and breadth. Tendons and tissue rippled into place, stretching his skin until it burst, only to reknit itself, then burst again. Gradually the cycle slowed, the skin thickening, taking on a bronze hue that eliminated all traces of the scars that had covered much of Kragan’s body.

  As the pain began to recede, Kragan lay still on the cold stone, not caring that he was covered in vomit and excrement. At last he struggled to his feet. Suddenly he stopped, staring into the large mirror that hung on the far wall. It was as if he had never really looked at Kaleal before. The naked body that stared
back at him from the glass stood tall, a lustrous feline form of strength and speed. He flexed his toes and fingers, noting that as he did, curved claws extended, retracting again as he relaxed. But his head pleased him the most, his scars having vanished. As he stood there staring at the image, a deep murmur arose from within.

  Kragan felt the primordial within him, speaking, plotting, manipulating. A broad smile settled across the wielder’s new features. The balance of power in this world had just taken a turn.

  30

  Southern Glacier Mountains

  YOR 413, Early Winter

  On the first day of winter, Carol looked over the encampment at the valley the rangers had discovered, a thousand feet below the pass where Hawthorne had died, watching the people go about the daily duties that their lord had imposed upon them. Through a regimen of hard work, Rafel kept the survivors busy and alive. They had lost two hundred and seven people, thirty-two of them small children, as they fought their way through the deep snow to reach this sheltered place where they could survive the winter.

  She bowed her head at the thought. They certainly hadn’t endured autumn well.

  Broderick’s rangers performed daily miracles, returning from their hunts with venison to keep the people fed. The remainder of Rafel’s legion of two thousand soldiers cut and hauled trees to build shelters and stoke the fires that kept the survivors warm and cooked their food.

  Every day Carol struggled to break through her mental blockage so that she could come to her people’s aid, and every day she cursed herself for her failure to do so. As the new year approached, storms came and went, but these were of the ordinary kind. And down here, away from the pass they had left behind, the snow that accumulated melted off between occurrences. The camp was muddy, damp, and miserable, but less so with each passing day as every able-bodied person worked to improve the structures and walkways that had begun to take on the appearance of a crude town. The people had even given the locale an unofficial name, although it was not one of which High Lord Rafel approved. Mud Flats.

  As Carol ended her rounds, checking on the health and needs of every civilian within the caravan, she prepared to make another try at spell-casting. She took the most direct route back to her tent that was possible while remaining on the network of log walkways. She raised the flap and ducked inside, pausing to light a candle before letting the flap fall closed behind her. Like the other tents and shelters within the compound, the floor was covered in a thick layer of pine fronds, but she had augmented this with the rug she had taken from Hawthorne’s wagon. In the center of this she set the candleholder, seated herself cross-legged on the rug, and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  Having thought long and hard about the mental problem preventing her from accessing her magic, she had recently reached a conclusion. Her issue was basic. Carol found herself unable to achieve the level of meditation necessary to control even a minor elemental.

  But that knowledge had given her hope. After all, meditation had always been one of her greatest strengths. She could remember the process. Overcoming this disability only required discipline, practice, and persistence. And perhaps a fortified mental sanctuary to where her mind could retreat.

  Carol inhaled deeply. She steadied her pulse and began the meditation. She was floating, pulled from her body by the wind. She willed herself upward, through the clouds. Something sped up after her, something that she could not allow to catch her. Her will pulled her onward, faster and faster, higher and higher, until she arrived at a temple atop a snow-covered mountain. She rushed inside, slamming the heavy doors behind her. As she closed the huge bolt that barred the entryway, something slammed into it from outside. Carol staggered backward. The door had to hold, at least long enough for her to do what she needed to do.

  The battering on the doors intensified, but Carol ignored it, turning her attention back to what she had come here to accomplish. Her mind was clear and sharp, a feeling she had not experienced since the mark of fire. She could do this.

  Reaching out toward the elemental plane of air, she could sense its occupants and focused her attention on the weakest of these. But as she prepared to touch the mind of Wreckath, a massive blow split the doors of the mind sanctuary she had constructed.

  She reached out for the air elemental. It appeared, but at such a great distance that she could not make contact. With all her will she thrust her mind outward. Another terrible blow struck the door, shattering part of one panel. In desperation, she pulled Wreckath to her. Almost there, she had just touched it when pain exploded in her left shoulder, pulling a ragged gasp from her lips.

  Carol was back in her tent, her heart hammering the walls of her chest as if she had just sprinted across the valley. After several moments, she rose to her feet.

  She had failed today, but she had gotten much closer to success, and that renewed her hope. Tomorrow she would try again. And she would not quit trying until she demolished the obstruction in her mind to be the wielder Hawthorne had believed she could become. She owed this to him and to her people. And she owed this to herself.

  In the meantime, she hoped that High Priest Jason’s prayers for an early spring would be answered.

  31

  Endar Pass—Northern Glacier Mountains

  YOR 413, Late Winter

  Arn stood among the trees, not far from the shoreline, taking in the incredible view of the white fortress city in the lake and the arching bridge that connected it to the southern shoreline. With spring and the start of the new year still two weeks away, a warming trend had begun, sending the snow retreating up the nearest hillsides. Soon, the snowbound mountain passes would reopen, and the time of departure from Endar Pass would be at hand.

  Kim, John, Ty, and Arn would resume the quest to find Rafel and his human daughter, with Queen Elan’s blessing. Although Kim’s brother, Galad, and his scouts would accompany them down the western side of the Glacier Mountains and into the Endless Valley, they would not journey with this little band. After extensive argument on the topic, Arn had convinced the queen and her top advisors that the key to success was to avoid attracting the kind of attention a large armed force of Endarian soldiers would attract. And that this group of four had successfully completed a long journey through dangerous country only served to make his point.

  Seating himself beneath a tall spruce, Arn leaned back against the thick trunk. The thought of Rafel pulled Carol into his mind. He wondered how she would react when she saw him again. The prospect of such a reunion both frightened and thrilled him, emotions that somehow felt new. Prophecy or not, Arn would have sought Carol out after the discovery of Lagoth. And now, after Endar, no earthly or elemental force would stop him from protecting his love from the wielder who hunted her.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to express my deepest thanks to my lovely wife, Carol, without whose support and loving encouragement this project would never have happened.

  I also want to thank Alan and John Ty Werner for the many long evenings spent in my company, brainstorming the history of this world, its many characters, and the story yet to be told.

  Many thanks to my wonderful editor, Clarence Haynes, for once again helping me refine my story.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Richard Phillips was born in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1956. He graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point in 1979 and qualified as an Army Ranger, going on to serve as an officer in the US Army. He earned a master’s degree in physics from the Naval Postgraduate School in 1989, completing his thesis work at Los Alamos National Laboratory. After working as a research associate at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, he returned to the army to complete his tour of duty. Today he lives with his wife, Carol, in Phoenix, where he writes science fiction thrillers—including The Rho Agenda series (The Second Ship, Immune, and Wormhole), The Rho Agenda Inception series (Once Dead, Dead Wrong, and Dead Shift), and The Rho Agenda Assimilation series (The Kasari Nexus, The Altreian Eni
gma, and The Meridian Ascent)—and the epic Endarian Prophecy fantasy novels.