Fear powering his every move, he charged forward and yelled as he closed the unseen distance to attack again. The tip caught another assailant below their chest, slitting them deeply in another red streak. It cut off their spell, they stumbled back into the left wall, he moved in for the stabbing kill-and froze in his tracks.
It was a woman.
The tight black suit revealed her feminine shape, and the long, deep cut formed a red swath right below her breasts. Having killed at all terrified him; knowing that a woman was about to die because of him was even worse. True revulsion, guilt, and surreal horror held him trapped in place and made the moment seem an eternity. Unable to move, he continued to stare openly, looking above the black cloth covering her face into pretty blue eyes that were laced with pain as sweat from the trauma dripped on the paled skin to the sides of her face.
Vincent soon regretted his hesitation.
No longer hindered by a self-induced restraint of avoiding magic since the spell hiding her was already broken, she used her dying breath to lift a black gloved hand and sent a harsh wind throwing Vincent fast and hard at the opposite wall across from her at a high, oblique angle. Vincent’s right back and shoulder painfully crashed high up near the ceiling and he was sent turning and falling along the wall’s side. Agony hammered into his chest and abdomen when he hit the stone floor face-first.
He was stunned and still couldn’t breathe after the air had been knocked out of him. Worse yet, he landed facing away from her or any others. The woman had expected the impact to kill him, and it nearly had. He was barely conscious and was struggling to get air against the weight of his own battered body that was pinning him down. Blood came out of his mouth. He spit and spit again, but there was always more left.
Disoriented, he barely lifted his head against the awful throbbing ache to look forward and saw that across the short distance on the stone floor his sword was still clenched in his bruised and scraped right hand, which was numb. His entire body was racked with terrible pain, and the thumb and fingers from the hand that held his sword were beaten from hitting the hard stone during his fall, having been almost crushed by the impact of the hilt’s weight itself. Despite this, he had somehow forced it to remain where it should be: in his hand. Something within him had kept it from being lost during the near fatal blow he had suffered. The blade’s shiny polish amongst the crimson stains was like a beacon of shining metal hope in the middle of what he knew would be the hour of his death.
Vincent tried to move himself and felt an intense burning pain throughout his every fiber. The things in the vault could put a great many innocent lives at risk if they fell into the wrong hands. He was already the worthless “swordsman.” He swore to himself now that he would not be the one to fail in this. His will to fight on burned strong.
There were careless footsteps on the stone behind him.
He suddenly realized that the woman he had just killed had been faced with a similar moment. She knew she was finished; she had not merely retaliated against him for revenge. From the sounds, he guessed that there were two intruders left. She had done it for them, so they could succeed at the break-in. Unlike before, they were proceeding toward him and the vault door loudly without concern for opposition. Vincent was the only person who could resist them. And he would resist them. Even with his dying breath. Deciding to make his effort count, he waited.
A moment later when they were closer, he sprung into action. Every bit of motion was like a thousand hot needles stabbing into his muscles as he pushed himself up while turning around and slashing out with whatever strength he had left. The tip of his blade cut a shallow gash in one of their legs, the blood partially dampening the effect of the spell and making the black clothing of its owner visible. Unfortunately, the small hurt he had inflicted on their leg had come at a high cost to himself.
When Vincent’s arm was out of position from the swing, it left him vulnerable. He was not able to pull the sword back to recover for another swing fast enough before the barely injured assailant rushed forward and with their good leg kicked him squarely in his face. It should have knocked him out, but somehow Vincent barely hung on to a strand of consciousness. Vincent could feel more than see the blood coming from his own nose as it ran down his face. The invisible intruder then stepped on the wrist of his hand holding the hilt of his sword to keep him from moving it.
“Come on!” He quietly shouted to others, ushering them to continue on.
Vincent focused all his will power into his left hand and pulled out his knife. He viciously buried it into his invisible assailant’s good thigh. The man growled in pain as he tried to pull it out but Vincent kept his grip firm on the handle. Another invisible assailant rushed forward and kicked him in the head again.
“He just won’t give up!” Vincent thought he heard the rescuer comment in frustration to the other. As the world started to go black, he felt his fist still clutching the knife being pulled to dislodge the blade from the leg, skipping any attempt to get it out of his hand.
* * *
Stubborn bastard!” The wounded intruder said in anger after pulling out the fist clutching a knife. “I’m going to kill him!”
“There’s no time!” The leader exclaimed, pulling him by the arm. “Our spells are going to wear out, and yours is already failing! We have to get what we came for and go!”
“Just let me pry his knife out of his fingers,” the first insisted, “I’ll use it on him.”
“Forget about it!” The second yelled at him, furiously pulling him away by the arm. “He’s dead already!” They both walked toward the door to the Crafters’ Vault, one with a limp while the other helped him move along.
At last they stood before it: the gold colored disc that was the only entry into what was one of the richest arsenals of potent and dangerous magical constructs in all the lands. His injured companion’s breathing was still ragged from the pain of his wounds and the lurching needed to carry him. The door was protected by more than any novice wizard they may have left to stand guard. Spells that could kill someone just for touching the metal plate in the wrong way had been woven into it. Numerous runes both seen and those which could only be made visible by applying the right kinds of magic abounded in its protection as well. The largest of the rune sets were inscribed in a circle around the edges. Rather than compete with their power, he and his fellows had spent months preparing a Seal of Cheated Light for each of them so that they might slip past one spell ward in particular.
His less apt subordinates had perished, and now only one other remained. The invisibility spell flickered and faltered, revealing the blood dripping on his fellow’s black pant legs. What fools. But then again, how could they have suspected that the lone swordsman would be such a competent guard. He was hardly more than a normal, yet if not for his inexperienced hesitation after seeing Jeanette’s grievous wound, they might not have made it past him at all. At the time, they were restricted from using any magic on him because it would have destroyed their invisibility spell, and it had put them at great risk when he somehow detected them. At least that man would trouble them no more; he would no doubt perish by suffocating on his own blood. Regardless, stealing the artifact was now going to be much harder than they had originally thought.
The somewhat bulbous dull gold plate waited for him to act. Due to the deadly nature of the enchantments placed upon it, no one dare try to polish it. The surface was smudged in places and not what one would expect of clean gold. He desperately wanted to attempt to open its lock but found the prospect unsettling.
“What are you waiting for!” His injured companion scolded. “Hurry up and open it!”
“It’s got light trackers on it, you dolt!” He fired back with indignation. “You shouldn’t have injured your leg! They’re going to see you!”
“Well we can’t just stand here!”
For once, he and his colleague were in full agreement. He left him to stand under his own power and moved to the right end o
f the wide disc near the edge that could be gripped. His injured associate would simply have to die or not. “Find a way to keep your legs out of the trackers’ sight, my friend. Otherwise, farewell,” he said to him.
“How am I supposed to do that!”
“Not my problem,” he replied, sending the tiny trickle of magic that would trip the release, just enough to do what he wanted, but not enough to undo his own shroud. The other growled in annoyance.
A great swath of light shot out near the ceiling and moved across to the other side. It was not that much shorter than a man, and moved down before cutting back across, tracking them. On this second sweep, it passed through the invisibility screen of his fellow but only barely missed his wounds. As it began its course along the bottom, he watched as the injured other quickly made a leap toward the other wall and tried to stand on his hands while putting his legs as high in the air as he could, leaning against the stone of the wall for balance and support. With a hissing sound, the light beam instantly incinerated into ash several stray drops of blood that had fallen from his leg during the maneuver. Distortions on the legs he held high in the air were barely missed as the lowest and most threatened portions disappeared only just in time while it swept past. It ignored the others in the hall because they were either dead or their life signs were too weak. After the light beam detected no one, it shut off.
It took longer to bypass the other spells since there were only two of them to work on each, sometimes combining their efforts when certain spells were too difficult. There were a few close calls that could have resulted in a quick death for both. Once they finished, the rounded gold plate began to slowly swing open. He stayed out of its path and let it by, he dared not touch it. It was time-consuming and exhausting work, but now they were finally being granted entry.
Past the doorway, interlaid stone block walls gave way to a pitch black, perfectly smooth floor which seemed to reflect no light, only absorb it, and smooth white walls and ceiling. The large light orb at the top of the ceiling, which he knew to be there, only radiated the same hue as the walls and was camouflaged against the ceiling’s white so well as to not be seen. As a whole, the intensity and flawlessness of each color could not be more in opposition to the other. When one walked on the floor, it felt like there was no floor, only a black void in which one could fall forever. Upon glancing up around from it, one felt like they were hovering in the middle of a bright cloud on a sunny day. The effect was visually disorienting yet in complete harmony with the maze that lay beyond. A person not knowing their way through the interior would soon find themselves lost.
Though it did not appear so from here, since all that could be seen was the seamless illusion of a white and black room, he knew that it had many twists and turns leading to various chambers housing a multitude of different talismans. He needed to find his way to the one he wanted and extract the desired item.
As he started walking forward, his injured fellow tagged along. He stopped partway through the visually perplexing hall to find his bearings to the next and then turned in the direction of his lurching companion, seeing his legs flickering into visibility. A few red stains showed up on the otherwise unspoiled black floor. He inwardly sighed with disgust. His companion was outliving his usefulness, and there would have to be a moment of reckoning between them sooner or later, before he could make his full escape. However, that moment was not now, and so he set his mind to the task at hand.
It was difficult to discern the passageways since everything looked the same: a black floor with white all around. Eventually he did. Finally he was coming toward the end of the one he wanted. What soon gave the illusion of a black hall running through the white void eventually ended with the opening to a black room which had otherwise been obscured to the senses when viewed at a distance.
He went in to retrieve the object of his desire, and quickly returned to his injured companion. It was a magical silver-colored feather that was a quill-pen. This one, like many others, did not run out of ink on its tip, but this pen was also very different from the others in one distinct way. However, it wasn’t the object itself so much as the rarity of the one ingredient in its conception that was important. This seemingly harmless ingredient would be carefully extracted, and the magical elite here would never be able to guess for what.
The heavily sought after item-the last piece of the puzzle they needed to initiate their lord’s plans-was finally in his possession. Their sovereign, whose coming had been foretold in the prophecy, would be completely victorious. Nothing, no power in the world, could prevent that. Only fools chose to stand against the full wrath of a god’s firestorm, and only the sane of mind sought to appease him so that their righteous deeds would be rewarded. Now that he had the talisman in his possession, there was only one thing left to do:
Escape Gadrale Keep alive.
Chapter III
Finding the path out was much easier than finding the way in. His injured companion had left a dotted trail of red from his legs. He avoided stepping on them. The man’s incompetence was going to show any investigators the way to the exact room they had visited, but it was also making exiting The Crafters’ Vault quite simple.
Since there was nothing the fools could do even if they did discover the room he had stolen from, he put any resulting consequence out of his mind. Their progress getting out was effortless for now, but that would be where the helpfulness of the bleeding would end. A trail marking his escape route was not something he needed, and he didn’t have time to stop and tie off his friend’s wounded legs with torn off strips of cloth either. He didn’t even suggest it, nor did his fellow remember to think of doing so. The Seal of Cheated Light only lasted so long, and they had to get out of the fortress before its time expired. Sooner or later, his fellow would simply have to be dealt with before he became a liability.
With their loot in hand, the two intruders moved back toward the door’s opening. The gold disc was still extended into the open hall. It was now a matter of making their way out of the fortress and the surrounding campus without being detected by any more of the Academy Guard: deadly wolves who would undoubtedly catch their scent. The first of which had caused them too much trouble already. They were in no condition to fight and needed to escape with the talisman. For now, it was kept concealed by physical contact with his spell, as were his clothes, but getting out still wasn’t going to be easy. There would be a constant urge to run. He controlled this impulse within him and continued to help his injured colleague walk along, the spell near his legs continuing to flicker and falter.
Out in the hallway, they kept moving steadily without concern for whether or not someone might hear the soft echoes and scraping of their footsteps. Everything looked much the same as it had before. The light orb at the top of the ceiling still bore mute witness to the carnage below as it cast its white glow over the floor and walls, the bodies, and the pools of blood. The scent of the red puddles mixed with the stagnant and damp smelling air.
They walked past the stubborn swordsman whose unexpectedly skillful opposition had caused them so much woe, being careful to avoid stepping in the splatter of blood that came from his mouth not long after he landed. He was laying on his back with bruises all over his face, and blood continuing to flow out of his nose and down the sides of his mouth, forming in a pool and soaking his hair. His wretched, menacing sword was still clutched in his right hand, his knife in his left. Both remained bathed in crimson from the encounter but with small stretches of shiny metal where the fluid had drained to other portions. Certain that this man was now deceased, they ignored him and continued moving forward.
Next they passed by the severed gore of the first of them to fall to that guard. Although his guts lay strewn about motionlessly, the blood that had spilt from his remains continued to spread on the stone floor. A third smell had been added to the already revolting concoction: the smell of sliced viscera and internal fecal matter. He could feel the nauseating taste in his own mouth of ad
ded saliva much like what one had just prior to vomiting.
The disgusting appearance and stench of the remains drove them on even faster, and all was silent except for the sound of their ragged breathing. Such a waste. He should have been more careful than to walk right up to that guard. The trackers built into the door would have done the job for them. He and his limping fellow skirted the mess to avoid stepping in any of it.
They passed Jeanette last, whose corpse still lay with its back and head partially propped up by the wall. She seemed to be sliding down against it at a visible, yet infinitesimally small rate. Her face was pale, and her dead blue eyes stared vacantly at where the swordsman had been just before she had thrown him. Blood from the deep horizontal slice in her torso, just under her breasts, had spilled out to cover the front of her black clothes and then to drip and settle in a large pool where it continued to spread underneath where she lay. He stopped helping his companion long enough to move closer and use his fingers to close her eyes, giving her death at least some semblance of dignity. A faint scent of perfume masked other odors in the hall, for which he was grateful. Such a waste.
The two continued moving through the hall and exited on the other end, taking a right at the split intersection. They walked along as quickly as they could, caring far less about silence than speed since they knew they wouldn’t encounter anyone else for a while. His injured companion’s wounded legs continued to falter and fluctuate, revealing his black pants and bloody cuts amidst the thin air. Some blood dripped on the stone floor as they walked along, leaving a trail.
Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening Page 2