Eye of the Moonrat
By Trevor H. Cooley
copyright © 2012 Trevor H. Cooley
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by: Justin R. Cooley
The Bowl of Souls Series:
Book One: EYE of the MOONRAT
Book 1.5: HILT’S PRIDE
Book Two: MESSENGER of the DARK PROPHET
Book Three: HUNT of the BANDHAM
Book Four: The WAR of STARDEON
Book Five: MOTHER of the MOONRAT (Upcoming 2013)
To Jeannette; the love of my life, my eternal companion, and first true editor.
Without your support and encouragement, I may never have written this story down.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Epilogue
Prologue
“If you had only followed my instructions in the first place, you would have had your prize weeks ago,” said the sultry female voice.
“Yes-yes. So you say,” Ewzad Vriil replied with a frown. He didn’t want it to come to that.
“I have never led you wrong, Master.” Her tone was petulant as always. “Why do you find these particular requirements so difficult?”
“Shut up!” he snapped and unclenched his hand from the wrinkled orb in his pocket, severing their connection. He wiped the hand on the front of his gold-embroidered jacket in distaste. She may never have steered him wrong, but she only obeyed him because she had to.
Ewzad leaned against the dark altar at the rear of the cave and sent his limited magical energies out to probe the chamber walls for the thousandth time. Nothing. He had been searching for weeks, but still could not find the compartment he knew was hidden there.
The interior of the cave was moist and cool. The light from a dozen torches bathed the chamber in a flickering light. His servants standing guard at the entrance exchanged nervous glances as Ewzad Vriil began to pace back and forth. No one liked to be around the nobleman when he became angry. Horrible things could happen.
Fortunately for them, Ewzad’s anger didn't have time to build into a full fury. He noticed a large servant pause at the chamber’s entrance. The man knelt and waited to be acknowledged.
Ewzad continued pacing. He didn’t make all the servants kneel, but this man had bad knees and it amused Ewzad to make him kneel for as long as possible. Sometimes he waited for hours before letting him stand. Tonight however, he was expecting a guest. He only waited a few agonizing minutes before barking out, “What is it? Speak!”
The servant cleared his throat. “Master, Captain Blem has arrived. He wishes to see you.”
“Fine-fine. Let him in, then! Hurry-hurry!” Despite his earlier reluctance to follow the voice’s instructions, excitement had replaced the frustration in Ewzad's eyes. The servant disappeared and returned a few moments later with the captain. Ewzad put on a grin as his friend came into view.
“Yes! Finally, Blem my friend, you arrive!”
Blem looked much as Ewzad remembered. He was a large, bulky man and despite his lowered status, still dressed in the finery one might expect from minor nobility. His intimidating presence had been very useful to Ewzad during their younger days.
The large man entered the chamber with a smile that faded as Ewzad came into view. He paused just outside the passageway and stared as if seeing someone different than the old friend he had expected.
Ewzad knew why Blem stared. He had heard the servant’s whispers of late. His fine clothes were rumpled, his hair oily. Sure, he hadn't bathed in a long time, but what did it matter? There was important work to be done. The servant’s screams had assured him that they would not whisper those things again.
“Well, come on in, Blem. You do have it, yes? Please tell me you do.”
The captain shrugged a sack from his shoulder and pulled out a thin box made of dark wood. “I hope that it’s worth it. I was nearly caught while retrieving this for you.”
Ewzad rushed forward and snatched the box away. He turned it over in his hands, searching for the proof he needed. The top of the box was inlaid with jewel-encrusted runes, the most prominent being a chaotic mix of the symbols for water and fire. Ewzad's grin widened. A steam rune, this was indeed the prize he needed.
“Yes!” he crooned in glee.
Blem frowned. “Did you hear what I said, Ewzad? Three of my men were killed. I barely escaped with my life!”
“Oh dear!” Ewzad said with a sympathetic pout. He placed an arm around Blem's shoulders in what he thought was a consoling way. “It is good that you survived, old friend. Yes-yes, it is. You see, I still need your help.” He led Blem towards the rear of the chamber.
“So . . . what is this place, anyway?” Blem asked, eying the room and in particular, the dark altar with distaste.
“This, my friend, is the hiding place of the Rings of Stardeon. They are the means to regaining our former place in the kingdom.”
“Well I don't see anything. Where are they?”
“They are hidden, dear Blem. Oh yes, hidden well. But you have brought me the key.” Ewzad opened the box and pulled out a dagger made of dark steel. The blade was encrusted in what looked like rust at first glance, but on a closer inspection appeared to be dried blood. Deep red jewels glimmered on the hilt. “Yes-yes-yes. This is the key.”
“Alright. So how does it work, then?” Blem watched his old friend warily. Ewzad had always spoken in a unique manner, but the way he was talking now went beyond mere eccentricity.
“Do you see the altar there?”
“Yeah.” As Blem looked closer, he saw that the surface of the altar glistened with a scarlet wetness. He took a step back. “Ewzad . . . why the blood?”
Ewzad laughed at his friend's discomfort. “Oh, don't worry, Blem. It was just a goblin or two. They grow thick in the hills around here. It's part of the ceremony that opens the tomb, you see.”
If only it had been as easy as killing a few goblins. The books said that a sacrifice had to be performed on the altar to open the tomb, but he had tried several times to open it with no results. Paying heed to the female voice was the only way he had found the proper instructions.
“Do you see the lock, Blem?”
“No.” The large man leaned forward. “What lock?”
“It's right in the center of the altar,” Ewzad said, licking his lips. “A slot where the dagger goes.”
Blem leaned over further, squinting his eyes. Ewzad lunged forward and plunged the jeweled dagger deep into his friend's back. Blem jerked and turned around.
>
“What?” A rivulet of blood ran down the captain’s chin. He stared at Ewzad, with shock-filled eyes. “Why? Why did you do that?”
“Oh, I am truly sorry, Blem. I am. But it had to be this way, you see. Yes, for the tomb to open I needed to use that dagger. And it had to be an old friend . . . my old dear friend.”
The dagger pulsed with energy and a swirl of darkness leeched from its hilt. A bellow of pain pierced Blem's bloody lips. He arched his back, clawed at the dagger handle, but could not reach it.
Ewzad shoved his friend forward onto the altar and with some difficulty held him there as he thrashed. Blem's screams built in intensity. Ewzad ignored him. His eyes scanned the room, searching for proof that the voice had been correct about the ceremony.
A crack sprouted on the north wall of the cave. Several other cracks appeared and stretched to join it, forming a jagged square. A block of stone slowly pushed out of the wall and fell onto the ground with a thud.
Ewzad left his dying friend, grabbed a torch from the wall and rushed forward to peer into the hole. He trembled as he reached inside. His hands gripped the jeweled box that contained the artifact and removed it from its tomb.
“Finally it’s mine. Oh yes-yes!” He cradled it to his chest, not noticing that his old friend’s dying screams had faded. “No one will dare deny me now, oh no!”
He gripped the box with both hands and slowly lifted the lid. The box opened to reveal his treasure nestled inside. Two sets of five rings, one for each finger, linked together with golden chains. Oh how the rings gleamed in the torch light.
Ewzad reached his hand inside the box. As his fingers touched gold, he heard a new voice in his mind. Unlike the other one, this was darker and most definitely male.
“Ewzad Vriil, You Are Mine.”
* * *
The ancient man traversed the peaks of the mountain, his feet touching ground that no human eyes but his own had ever seen. It was a savage place. Beasts with wicked teeth watched the man and hungry stomachs growled, but they did not attack. They were not allowed.
He staggered, but did not fall.
The ancient man was weary. He had fasted many days and nights seeking communion with his master. He had a feeling that an event was coming, something that could change the face of the land.
He came upon a sheer cliff and walked along the base of it. Soon he found the familiar jagged staircase. He had built it with his own hands over a thousand years ago. As he had countless times before, the ancient man climbed the stairs to the top of the highest peak. Now he lay exhausted and prayed, waiting for his eyes to be opened.
It came abruptly. A warmth settled over him and all weariness and hunger left his body. The world unfolded before his eyes and he saw what had been set in motion; what would be and what may be. He noted the most likely progression of events. Many decisions faced him. The ancient man sighed as the vision ended.
“I see, Master.”
As he descended the mountain, the man thirsted. He paused near a large boulder and struck the surface with the palm of his hand.
A spurt of water shot forth from the rock. The ancient man drank his fill and moved on.
The water continued to flow. The spurt became a brook, trickling down mountain paths, carving into the rock. The brook became a mountain stream. The stream emptied into a pond. The pond became a lake. Grass grew. Flowers bloomed. Life came to a barren land.
Changes of this magnitude often followed the actions of the Prophet.
Chapter One
The noise of the crowd faded to a buzz in Justan’s mind. He saw the opening he had been waiting for. With a cry of triumph, he thrust in with his right sword, but with a flick of his opponent’s wrist, the opening was closed. The parry knocked his sword out wide, leaving him open for attack.
His opponent didn’t take the opening, but darted forward, leading with his large shield. It was just enough to block Justan’s view of his sword arm. Justan scrambled back, waving both swords in a feeble attempt to block the attack he knew was coming.
His opponent timed it with perfection, whipping his sword over the top of his shield. Justan didn’t see the strike coming. The attack might have ended the fight, but he stumbled over his own feet and fell. The blade missed his skin by a hairsbreadth. The audience gasped.
It was a sweltering day, but despite the heat, the arena was packed with thousands of spectators. All of them were screaming and cheering on their favorites. This was the final day of the Battle Academy entrance exams and the excitement had risen to a fever pitch. The layers of bleachers seemed to tower above the combatants as if at any moment the crowd could topple on top of them. For many trainees, their last battle in the arena today could decide whether they would enter the prestigious school or lapse into obscurity. The pressure was suffocating.
Justan landed on his back, knocking up a cloud of fine dirt that clung to the sweat pouring off of his body. He rolled to the side and sent his left sword slashing at the legs of his opponent. The man saw it coming and jumped aside. As the crowd roared, Justan wondered why his opponent wasn’t sweating.
Justan rose to one shaky knee, but before he could stand, his opponent leapt forward again and stood over him. The man’s sword darted in from every angle around the large shield. Justan kept both of his swords working above him in a clumsy attempt to turn aside the attacks. Somehow he was able to keep his opponent’s sword from drawing blood.
Something was amiss. He was facing a skilled student of the Battle Academy. The man could have cut him open with any of the strikes, but he continued to allow Justan to turn them aside. Was he toying with him?
“Come on trainee, you gotta do better than that,” the student said, his voice just loud enough for Justan to hear. Justan looked over the shield into the man’s eyes and saw nothing but boredom. The student rolled his eyes in disgust. “By the gods man, this is the tests,” the man spat. “You trying to embarrass your father?”
With a roar, Justan leapt up, launching his shoulder into the shield. The man’s eyes widened in surprise and he fell back a few steps, giving Justan time to attack.
He hacked at the man in a fury, pounding strikes off the shield, aiming for any bit of flesh he could see around it. He could feel the crowd tense up in anticipation, but through his anger, Justan knew it was useless. The man was too good.
The student continued to parry his strikes with ease, but now Justan saw his eyes flash with irritation. He slammed Justan’s weapons aside with the shield and followed through with a thrust of his sword. The blade pierced through the gaping hole in Justan’s defenses.
Justan felt steel bite into the flesh of his shoulder. He fell to his knees. The fight was over. First blood had been drawn.
The great horn blew signaling an end of the match and the crowd erupted into applause. Mages ran across the field to tend to Justan’s wound. Without bothering to pull his blood drenched shirt aside, they laid their hands directly over the wounded shoulder.
Justan stared at the ground, so numb he barely registered the familiar tingling energies of the magic knitting his flesh back together. When they were finished, he didn’t take the customary bow to the crowd, but instead strode back to the side of the arena where the other trainees sat awaiting their turn.
Without looking up, he gave the swords back to the armorer and headed to his seat. As he sat down, he thought he saw a few sneers, but most of his fellow trainees ignored him. None of them offered any conciliatory words. Justan didn't care. He hadn't made any friends over the last year, but he hadn't been in the Training School to make friends. The only thing he ever wanted was to become a great warrior.
Not that it mattered now.
Justan didn't see how the council would let him enter the academy after this year’s round of tests. He had done much better this year than the last, but his bad scores in archery and hand-to-hand fighting had forced him into a precarious position.
He didn’t watch as the other trainees tested. He sat
with his head in his hands, dread boiling in his stomach. Final scores would not be announced until the end of the day at the Battle Academy, but Justan knew he had fallen short. All of his years of training and it had come to this. What was he going to do?
When the final horn blew, Justan left his seat and exited at the far side of the arena from where his parents would be waiting for him. He wasn’t ready to face his father.
Eye of the Moonrat (The Bowl of Souls: Book One) Page 1