Stone saw the light before Lorik did. He nudged his friend and said, “Here they come.”
Lorik listened but there was no sound and the light remained dim.
“Whatever you do, kill as many of them as possible,” Stone said.
“I don’t think they’re coming for us.”
“What?”
“I don’t hear… any boots.”
Stone grew silent, listening. For a long time there was nothing but the red light under the door, which cast an ominous glow into the cell. Then, there was the scrape of metal on stone and a voice, barely more than a whisper reached Lorik’s ears.
“Don’t give him the satisfaction,” the voice said.
Lorik knew it was Kierian, but the light began to fade almost as soon as the voice stopped speaking. He tried to sit up, but it was a painful ordeal.
“She left us a razor,” Stone said.
“To cut our own throats with,” Lorik admitted, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time.
“I’ll do you, but then I’m going to try and gut that fat bastard who killed Vera.”
Lorik felt a wave of gratitude, followed almost immediately by a pang of guilt. He couldn’t let Stone slice his throat and avoid the painful death he deserved. A moan of anger and frustration slipped past his split and swollen lips.
“Let me do it. They’ll torture you for hours, maybe even longer,” Stone said. “Your hands are ruined. You probably can’t even hold the blade.”
Lorik knew his friend was right, but he couldn’t do it. He wasn't afraid of dying, in fact at that point in his pain filled mind, he welcomed it. But he wouldn’t give up even the slightest chance that he might be able to lash out at Issalyn or Yettlebor. And then he felt it. The strangely welcoming call of the nearby magic. He had felt it over a year ago in that exact dungeon. A darkness that longed to embrace him, to empower him, to fulfill him. It had been tempting then, as they faced the overwhelming odds of the witch’s army bearing down on them, but he had been filled with Drery Dru’s light magic and the darkness seemed cold and evil then. Now, it seemed to fit him perfectly.
“No,” Lorik said. “I have a plan.”
“I hope it doesn’t involve me walking,” Stone said. “That arrow wound was mortal. It pierced my spine.”
“What are you saying?” Lorik asked.
“I’m on borrowed time here,” Stone explained. “I’m just praying for a chance to get my hands on that fat bastard’s throat before my strength is all gone.”
“Can you pick the lock and get us out of here?”
“I guess I could, but you aren’t carrying me out with two dislocated shoulders and a gimpy leg.”
“We aren’t going out,” Lorik said. “Just do it.”
For an hour Stone worked on the lock with the razor blade. The rusty metal didn’t want to give way, but eventually it did. The door swung free and Stone collapsed back against the wall. Lorik couldn’t see his friend in the darkness, but he knew picking the lock had taken all of Stone strength.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m done. I hope you don’t need me for your plan. It was great knowing you. Never a dull minute.”
“Don’t you die on me,” Lorik said. “Not yet. There may be a way to get our revenge.”
Getting to his feet was the hardest thing Lorik had ever done. With one wounded leg, and no way to use his hands or put weight on his dislocated arms, it took him nearly ten minutes to finally get up. He had to hobble to the door, and there was no way to see anything in the total darkness of the dungeon. But no one could see him either, and he didn’t need to see to find his way to the secret portal where the dark magic was calling.
“I can’t hold you,” Lorik said. “Not with broken fingers. So grab my wrist and hang on.”
“What are you doing?” Stone said, his voice weak, barely more than a whisper.
“I can’t explain it. Just hold on to me,” Lorik said. “And don’t die.”
“You’re a bastard.” Stone said, suddenly angry. “It’s your fault.”
“I know,” Lorik said, guilt over Vera’s death ripping his heart to ribbons.
“I’ll never forgive you,” Stone said, taking hold of Lorik’s wrist.
The pain made bright spots dance around in Lorik’s head, but he steadied himself and took a step forward, pulling his friend out of the dungeon cell.
“I’ll never forgive myself,” he grunted.
Lorik felt weak, his body shook with the effort, pain seemed to raging through his mind like a storm at sea. And yet the magic kept calling. It was encouraging, almost like a friend rooting for him to succeed. Every small step took a minute to balance and make sure he didn’t fall over. Every time he pulled Stone a little farther the pain threatened to make him pass out. Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. His back spasmed in pain, his legs cramped, but he didn’t quit.
When he reached what would have looked like a plain, unadorned section of solid, rock wall, had their been any light to see by, Lorik stopped.
“What now?” Stone asked. “I don’t think I can go much farther.”
“No need,” Lorik said, leaning his head against the cold stone wall. “We made it.”
All it took was an acceptance in his mind, and the stone began to move. The magic on the far side of the secret opening was at work now, removing the barriers. The stone scraped, like the death cry of some terrible beast. There was no light, no indication that anything was in the dark space beyond the wall. Then, after a long pause, two hands reached out, and took hold of Lorik.
“Whatever you do,” he told Stone, “don’t let go of me.”
“Not if kills me,” Stone said.
Then they were both pulled into the darkness.
Author’s Note
I want to thank you for reading Chaos Descending. Coming back to the Five Kingdoms was like reuniting with old friends. There is so much more to this world and these characters that I want to explore and share with you. Chaos Descending is the start of new series in the world of the Five Kingdoms, so look for the adventure to continue. And once again, thank you so much for your support and encouragement along the way, it means the world to me.
Toby Neighbors
November 16, 2015
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The Avondale Series Book 1
Avondale Chapter 1
Tiberius
The Prefect was explaining a rather tedious section of the sacred scripture. Tiberius, third son of Lord Aegus, Earl of Avondale, didn’t always hate the Prefect’s lectures. There were sections of the ancient scriptures that were full of battles or intense showdowns between the servants of Addoni, the one true god, and Rastimus, the deceiver. Unfortunately today was not one of those lectures, but rather a long explanation of the history of Addoni’s followers.
Tiberius did his best to pay attention, but his mind kept returning to the martial drills that were coming up in the next few days. He’d failed both his sword test and his hand-to-hand fighting test. If he didn’t pass the martial drills, he would never become a Paladin; instead, he would be forced to become a Priest. In truth, Tiberius didn’t want to be a Paladin or a Priest, nor did he relish the idea of becoming a Prefect teaching in dull classrooms all day. But what Tiberius wanted wasn’t important to anyone, certainly not his father or his older brother, Leonosis, who all but ruled Avondale in their father’s place. Tiberius had never whispered his own dream to anyone; it was too dangerous. His greatest desire was forbidden. In fact, it was Tiberius’ great shame that he longed for it at all. He did his best to choke down his dream, and focus on the reality of what his life would be.
The gong of the huge warning bell sounded, and the tedious lecture was suddenly cut short.
“Ah, ah, class...” the startled Prefect stammered.
Tiberius didn’t wait to hear the dismissal. Instead, he raced out of the lecture hall and sprinted up the wide stone steps that made up the city streets of Avondale, toward the great wall that encircled the entire mountaintop city. His heart was pounding and he was breathing heavily by the time he reached the royal castle. From there, he turned into the round lookout tower and climbed the steep spiral staircase that led to the top of the structure.
His legs burned, and his side cramped, but the warning bell continued to ring, so Tiberius kept climbing. Each massive peel of the huge brass bell reverberated through the city, and Tiberius felt the vibrations deep in the pit of his stomach. The warning bell was only sounded when the city was under attack by one of the massive creatures from the blighted lowlands, and Tiberius was anxious to see what was throwing his father into a panic.
He was gasping for breath by the time he finally reached the top of the watchtower. There were half a dozen men, all in uniform, staring out over the southern edge of the city. Tiberius hurried over to the thick, wooden guard that ran around the edge of the tower. He leaned against the wooden frame, his body sagging from fatigue. Stamina was never his strong suit, he admitted bitterly.
Most of the lowlands were covered with a thick layer of clouds, effectively blocking most of the view for miles and miles around Avondale. The city itself was like a finely wrought wedding band, built on the circular top of an extinct volcano. The city was built of stone and timber, running around the massive wall that was built on the mountain’s circular lip. Inside the city was a massive crater, green with life. The edges were terraced and farmed by the freemen of Avondale under Tiberius’ father’s watchful eye. Beyond the green fields were massive trees, mostly pine, growing tall and strong; even when the snows fell, the trees were green. And in the very center was the crown jewel of Avondale, a deep lake of fresh, untainted water that supplied the city with drinking water and the fields with irrigation so that Avondale had more than enough, year after year.
None of that registered to Tiberius, even though his gaze fell across the wonder of his father’s city. He was focused instead on the huge creature slowly climbing up the rugged mountainside. It was huge, taller than the city walls and nearly as wide. It had huge legs with three-toed claws that dug into the mountainside as it lumbered forward. Its head was round, with a flat face, and flapping jowls that hung on either side of enormous teeth that protruded from the creature’s mouth at odd angles. Two massive horns came up on either side of the creature’s head, angling up and then curving back toward each other over the top of the beast’s round head. Its eyes were tiny and completely black. Its body was thick and round, the belly almost touching the ground.
“What is it?” Tiberius said out loud.
“It’s a Forkus,” said one of the soldiers. “They’re nasty creatures.”
“Why is coming up the mountain?”
“Probably smells the water,” the soldier said. “There’s precious little clean water left in the wastelands.”
“Could be controlled by a dark wizard,” said another. “They created the mutants after all.”
“There’s no more wizards,” said the first soldier. “They all died in the cataclysm or were executed soon after.”
Tiberius felt his chest tighten. He wasn’t sure if it was the sight of the huge beast lumbering up the mountainside or the conversation about wizards that bothered him more. He watched as soldiers began jogging along the city wall and taking positions nearest to the creature. The beast wasn’t close enough to attack the city yet, and Tiberius knew that it was doubtful it would make it that far before the soldiers turned it back. But if it did, the brave men on the wall would give their lives to stop it. He felt a swelling of pride for their valor, but also a sliver of fear. He didn’t think he could place himself in the path of danger the way the soldiers did.
“Commander Grentz has the Ballistae manned,” said the first soldier excitedly. “They’ll show that bloody creature what we’re made of.”
This was the moment that everyone in Avondale waited for. The city was known for its wealth, its resources, and its armaments. It was the only source of Hylum, the invaluable gas that made the sky ships possible. It was also where the greatest weapons in the kingdom were invented. The ballistae were huge crossbows that fired giant bolts as big as a tall man. They were mounted around the city walls and took whole teams of men to load, draw, and fire, but they were ruthlessly efficient at beating back the mutated monsters that sometimes tried to scale the mountain and endanger the city.
The ballistae bolts were made of pine, with two triangular heads made of steel, one mounted up and down, the other side to side, fused together at the tip and honed razor sharp. The Forkus had a thick leathery skin, but it was no match for the ballistae bolts. Tiberius watched as the first weapon was fired. Even high above the city on the massive watchtower, he could hear the thrum of the thick ropes that hurled the bolt as the tension was released. The first bolt flew true, hurtling down on the Forkus like an angry strike of lightning. The bolt hit the huge beast just inside its left shoulder, below the huge head. The resulting roar shook the city and made Tiberius grab hold of the wooden railing around the top of the watchtower.
“That’s a hit!” crowed one of the soldiers.
The ballistae were mounted at strategic positions around the city walls. More of the powerful weapons were being loaded as the teams that fired them worked feverishly while their officers barked orders at them. Two more bolts were shot at the Forkus; one hit on the creature’s shoulder, where it broke the skin, but then rebounded off the massive bone underneath. The other slammed into the beast’s side.
The creature roared again—this time there was more pain in the deafening shriek. The beast turned its head, looking back down the mountain, then reared up on its hind legs, the massive claws pawing the air. Another bolt was shot and it sunk into the Forkus’ soft belly. The beast winced, then staggered to the side, before toppling over. It was far from dead, but the ballistae bolts were wounding it. The creature obviously wasn’t used to being harmed. It slowly turned back from the city and began moving back down the mountain.
The soldiers on the watchtower cheered in triumph, and Tiberius saw other groups along the walls celebrating as well. But the soldiers who had placed themselves on the wall between the Forkus and the city stood like statues, watching until the huge monster disappeared in the thick fog that shrouded the wastelands.
Avondale Chapter 2
Lady Olyva
Olyva was impatient. She hated being engaged to a man she didn’t know. She hated being sent across the wastelands in the floating ship, having to leave her home and family, only to feel like a stranger in Earl Aegus’ palace. But most of all she hated always waiting for everything. Why should she be forced to wait in her dreary chamber when everyone else was outside watching as Lord Aegus’ men fought whatever foul creature approached the city? Sometimes, she hated being a girl.
She paced back and forth across the narrow space in front of the small fireplace that warmed her rooms. Her maid, an older woman named Hellen, sat quietly in the small wooden chair beside the hearth. She worked diligently on her needlepoint, as if nothing in the world was wrong. She had tried to calm Lady Olyva, but had received a withering glare for her trouble.
Olyva sighed, letting her impatience breathe a little. Hellen clucked her tongue, but Olyva ignored her. She didn’t want to sit idly by while others risked their lives for her. She felt trapped, but unless she was escorted up to the castle walls, she knew there was nothing she could do. The decorum of court was clear. A lady spent her time on feminine pursuits and never ventured into danger.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered.
Hellen ignored her, which was just fine with Olyva. She knew her maid not only followed the unwritten rules of court, she worshiped them. Hellen could sit for hours clicking her needles together or mending Olyva’s dresses, with no thought whatsoever of what she might be m
issing. Olyva couldn’t do that; her mind was filled with possibilities, always spinning and calling her to other pursuits.
At the moment, she was doing her best not to think about Rafe. He was on the wall, she knew that. He would be in the thick of the fighting—he always was. It was a point of contention between them. He felt as though he must prove his worth and live up to his father’s reputation. Being the son of a master swordsman had its drawbacks, she mused. Her own opinion was quite different. She thought Rafe should be a commander, directing the Earl’s men from a point of safety. She thought he could be the captain of the Earl’s war band if he wanted, but Rafe was always thrusting himself into the most difficult challenges, pushing himself to prove he was worthy of bearing his father’s seal. She wanted to run to him, to make sure he was okay, but she knew she couldn’t do that even under the best of circumstances.
Her mind switched back to Brutas, her oafish fiancé, and the Earl’s second son. Brutas was an important man now, hence the engagement, brokered by Olyva’s father and Earl Aegus to strengthen relations between Avondale and Hamill Keep. But once Leonosis, the Earl’s firstborn son and the de facto ruler of Avondale even though his father still lived, had an heir, Brutas would be nothing—just another noble-born soldier. A knight had some prestige in court, but as his wife, Olyva would have none. Her only job would be seeing that their household was in order. She wouldn’t even be invited to court unless Brutas escorted her. She fumed at the very thought of it. She was not a child, nor was she a maid to be tasked with common chores, and she certainly didn’t need a man—any man—to escort her anywhere.
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