The Willbreaker (Book 1)

by Mike Simmons

  As the line of metal death approached Bram, the explosive cracking noise of his power rang clear within his mind. The charging brigade of horsemen slowed to near stop, frozen in slow motion of the attack. Although he slowed as well, Bram drew his right arm behind him, clenching his glimmering short sword, and with the twist of his entire body, he hurled the blade in a spinning motion towards the lead dragoon. It spun in a creeping blur towards the armored rider, and with an earsplitting screech, the blade pierced the protective chest plate that hung below the horse’s neck, sinking in completely to the hilt. The horse’s head reared back, as all of the strength drained from his front legs, throwing the rider headfirst towards the dirt. The arch in the rider's back gave little idea to the strain that ripped through him as he tried to keep his legs upon his mount. His head and arms catapulted straight into the solid ground as the armored horse, moving at full sprint, collided with the earth with bone-shattering force. In a snowball-like effect, the dead rider and his mount created an unavoidable mound, which toppled the trailing riders in a bloody turmoil of broken bones, flying weapons, and death. Confusion and shock swept through the riders that were still in the back.

  Like an enraged beast, Bram leapt upon the first horse that had fallen and arched the shimmering short sword downward into the terrified face of a dragoon. A spray of warm blood shot from the sides of his blade as it split the dragoon’s head in two. With dance-like movements, he swept his right hand backwards to the handle of the dragoon’s axe, and whirled it across his chest into the oncoming soldier that had dismounted. The knight's shining chest plate caved in from the brute force of the flying axe, lifting both his feet off the ground as he burst out a mortal grunt.

  Bram ripped his sword from the chest of the first horse, and with both swords moving in twin fashion, he hacked the life from the oncoming horde of soldiers. In slowed time, Bram watched everything around him and had time to calculate his attacks. His attacks flowed fluidly, with no wasted energy. His blade whistled through the air, parting a head from its body and continued straight across the stomach of another man, spilling his guts onto the ground like a vomiting beast. Single arcs of his blood-dipped weapons rarely downed a single opponent; multiple men fell at every swing. His surging might powered the magical swords with a force unknown to normal man.

  “Auralee! Auralee! Ride!” Cedric voiced out across the tops of the archer’s heads, as he anxiously watched a rider race from the distance behind his army. Dashing along the back lines of the archers, a white-cloaked woman held tight to her horse as it sped with purpose towards him. She zoomed past the third and second groups of armored soldiers and past the mounted flank men to the Commander’s viewpoint. She dismounted in mid run towards Lord Reinhold and General Stromberg.

  The hooded woman swept her arm across her stomach as she bowed before Lord Reinhold.

  “Lord Reinhold, my apologies for the delay. I . . .”

  “Auralee, no time for explanations. Did you bring it? Did you bring the arrow?”

  Auralee straightened her body and pulled at the leather strap that hung around her shoulder. A three-foot long cylinder, made from a grey metal that reflected hues of blue in the light and covered in strange runes and markings, connected to the leather strap. At the top of the cylinder, a cap securely fastened its contents inside. With an asking look at Cedric, she placed her hand over the metallic lid and twisted it off in a circular motion. Cedric’s eyes watched with fervor in anticipation of what hid within.

  As the lid came free, Auralee put her hand within and slowly pulled out its contents. She pulled out a single arrow, clutched between her thumb and her forefinger. Its shaft, made from the same material as the cylinder, had a small rounded globe, the size of a marble, at its tip. Fluctuating yellow light shimmered sporadically from within the globe. The metal fletching, the same metal as the container, curved like an auger around the crest.

  Reinhold’s eyes lit with astonishment at what she held in her hands. He reached out to the arrow, as if it might strike him, and slowly pulled it in front of his face.

  “I am still amazed that we found this intact." His words were slow, and precise.

  The ringing of weapons brought Cedric back to his senses. With a small shake of his head, he sprang back to life.

  “Galadin! Ready your bow!” he yelled into the crowd of waiting soldiers.

  A tall, elvish man approached, his straight blonde hair hanging halfway down his back, as he pulled the string draped across his chest free of his arm, revealing a masterfully crafted elvish long bow. Galadin had fair skin, as light as cream, which gave a pleasant contrast to his striking green eyes. He wore leather crafted by a superior hand, and his cloak, a mix of browns and greens, imitated the changing color of the ground as he walked. He stood eye to eye with Cedric, but conveyed elegance, instead of masculinity, and his thin frame made no mistake of his race.

  Cedric handed the arrow to Galadin, looking him in the eye. “Galadin,” he said. “This is our only chance. You only have one shot." Cedric knew by the look on the elf‘s face that he understood the importance of the arrow.

  “Is it true it was crafted in the Age of Creation, Sire?”

  “Yes, and it is too bad we do not have the time to admire it. Take foot, over there,” he said, as he pointed to the peak of the hill.

  “Lord Reinhold, we need to send in the second wave, the avatar has conquered our dragoons!” yelled a mounted commander, over where Cedric wanted Galadin to stand.

  Galadin moved to his position and knocked the arrow. As he looked down the hill, the shock of what unfolded before him came into perspective; two hundred dragoons and their horses heaped below him, forming a hill of dead men. Lances, swords, and axe handles stuck from the pile like quills from a porcupine. The Avatar of War stood panting on top, like the King of the Dead. One foot rested atop the head of a fallen warrior. He looked down at his work, dripping blood and covered in dirt. His eyes rose to meet Galadin’s. Dirt and blood covered Bram’s face.

  “Galadin! Now! Shoot him!”

  Galadin raised his bow and pulled the tight string back to his cheek. He took a slow breath, entering a zone of calmness. All of the sounds around him faded to silence. His vision focused and all stilled. He could see Bram down the shaft of the arrow. Bram broke a wicked smile, as he held his arms out to the side, as if asking Galadin to try to hit him.

  “Now Galadin!”

  His fingers relaxed, and the arrow released. It tore from his fingers, launching the arrow away from him. As the arrow took flight, it gained speed beyond reasonable logic. It whistled through the air. In a flash, the yellow globe on the front of the arrow ignited. The shaft burst apart, turning the metal shrapnel into grey vapor. The form exploded into a living bolt of lightning, tearing its way through the space to its target. Even with time slowed, Bram did not have time to change the expression on his face. He still held the wicked smile when it reached him. The colossal impact split the air in unearthly ignition. A blast wave ripped in a circular ring from the point of impact, racing in all directions outward. It smashed into Reinhold’s men on top of the hill, blowing them to the ground with concussive force. When it hit Bram, it blew the bodies of the dead away as a firecracker does to the sand when shoved in the top of an anthill.

  These artifacts were coined ‘lightning arrows’ in the Age of Creation. A precisely placed arrow could kill a hundred men in the turmoil of battle. The impact of the arrow would send molten energy a hundred paces from its collision point, annihilating all within. Since the turning of the ages, no one had found a lightning arrow, until three turns of the full moon before today. Reinhold’s men discovered it in the mines beneath Castle Belkin. It was the only one intact and held more value than the entire king’s treasury.

  The men scrambled to their feet and looked down into the battlefield. A crater sixty paces wide, and at least fifteen paces deep, remained at the point of impact. The bodies of the dead were strewn across the valley in discord, piled in br
oken lumps, after the explosion tossed them like beanbags. There, in the middle of the valley, the Avatar laid limply on the ground. A pitch-black burn flamed across his chest and left arm.

  “General Stromberg, get him bound and make haste,” Reinhold said, urgently. Excitement laced his voice. “Move!”

  “Sire? How can that be? The magic of the arrow must have faded, he should have been evaporated!" General Stromberg looked down in the valley in disbelief.

  Cedric shook his head. “The arrow was fine, General. We are lucky it was able to do what it did to him. He is the Avatar of War; some believe the son of a God. He also happens to be a Preclass. Nothing man made can kill him that we know of. Now go, bind him with two sets of prisoner bindings before he gains consciousness. Get him inside the cage wagon immediately. Move.”

  General Stromberg hollered the names of two of his men. They descended the hill towards the Avatar.

  Cedric strode to his throne, unclasping the hook that held his heavy red cloak to his shoulders, passing his assistant by Davis Polmin inattentively. He unbuckled his belt and tossed it to the ground, his heavy sword still clinging to it in its scabbard.

  Davis let out a small courtesy laugh and spoke again with a trembling voice. “Sire, our forces have suffered losses in Darrow’s Hold, Tormaine’s Ravine, and now Oakridge. We seem to be losing this war with Aurora, Sire. What would you have us do?”

  “We are not losing this war, Davis,” Reinhold said. Call a meeting with my Council. We will start discussion in a half an hour.”

  Lord Cedric Reinhold filled the oak chair in the center of the Council’s Chambers. Its intricate carvings, painted with gold leaf, gave off a sense of beauty. Its mighty armrests made him look like a small man within it. In front of him, the rounded marble table accented in the center with a crested shield, indicated the House of Reinhold’s exclusive council meeting room.

  To his right sat First General Janga Blackhand, Reinhold’s trusted and most decorated soldier. To his left sat Byron Copron, the Chief Officer, Prosidium of the Arcane. Four more people sat next to them, forming a circle and finishing the Council: Felinda Tamrin, Officer of the Treasury, Charlotte Firefist, Voice of the Gifted, Vincent Kinley, Secretary of Landscape and Development, and Lilly Rogers, Scriber of World Events.

  As everyone sat, Cedric lifted the small blackwood gavel that rested before him on the table. He smacked a rounded wood plate twice, and rested it down once again. Everyone looked up towards him.

  “I’d like to thank everyone for making it this morning. We have a lot to discuss today. Felinda, how are we doing with our gold reserves?" Cedric dipped a quill pen and pulled a curled piece of parchment towards him, taking notes.

  Felinda sorted through papers of her own until she found the one she looked for. “Well, we are easily at the lowest point our reserves have ever been. I have just allocated a hefty section of what we have left for the construction, repair, and maintenance of the heavy armors and weapons for our infantry. General Blackhand has been informing me of the costs needed to maintain sufficient gear while we are in the eye of war with Aurora. At the current rate of decrease, we will diminish our gold reserves in less than six months. On a positive note, Mr. Copron has informed me of the latest discovery down in the Mines of Romdall. Three weeks ago an artifact from the Age of Creation was found in the depths of the mines, completely intact. We should be able to fill the reserves tenfold with the sale of-”

  Lord Reinhold interrupted her. “We used it.”

  Felinda looked around at the others confused. “I’m sorry?" She apparently did not understand what he said.

  “We used it. Lieutenant General Galadin Bloodbark shot it from his bow just four days ago.”

  Byron Copron slammed the bottom of his hand on the table with a bang. Everyone at the table jumped, except Cedric Reinhold. “What did you say? He shot the arrow? By whose order?”

  Lord Reinhold locked eyes with Bryon.

  “I ordered him to use the arrow." His eyes were in righteous defiance to those around him. “He shot the arrow at my command." Byron opened his mouth to speak in anger again, but Cedric’s voice burst out in a scornful yell.

  “I am Lord of this land, and everything in it! Do not question me! I do not have the luxury of only being concerned with certain aspects of this kingdom! I am responsible for every person, and everything, within this kingdom! If I fail, people die! If I do not make the right decisions, people die. I would trade a hundred arrows for the lives of my people. Gold holds no value if there isn't anyone alive to use it. We had to use the arrow to stop the Avatar of War from wiping our names from the history books. If we had not, he would have crushed our forces. We used it, and now the Avatar lays locked down in the dungeon, and our people are safe.”

  Silence swept those at the table. A few heads dropped, regretting having thought, or said, the things they did. Cedric eyed his council members, waiting to see if anyone wished to speak. All was quiet, so he continued.

  “Byron, how are things in the world of the arcane?”

  Byron’s job consisted of the interpretation of prophecy, and the cataloging and studying of all things magical. His office held a library’s worth of books and manuals. Books of all shapes and sizes sat opened and marked across tables, chairs, and the floor. Although it seemed chaotic and looked a disaster, Byron knew every book and its location.

  “Well, I suppose I can disregard any information of the lightning arrow that was found,” he said sarcastically. “Besides that, my students have found a few pages of prophecy that we may be able to link to this war with Aurora." He shuffled through a small notebook in front of him and stopped on a page marked with a piece of ribbon.

  “This is an actual page from a lesser Visionary, Gablin Glasseye, in his writings of his day dreams. A copy of this book was sent out to Greylin for interpretation, but we have not heard from our agent there in nearly two weeks." He cleared his throat as he read was what written on its face.

  “Blackened clouds haunt my visions. I see them when I walk down the street, and when I try to sleep. My dreams are becoming more and more real. The vale of reality is becoming harder to see through. I do not know anymore when I dream or when I am awake. What I see now, I write in the hopes that it will evade me after I attempt to rid my mind of it. He who was born under the Red Star will see blood. The blood of innocents will stain his heart. Tears for the dead will fall into broken grounds. The sanctity of his world will be compromised if a stand is not made. The slayer of man can only falter under the shadow of the Red Star. Unbreakable Will, a shield to weigh with trust, the only defense. As the world revels, a friend turned will release the God amongst men, and blood will flow free of reluctant foes. All hopes rest upon the one who can break him, he who bears the Star of Destiny, the Star of Red Hope.”

  Byron put the book down, and looked up at Cedric.

  “What does that mean, Byron? I am not a reader of riddles, please, educate me,” Cedric said.

  “Well, from our calculations, and from the text, pre and post this writing, we presume that the ‘slayer of man’ could be Aurora.”

  Lord Reinhold broke in, “Could be?”

  With an irritated chuckle, Byron responded. “Yes, could be. Prophecy is prophecy because it is written as people of Vision see it. It is not a road map to the future. It is what could be, and may be, and what is possible. It is left to people like us to try to interpret and understand what blurred and confusing images these Gifted see. Sometimes we get it right, and sometimes we do not. We do the best we can with what is written down. We use the context of the words, and how they are written, and try to apply these writings to events past and present.”

  Lord Reinhold nodded in understanding. “All right, continue, please.”

  “A few of the prophecies mention this red star, or he who bears a red star, or he who was born under the red star. We are unsure who this could be, or what exactly this means. The red star could signify something like a tattoo, or it ma
y be related to something astrological. We have tried to connect these writings with you, Sire, but have been unsuccessful. We have checked our records of the stars with the time of your birth, against historical events, and along with significant situations of your life and have not been able to connect any of these prophecies. Unless you have insight of something we do not know concerning a red star, we could assume that you are not the one referred to in this prophecy, My Lord. And this prophecy says that the slayer of man can only falter under the shadow of the red star.”

  “So what are you telling me Byron, is that I cannot defeat Aurora from destroying our lands, and killing our people? Are you trying to tell me that because of a writing in some book that was written in the Age of Creation, over a thousand years ago, that I will not be able to defeat a crazed and psychotic woman who wishes to rid Venifera completely of men? I find that difficult to chew, and will not rest the fate of my people on some prediction.”

  Byron seemed offended. “Sir, these writings are not something to be taken lightly.”

  Charlotte became angry. “Just because you are not gifted and do not understand the ways of the magic, does not mean you can disregard its importance! The gift uses these people like a telescope into the future; they can actually see the layout of time and events that will come to pass. Time to a seer is irrelevant, it does not matter if they wrote their visions down a thousand years ago, or yesterday, the outcome will still be the same. Not anyone can write in the books of prophecy. The ones who can are put through a vast regime of training and are usually tested from a young age. They are tested on everything from mental stability to accuracy of future prediction. Most people with the gift of vision never make it to that point, or are not able to summon enough magical energy to control their gift with the needed precision or mastery to actually be able to see a thousand years into the future. Have faith that we of the magic world take pride in those we deem worthy of the title Seer. Under no circumstance should you neglect to take heed the writings of a true visionary.”