by James Duvall
Also by James Duvall
The Brightistry
Shards (Coming February 2019)
Murder at the Lion's Roar (Coming March 2019)
Mistweaver (Coming 2019)
The War of Embers
Copyright © 2019 James Duvall
All Rights Reserved
Cover Artwork by Laura Ernzen (www.Lauralien.com)
Visit our website at www.Frostrunes.com
The War of Embers
by James Duvall
Acknowledgments
I have been blessed to have a large number of great people in my life with the great patience to endure me rambling about dragons and panthers and things they've never heard of in places they've never been to.
Particularly I'd like to thank my siblings: John, Mark, and Emily, all of whom can tell you what it's like to be trapped in a car with me on a five hour road trip the day after I got a new idea for a story.
I also thank my parents, whom have been an endless source of encouragement in this writing endeavor.
A very special thank you to Clinton and Tiffany Cosgrove. I will never forget those late nights at Shortcakes Diner or the McLockin, laughing and talking and so often debating some probably inconsequential minutia of one of my story settings or the latest film we'd seen down at the little Stillwater 10 movie theatre. Truly we were blessed to be so happy in those immortal days.
To John Voth, whom never seems to tire of me calling him up with an idea and providing great feedback whenever I got stuck.
To Brandy M., Andrew S., Ben F., Laura E., Eric B., and so many others that entertain my nightly forays into Ryvarra and Pendria, thank you all as well.
There are so many people and so little space on this page! I am sure I missed many people that deserve my thanks, but don't worry, I've got a lot more acknowledgments pages to fill!
Thank you all,
James Duvall
Prologue
Rekindled
Veronn Mountain Range, Ralia
In a remote part of the Veronn mountains, a few miles away from a village of no particular consequence, a fire had begun to burn. It was small, no larger than a candle's flame, and it rose out of a hole in the ground no bigger than a coin. It was the only marker for a grave left undisturbed for centuries. Covered by debris it was lost to the mortal world until a certain man by the name of Wesker came by and happened to sit upon the hot stone to rest. He looked at it for only a moment and then began to dig, driven beyond reason to persevere in spite of a growing rain. The earth grew wet and heavy, and his arms ached after only a few minutes, but he continued. He could hear it calling to him, a quiet voice tugging gently at his soul. It whispered a lilting song, soft and sweet, carried on the mountain mists. It told of riches; a king's wealth stashed away beneath his feet.
What meager wisdom Wesker possessed urged him to leave the little flame be. Magic meant danger, and it had never done him any favors before. But the little flame was hope, a chance to turn his fortunes around. So there he stood in a pit dug by his own hands with muddy water swirling about his knees, shoveling toward a ralian tomb. All at once the ground gave way beneath him. The muddy torrent caught him by the ankles and uprooted him, drawing him down into the gaping maw of the earth.
A stone coffin dominated the center of the small cavern, hewn from the rock of the mountain itself. The lid bore the likeness of a ralian man in repose, eyes shut in apparent sleep beneath the cavernous earthen sky. A wooden staff, made brittle by the years, had been placed across his chest. The end near his bare feet was burnt and blackened to charwood.
Light came plentifully from an altar at the foot of the coffin. Resting on a golden fixture, in a place of reverence, a stone bauble burned from within. It spouted a thin gout of flame up through the earthen ceiling. The firewalker's charm was no glittering box of gold coins and precious gems, but even Wesker's dull brown eyes could see the magic at work, and magic was as good as gold, perhaps even better.
Warm and inviting, the little flame called to him until he reached out to take the vessel from its platform. Wesker did not know it at the time, but that one simple act was the most significant thing he had ever done. In fact, he would never know, for it was also his last. A sudden roar of searing flame rumbled through the open tomb, reverberating through the valley like the booming voice of a giant, proclaiming Wesker's fiery death, and the mountain burned to his memory.
***
As his carriage rounded the corner, Khaebus had no trouble identifying the young magistrate. He leaned over to get his companion's ear. “That must be Socarian Fonge. He certainly looks nervous enough,” he said, and the two chuckled.
Socarian's frantic pacing came to an abrupt halt as he spotted the carriage. He nearly jumped out of his boots, then became glued to the spot as though he were a statue. He had wrung his hands raw, a condition that continued to worsen as his guests disembarked.
“Khaebus Mulgim,” Khaebus said, extending his hand. Socarian grabbed it with both hands and shook it eagerly.
“Of course, of course, we are so grateful for the king's presence in this trying time. Thank you for coming!” he said, bowing a little. “The priests say-”
“I know what the priests say,” Draggus barked, stifling the nervous man, but only for a moment.
“Wh-who is...” Socarian started, but fell silent again as his eyes finally shifted from the king's adviser to the thin man standing next to him. With his hair hanging in thin wisps and pallid skin grey as ash, Draggus looked as though he had been burned alive and then brought back to life. His sallow eyes had a darkness within them that told of the things he had seen, things that could drive a man to madness. Socarian's pupils shrank as he recognized the man. The color drained from his face and yet he still held more vitality than the object of his fear. “Draggus...”
“Draggus Morphial,” Khaebus said, trying not to grin. Their presence in such a small town, so far from any borders was the closest the little community had come to a visit from the crown since before the days of Khoren's line, and Khaebus knew it.
“Well the uhm... the...” Socarian stuttered.
Draggus arched a brow. “Fire?”
“Yes!” spouted a grateful Socarian, as though Draggus had done him a very great service. “It was in the mountains, just north. I can take you there right away, or if you wish for respite, we have prepared the finest rooms for your stay.”
“Oh that is not necessary,” Khaebus said warmly. “I think we can find a smoldering mountain on our own. I am sure you have many important duties to tend to here. We will return by evening.”
With the anxious magistrate long behind them, Khaebus was once again able to speak freely. “Drissus believes it is a sign and it brings him no peace. It's only been three months since Khoren the Bold joined his forefathers, and already I'm afraid the young lad's hair is starting to gray. He sits uneasily on his father's throne.”
Khaebus chose his last words carefully, he knew what people thought of their new king. He knew that Drissus could be a good king, but he was still a boy in many ways, too young for the responsibilities dropped suddenly onto his shoulders. A crown was a heavy thing to wear for a man of only twenty years.
The two now stood on the mountainside where the fire had risen from the ground, peering down into a tomb now shared by men of different blood, brought together in death. All around them was death. The fire had risen up and struck down anything that had once lived on the mountain. A forest of ashes stood in place of it all.
“I had heard,” Draggus said, prompting a worried look from Khaebus. “You think only men of aristocracy gossip, Khaebus?”
“I suppose not,” he conceded with a sigh.
“I worry for your Khaebus,” Dragg
us said, rubbing his bearded chin. “It is not fitting for a man so high ranked as yourself to be so unaware of what goes on outside of the court of rule.”
Khaebus felt his temper flare a little, but he would never show his anger unnecessarily, particularly to a silver-tongued sorcerer like this one. He crossed his arms and studied Draggus, whom was studiously ignoring him and prodding at a bit of the ashy buildup on the edge of the pit. “What leads you to believe that I am unaware of the citizenry?”
“Very well. Do you know what the common men call King Khoren?”
“Sire, perhaps? His Majesty? I can think of no better title for our late king, Khoren the Bold.” Indignation in his voice belied the depth of his knowledge.
“Feigned ignorance of unpleasant truths is unbecoming of you, Khaebus,” Draggus began. “For your pride's sake I will educate you. They call him Khoren the Brazen, in honor of his courage that got so many of them killed in the War of Ashes. Truly it was a great and vast undertaking. Too great. Too vast.”
Khaebus scowled at the sorcerer. “Even dead, those are dangerous words to speak of the man. Your tongue has become sharper of late.”
“Should it not?”
“Discretion is a great part of wisdom.”
Draggus whirled around and gave the adviser a hard look. “Kings come to me for their wisdom. Ignoring the truth does not change it. It is a proud man's folly. His enemies say his bloodline is no longer fit to rule, that the strength has flown out of it like warmth leaves a corpse. Wisely he seeks to prove himself. A great conquest would put their fears and treasonous ambitions to rest. But how can he succeed where his father could not?”
Khaebus threw up his arms. “Passion?”
“His father had passion. No, that will not be enough. He needs inspiration. Arcamyn and Fendiss are strong. Khoren's war only served to strengthen that alliance. It must be broken. Beyond that it is up to the people. A king can declare war but his people must be willing to fight it. Many men remember our defeat, but the humans and the panthers still remember how close we came to victory. They are bloodied, just as we. We must inspire our people to fight again, show them that we can overcome, that we are blessed by the Forgemaster. Man and beast stood together against Ralia and we very nearly succeeded. With proper inspiration, Khaebus, Arcamyn and Fendiss will bow to Ralia, and our homeland will be restored to us.”
“So, the fire then? You believe it is a sign?”
“It is a sign of something, at least. But what of?”
Khaebus shrugged uselessly.
“Stay here,” Draggus advised. Khaebus needed no encouragement. Crawling around in ancient tombs was fare for younger men. He leaned against a tree and watched as the warlock scrambled down into the pit and dropped out of sight. The warlock had an unhealthy look about him, his face pale and ashen, his eyes yellow and sickly. It always surprised the politician to see how quick on his feet Draggus could be.
“See anything?” he called after a few minutes had passed without report.
“Dead men. A grave robber and a firewalker.”
Draggus was comfortable among the dead. Wesker's ashes drifted around the floor, caught up in little eddies of wind as the sorcerer swept across the room to the vessel of fire. It was a stone orb, made of onyx and hollowed out with a little hole in the top. Letters written in flame danced across its surface. He lifted it up with both hands, gazing into the flickering flame and feeling its warmth on his face. Fire swept around him, but he was not consumed, nor was he scorched. This was power, resting in his hands, and he had the skill to wield it.
“In all my years, I have never seen such a trophy as this.”
“What did you find?” Khaebus called down. He had half a mind to follow, but the coffin had cracked from the heat, and the charred bones glaring up at him held him at bay. “Draggus?”
Draggus set the lamp on the ground above and clambered out after it. “Do not touch it!” he warned. “It is not stable yet.”
“What is it?”
Draggus's mouth split into a wicked grin as he stared into the flickering ball of fire. “Inspiration.”
Part 1
Night Seeker
At the place where the road diverged within the darkened woods, the white dragon sat waiting by the pools, for a man was coming soon...
Chapter 1
Ashcrest
Ashcrest, Colorado
In the backwoods of Colorado, an old Ford Taurus crawled up a snow-covered road. It made slow, steady progress as its chains bit into the thick fallen snow, leaving behind a pair of long trenches that stretched over thirty miles back to the highway. The road wound lazily through the mountains, hemmed by rocky walls and thick ranks of snow-covered spruce and fir trees. In the driver's seat, Joshua Woods checked the clock. Pale blue numbers glowed 4:32 through a thin film of dust. He was almost home.
A few minutes later the spruce and fir drew closer to the road, eating up the shoulder as the steep rock walls narrowed, creating a thin corridor for the little strip of snow-covered road. A yellow caution sign draped in ice warned that the upcoming turn was particularly sharp and should be approached very slowly. Just after the sign passed by, a shadow fell across the windshield and disappeared as quickly as though the distant winter sun had blinked. In that instant the ever-present army of frosty ice crystals clinging to the perimeter of the windshield advanced a quarter inch. The old sedan rose sharply and bounced on the suspension as though there had been a speed bump buried in the snow. The air in the cab suddenly tasted of cold, wet ice and raised hundreds of little bumps on Joshua's arms.
With a sigh, Joshua pulled forward another twenty yards to the turnaround and executed an arduous three point turn that turned into more of a thirteen point mess in a foot of fresh powder snow. Pointed back west he popped open the ash tray and flipped the toggle switch hidden beneath it into the 'on' position. This time as he rounded the bend he found fresh-fallen snow in the east-bound lane, smooth and untouched as though he had never passed by. By sharp contrast in the rear view mirror he could see deep trenches leading back to the chewed up mess from his arduous turning maneuver. Coming up on the right was a northward turnoff, marked by a hand-made wood-carved sign reading 'Welcome to Ashcrest!' in bold block lettering.
Joshua flicked the switch back down and closed the ash tray. The last few minutes passed in silence, interrupted only by the thrum of the old engine and the occasional howling gust of wind that sent dry bits of powder snow blowing across the windshield like grains of salt. After about a mile the Miner's Mart Gas N' Grocery came up on the right. The store advertised gas, coffee, milk, cigarettes, and groceries in red painted letters above the windows. The letters had faded to a milky pink over the years and were chipped and ragged on the edges.
Directly across from the Miner's Mart stood Chip's Corner Cafe. This time of the year the parking lot was filled with more snowmobiles than anything else. Joshua pulled into a makeshift parking space marked by an orange cone on the packed ice. Inside, Joshua spotted Brian Ketch sitting in a booth at the end of the bar. The man wore a top hat and was reading a newspaper while he stole sips of coffee from a steaming mug.
“Tell me, Joshua, what of the outside world?” Brian asked. He idly stirred his coffee without looking up from his paper.
Joshua sat across from him and leaned his head back against the cold glass of the window.
“Well there's snow, snow, and more snow. Took me almost two hours to drive back from Northwood. I can do it in about half an hour in the spring. Solomon's Watch says I can move there if I end up getting into the university.”
In response to this, Brian's newspaper lowered slowly, revealing an arched brow. “Oh? Is that so? That's... unusual.”
“It's been done before,” Joshua said, defensive. “I'm not the first to think of leaving.”
“Mmm... still, it is uncommon. However...” Brian lowered his voice and peered over Joshua's shoulder. “Care to hear something truly unusual?”
“What
?” Joshua whispered.
“I was out ehm... working on a prototype... and I happened to find my way out to the power shed.”
Joshua flinched. “Brian...” he started, his tone scolding. Brian cut him off with a wave.
“I know, I know, Stacy already read my the riot act. I don't need it from you too. Anyway, everyone was there. I mean everyone. The mayor, Solomon's Watch, everyone on the town council... Seven or eight people all standing around in the snow, just talking.”
Joshua leaned in. “Any idea why?”
Brian shrugged. “I wasn't close enough to hear but they didn't look pleased to say the least of it.”
Joshua leaned back, letting the idea sink in. The power shed and the weather station were the only two off-limits areas as they were vital to the town's security. If so many important people were gathered around the power station then maybe... but no, it had only been a half an hour since he'd accidentally snared himself in the checkpoint on the highway. Had someone been caught tampering?
Who would even do that?
“So... do you want to see it?” Brian asked, his face bright with gleeful anticipation. His fingers strummed anxiously across the table.
“...the power shed?”
“No! The prototype!”
***
The garage door rose with a clatter, casting off snow and thudding heavily as it hit the end of its tracks. Brian stepped in quickly, flipping on the lights and hurrying to the space heater. At the back of the garage, a white sheet stained by oil and paint concealed Brian's prototype. Brian stepped up to it with a flourish, stopping only a brief moment to doff his hat to the hidden creation. The hat then went on a peg over the workbench.
“The door, if you please,” Brian requested. Joshua obliged, the garage door rumbling its way back down the tracks and shuddering as it came to a sudden rest. Being out of the wind was a big improvement. The space heater quickly began to do its job, the misty puffs of breath coming off the two men fading as Joshua picked his way through narrow walkways between crates of oily gears, springs, and bins of an assorted mishmash of nails and screws. The only area that wasn't crammed with spare parts was Brian's workbench, with its carefully arrayed tool on one and Brian's latest project on the other.