Sample Chapter of ‘Deluge’
The thick, pre-dawn fog crept silently through the sea of tents outside Shaylis’s main gate like a nest of serpents looking for a new lair. It poured easily through various holes in the western wall. Kaltor’s nostrils flared, trying to pull in the necessary oxygen without dwelling on the lingering smell of burned flesh or the rancid odor of the rotting corpses piled just north of the camp.
Kaltor sat on his haunches atop a nearby hill overlooking the devastation, rhythmically flipping a dagger into the air with his left hand. Cutting one last handful of hair from his head, he added it to the growing pile beside him. Growing it out allowed an opponent too much control of your head, should he manage to grab hold.
He drew comfort from the feel of the sturdy handle in between his fingers. With a demon like the Destroyer on the loose, his weapons were the only thing truly within his control. Linen bandages wrapped tightly around the wound in his right hand.
I know he’ll just lie through his teeth, Kaltor stewed, glaring at the metal cage jutting up out of the center of camp. But after all that’s happened, his hatred for us must be intense. With a little prodding, he might say something useful, accidentally— anything to give us an idea as to what the demon’s up to now— it will be well worth it.
Clutching the still-healing wounds on his stomach, he rose to his feet with a hiss of pain. He slowly worked his way down the hill and across the crowded field of horses, tents, and wagons, letting his battered muscles stretch and loosen in preparation for the day.
His steps were light, like a deer crossing a viper-hound’s lair, practicing his stealth. The lack of wind this morning cut down on his mobility. Were the situation to turn dangerous, he couldn’t run and trust the sound of the breeze to cover his passage. It didn’t take long to find the only wagon with a cage fixed to its base.
"Hello, Vengral," Kaltor said. The thick mist settled on his skin like rain frozen in time. "It’s been a while."
"Ahh, the famous Kaltor Stratagar graces me with his presence," the traitor whispered through his dry, cracking lips. He leered through the thick metal bars at his surroundings, his eyes searching the wisps of fog for his visitor’s location, gritting his teeth in an effort to hide his constant shivering against the cold fog. "Do you always speak from the shadows?"
"In my profession," Kaltor said, walking right up to Vengral’s cage, "When a Battleborn strikes from the dark, you’re dead before you know who’s hit you."
"Perhaps," the traitor replied with a sneer. It was odd how the man’s contempt for Varadours still made one feel inferior, even though he lay there, caged. Vengral behaved as though their positions were, in actuality, reversed, despite his bruised skin and tattered clothes. "Yet even your training didn’t protect you from Melshek. I heard your friend Honmour had to save you and finish him off."
"As long as we saved Shaylis and the threat he carried is over," Kaltor replied sincerely, "it doesn’t matter who got the kill."
"Oh, but it does," Vengral corrected, sitting up and gripping the bars tightly as he leaned in close to emphasize his point. "You see, if SHE thinks you did it all yourself, the best you can hope for is a quick, honor-less death," he sneered. "But if she learns it was a team effort, all she has to do is divide and conquer. Very different tactics, you see."
"Hopefully she puts more stock in rumor than fact, then," Kaltor grunted confidently. "I can take whatever the Destroyer can send my way," The statement didn’t quite coincide with the writhing sensations in his stomach at the thought of facing a demon from the Abyss itself, but his goal at the moment was to provoke the traitor. A pompous Varadour might just do the trick.
"If she comes after you at all," Vengral answered cryptically.
Brow furrowing in uncertainty, Kaltor asked, "Why wouldn’t she?"
Vengral leaned back against the opposite side of his cage, resting his head between two vertical bars, the closest thing to a comfortable position his narrow confines allowed. The traitor’s expensive clothes had long since been replaced with a thin linen shirt and a tattered pair of trousers, covered in mud, excrement and a few spattered drops of his own blood.
"Many would pay well for what I learned in her service," he said with a crooked smile, as if he still ruled the broken city behind them, or at least held the lives of its members in his hands.
Then again, maybe provocation isn’t the way to gain information, Kaltor thought. I wonder exactly how much he misses the comforts and power of ruling from the castle?
"How about this?" He suggested, waving a strip of dried venison in the air, pulling the traitor from his luxurious position to Kaltor’s side of the cage. Vengral licked his lips hungrily, eyes fixed on the smoked meat. "Would this suffice for some information, assuming I believe you at all?"
Vengral glared at the offering hesitantly. "Is it poisoned?"
"Of course not," Kaltor promised, breaking off a small portion of meat and chewing it slowly before expounding further. He rolled his eyes and savored the morsel, emphasizing his point. The traitor licked his lips as he watched the display. Kaltor gulped and continued, "I’m looking forward to participating in your trial before the King himself. It’s only a couple weeks’ travel to Levarion. You’ll hang for sure. If you’re lucky."
"Two weeks, then—" Vengral repeated slowly, taking the offering. "A lot can happen in that time. For example, two weeks ago, Shaylis stood strong and proud and didn’t reek of smoldering corpses."
"You’re contradicting yourself," Kaltor countered, taking another piece of venison from his pouch. "First you suggest she won’t come after us at all and then you imply that in two weeks she might do a lot of damage. Can’t you make up your mind?"
"I wish she’d make up hers," the traitor said, rolling his eyes. "Even demon-women from the Abyss itself can’t seem to settle on a single course of action. Women never change, it would seem, no matter where they’re from."
"Enough rambling," Kaltor ordered, withdrawing his second offering. "Your trial is in two weeks, but until then I decide how much comfort—or lack thereof—you travel with. Understand?"
Vengral shot him a venomous stare. "Remember this, Varadour animal," he spat. "When I get out of here, I am coming for your family, first."
"That’s good to know," Kaltor countered evenly. "So I can rest easy, knowing that even if you are freed, you will die soon after," Snapping his hand through the bars, Kaltor snatched back the last half of Vengral’s venison and threw it to the ground. As he walked away, ignoring the traitor’s screams of displeasure, a stray dog snuck out from under the wagon and carried the meat away.
Interesting, Kaltor thought, wandering past the guards and into what remained of Shaylis’s western half. I suppose it’s obvious we’ll be heading for the Capital. If she really does have plans for Vengral before then, she’ll be sure to attack in transit, before we have the King’s armies to back us up.
He sighed and shook his head, entering the castle courtyard and slipping through a thick door at the base of the northern tower. I still can’t shake the feeling that getting there will only be half the problem. She’s got a two-week head start on us, already. He walked up the dark, circular staircase. It didn’t take long to reach the most secluded section of the northern wall. A single guard, making his rounds and carrying a torch, nodded respectfully as they passed each other.
Eyeing the city beneath him nervously, he found himself coping with new fears as the bone-shattering height stretched out before him. Kaltor sat tentatively on the wall, like a child on the verge of riding a swing for the first time. His legs hung freely in the air in a vain attempt to overcome his fears, as he looked over the shattered city of Shaylis.
The early morning sun peeked over the eastern horizon, casting long black shadows over the broken, fog-infested buildings. The scents of rot and decay still hung around the buildings like a curse from the Abyss itself, especially on windless mornings such as these. Up here on the castle wall was on
e of the only places in the city where a person could avoid the stench entirely.
There, alone on the rough stone wall, he unwrapped the linen bandages around his right hand. Stupid scar, he thought. Everything was fine ‘til I got you in that fight with Melshek. Clinging to the side of the merlon with his left hand, he gazed at his open right. The waking sun’s light danced along the silver scar dividing his hand in half. New sensations, faint and distant, filtered in as he focused on the scar, feelings of warmth and security.
Keevan must be alright then, he thought. It may not be any easier to find him through this link, but at least I know he’s doing well.
Even after five years of sharing this magical bond, they’d yet to uncover any information clearly revealing his brother’s location. Occasionally, when they were both distressed, they could briefly link minds and powers, but the fleeting images produced by that link did little to guide their search. Besides, with a demon nick-named "The Destroyer" on the loose, there wasn’t much time on hand for family reunions.
In the distance, Kaltor felt Varadour power pulsing rhythmically, and in faint flickers of movement below he recognized Honmour’s approach. Jumping along the roof tops, his fellow assassin-in-training soon reached the wall, his hooked rope sailing through the air and catching tightly between the wall and a merlon. The energy around his friend skyrocketed as his arms and legs pumped fiercely, quickly hauling himself up the rope, walking up the stone fortification as if gravity were toward the wall itself.
"Wow," Honmour beamed proudly, his breath deep and steady. "This Blood Break thing is pretty nice, huh? Pretty sure that was a new record for me."
"You’re probably right," Kaltor agreed. When a Varadour’s power fully matured, the liquid in his blood turned corrosive, causing faster aging but greatly increasing their power. Hence the term ‘Blood Break.’ The added power it provided was undeniable though. "You’re up early, I see."
"Well, it’s either our last day of training or our first day as Battleborn, take your pick," Honmour said with a shrug. "I was expecting to wake to Master Taneth’s boot in my gut, like when he was teaching us to sleep lightly."
"I remember you once thought you could be smart about it and put a metal plate under your shirt," Kaltor recalled with a grin, but one glance at the broken buildings far below cut short the moment of mirth.
"Lot of good that did me," Honmour snorted. "Taneth just aimed lower," He winced at the memory.
"Master Taneth’s one of the King’s best Battleborn," Kaltor said. "He doesn’t miss much," His left hand still clutched tightly to the adjacent merlon. He closed his eyes and tried to picture himself only a few feet above the ground. That technique didn’t help, either.
I wonder if he’ll realize what this scar actually did to me, Kaltor thought with a shudder, eyeing Honmour nervously. He’s not gonna like this at all. Master Taneth even less so.
His friend glanced around, as if just realizing they were on one of the city’s highest walls. "How did you get up here anyway?" he asked, pulling his rope up and coiling it around his left palm and elbow. "I don’t see your rope. Did you use your— power?" He hesitated a bit, unsure how to address that particular subject, since he’d only learned his friend’s secret a week ago.
Kaltor sighed, looking from his scarred hand to his friend. Only his parents, Master Taneth, and Honmour knew he was a Remnant, born to a far stronger command over the Varadour power than the rest of his kind. "No. My power would have alerted every Varadour within a square mile of here. I didn’t climb the wall," He nodded toward the door to the tower. "I used the stairs."
"Used the stairs—" Honmour repeated stupidly, his eyes clouding over in confusion. "Why? When you could—" He gasped, pointing at Kaltor’s tight grip on the merlon. "You’ve got to be kidding!"
"No, I’m not," Kaltor countered bitterly, holding the palm of his scarred hand up to his friend’s gaze. "It’s true. Thanks to this stupid scar, I’m afraid of heights."
"How in the name of the Abyss does that work?" Honmour demanded. "I have seen you dive off rooftops and cliffs all the time, especially if a life depended on it. Usually yours."
"I hate the taste of liver, too," Kaltor grumbled, putting his back to one merlon and his feet against the other. "Perhaps it’s some kind of side-effect. I think Keevan actually likes liver, though. I’ve tasted him eating it twice in the last two days."
"And your parents still aren’t here to answer any questions," Honmour sighed in understanding, his confusion gradually turning to compassion.
"That’s right," Kaltor muttered, wrapping his arms around his knees defensively against a sudden breeze. His parents were off with the Bandit Lord at his hideout, trying to return his loot to whatever original owners were still living. There was talk of a royal pardon for the bandits, thanks to their aid in the battle to save Shaylis.
Unfortunately, that meant Kaltor’s first days after the scar’s arrival were spent with no explanation for its odd effects. Even with their strengthened link, Kaltor and Keevan couldn’t communicate or share visions at will. What was the point of a sacrifice that only weakened you? Now all of his newfound emotions revolted against the idea of the Blood Break, cutting his lifespan in half for a child he barely remembered.
"Come on, then," Honmour urged with a forced smile, hopping onto the walkway adjacent to the wall and patting his friend on the back.
Kaltor’s hands shot to the merlons for support, his eyes immediately falling to the ground in shame. Five years of training in the mountains, he mourned, and suddenly I can’t handle heights?
"You are still the strongest Varadour I know," Honmour assured him, slinging his coil of rope over his shoulder. "Without your help, I never could have finished off Melshek in time to save the city. We already owe you a lot," He extended a helping hand and pulled Kaltor from the wall onto the walkway. "The least we can do is help you through whatever this is."
With a grateful sigh, Kaltor followed Honmour across the wall and down the eastern tower’s stairs. Most of the castle had survived the battle unscathed. Servants still scurried about doing their chores, lighting and replacing torches on each level, and changing out floor mats. A few of them offered the Battleborn biscuits as they passed, which Honmour gratefully accepted. Kaltor declined, his stomach still tightly knotted from fear and wounds like.
Once they reached the city’s walls, the damage from the recent battle for Shaylis stood out like an ugly black star across the city’s western and northern districts. Buildings were burned or collapsed entirely, their enemies’ last malicious acts just before their leader Melshek’s death at Honmour’s hand.
When they passed Shaylis’s western gates, they flashed the Battleborn brands on their collar bones to the guards, who stood aside, admitting them passage. They entered the sea of tents where survivors and other soldiers alike now lived, helping repair the city. Only the open marketplace at the camp’s center had any activity, since the rising sun hadn’t yet surpassed the high walls.
"I have an idea of how to cheer you up a bit," Honmour said brightly as they reached a large open field at the southern edge of camp. A number of large wooden stands supported a wide array of practice swords, staves, and throwing weapons. A few circular targets and stuffed dummies sat under a canvas a few dozen paces away, torn and beaten from the previous day’s practices.
Grabbing two thick quarterstaffs, he tossed one to Kaltor. "Might as well get warmed up," he said with a shrug. "Whatever Master Taneth has planned for today, it’ll probably require our Varadour power. Gotta get our blood flowing."
He’s got a point there, Kaltor silently agreed. The stronger the heartbeat, the faster a Varadour’s power can reach his extremities.
He spun the weapon a few times, getting used to its balance and relishing the feel of smooth oak under his fingertips. With a deep breath, he focused on one of the glands next to his heart and flexed the muscles surrounding it. The small burst of liquid—only a few drops, really—rushed th
rough his arms and legs. It always amazed him what such a small amount of the magical liquid could do.
Honmour smiled, summoning a similar wave of preparatory energy and dove forward, starting their sparring match with a spear-like thrust toward Kaltor’s head. Batting the blow aside, Kaltor followed through, spinning his weapon outward horizontally, only to collide with Honmour’s defensive block. Just as their staves connected, Kaltor sprinted forward with a Varadour-enhanced kick, which Honmour had to block with his forearm.
Catching Kaltor’s retreating ankle in a potent burst of strength, Honmour pulled his opponent through the air and brought his staff crashing downward. Kaltor blocked the blow, using a similar rush of power on his one free leg to catapult himself into Honmour’s torso. Their staffs were useless at such close quarters. So they threw them aside as daggers flashed from hidden sheaths and they were suddenly locked in a first-to-draw-blood struggle.
Something behind them shifted, and a thick net wrapped around them, pulling tight as they were hauled across the floor of the practice arena. A figure rushed from the shadows, another quarterstaff in hand, lunging forward. Slicing the net open, Kaltor rolled onto his feet in time to dodge the oncoming blow. Soon, Honmour dove into the three-opponent sparing match as well, with each trying to draw blood while another’s attentions were focused on the third man.
Ever since his Blood Break, Talen’s skills had improved dramatically. Like their friend Jensai before his death, Talen favored the spear’s speed most of all, so he held his quarterstaff in both hands and jabbed forward as if its tip weren’t so blunt. His quiet, contemplative nature gave his opponents the impression of an easy victory, until they found out firsthand how carefully he planned each of his moves during a sparring match or actual combat.
A loud crack tore them from their competition. Talen’s hand clutched his neck, crimson blood dripping between his fingers. Something flickered in the shadows and Honmour charged forward, avoiding the whip’s tip but not its coiled grip around his wrist. Suddenly pulled off balance, he hit the ground as a second thin strip of leather sailed through the air and took a small chunk of flesh from his shoulder, the blow strengthened with Varadour energy.
Reclaiming his quarterstaff and keeping the dagger in his other hand, Kaltor dove in past Honmour, who grabbed onto the whip around his wrist and pulled it free. Their sudden opponent was down to only one weapon. A massive amount of Varadour power flared in the shadows and Kaltor held his staff in preparation to block. Instead of a the whip’s tip seeking to draw blood, half its length sailed from the darkness, coiling around Kaltor’s arms, staff and torso instantly.
Trusting his instincts, he ducked down, not to dodge the leather tentacle, but to give his knife hand free room for a power-enhanced throw at his opponent’s chest. Accentuating his eyesight as he threw allowed him to track the projectile as it spun toward Master Taneth. With a satisfied grin their teacher caught the dagger handle just inches from his waist and threw it back.
With a grunt, Kaltor tried to catch it as well, only to stumble as Master Taneth jerked his whip with all his strength. The blade nicked Kaltor’s cheek. The victor was obvious. Master Taneth emerged from the shadows of the supply tent, his arms covered in scars from past wars, his demeanor demanding respect. He scowled sternly at his students, which looked even more menacing, considering the gouges on his face.
"Nicely done, boys," he congratulated in a mocking tone. "You were so focused on each other you failed to use your skin vision to watch your surroundings. Especially you, Talen—you took advantage of their blind spot for a wonderful entry into the fight, but you weren’t prepared to defend against it, yourself. You’ve GOT to stay constantly alert. Especially with all that’s happened."
Kaltor sighed, glancing at his feet sheepishly. He’s right. The Destroyer, the demon we freed, is still out there. Melshek was just a decoy. We don’t even know what her powers are. We have to be very careful from here on out. He sighed, recalling his walk up the wall that morning. Not the best time for these side-effects to emerge.
Master Taneth glowered at them silently for a bit. He specialized in using the disappointed scowl as his primary form of discipline. Those who didn’t respond to it as intended were thoroughly punished until they did. "Well?!" he bellowed. "You waiting for my permission? Use it!"
A quiet hum of Varadour power resonated from each of his students as they used their skin vision. In the back of his mind, Kaltor could see the rest of the arena behind him in black and white. This power resonated energy through their skin which bounced off objects and back to receptors in their flesh, providing a detailed outline of the surrounding environment. If they made the mistake of neglecting to use this sense again, Master Taneth would probably blind-fold them and force them to fight multiple opponents, as this was one of the fastest ways to learn to use skin vision in a fight.
"Come on," Master Taneth ordered, waving them back to the shed full of boxes and other practice equipment. "It’s time to continue your training. We’ll start with a trick Varadours can only pull off after the Blood Break."
The three of them exchanged excited looks. They’d all heard the stories from Taneth’s war days. Unfortunately, the only source capable of separating fact from fiction in those myths preferred to show rather than tell. There were still a half-dozen variations of power manipulation Taneth knew that they couldn’t duplicate effectively, and he was VERY careful who he shared those with.
This could be an amazing ability! Kaltor thought excitedly. Maybe we’ll learn to push plants aside with our power so we can sprint through vines and bushes unimpeded. Or maybe he’ll show us a new weapon especially designed for Battleborn! For a moment, his stomach churned nervously as he recalled his newfound fears on the wall, but he pushed those aside. We’re in a shed, he thought defensively. There is no way this skill could have anything to do with heights.
Moving some boxes aside so the four of them could sit facing each other, Taneth gingerly pulled from the corner of the room a crate with small holes whittled into the sides. Setting a thick blanket on the ground between them, he also pulled a bottle of milk and a small bowl from the rubble. From inside the box, feline purrs and whines could be heard. Kaltor, Honmour and Talen glanced at each other uncertainly.
What on Earth do a bunch of kittens have to do with Battleborn training? Kaltor wondered.
"Tell me what you see," Master Taneth ordered, setting a bowl of milk in the center of the blanket before pulling a kitten from the box. The creature blinked up at him sleepily, nuzzling his warm hand. He tossed the creature lightly into the air. With a hiss of complaint, it spun a few complete circles before landing on its feet, no harm done. In seconds it had located the milk and curled up around the bowl, lapping up the precious liquid contentedly.
They didn’t respond, thinking over the legends of Master Taneth’s war efforts in search for some skill or successful kill that was even remotely connected to a cart-wheeling kitten. "Well?" their teacher demanded. "Anyone?"
"You were careful not to hurt it," Talen pointed out hesitantly. "Are we learning something about rescuing fragile objects or people?"
"Close. It is important not to hurt them. But that doesn’t have to do with the skill I want you to learn," Master Taneth replied patiently. "Kaltor? Honmour?" His brow furrowed further at their continued silence, his frustration building as if the lesson were completely obvious.
"Very well," he decided with a visible effort to calm himself, rising to his feet and coiling one of his whips as he spoke. "There are five kittens in this box. You are to spin them lightly into the air and watch them VERY closely. Make sure not to hurt them. I’ll be back in a while. I need to check on the Stunts."
With that, he strode out of the shed and grabbed his second whip from the ground near the entrance. Honmour picked up one kitten by the scruff of its neck and suspended it in front of his face, staring at it intently as if some ancient code were written on its fur, but the creature only yawned innocen
tly. Talen sat with elbows on his knees, his chin suspended in his hands, gazing at the kitten drinking milk.
Kaltor reached into the box and pulled the smallest kitten from the tangled mess of fur and discontented cries. The creature stretched luxuriously, its claws extending and retracting with the motion. Unsure what they were looking for, he tossed it into the air as Taneth had done, amplifying his sight as the animal spun.
He watched the cat’s tongue loll out of its mouth as it twisted through the air. Its fur shifted in the light breeze as it fell. Its eyes managed to find the ground despite its obviously disorienting situation. Its claws extended in anticipation a few inches before impact, steadying its landing. It joined its companion at the center of the blanket, partaking of the milk bowl as well.
They repeated the exercise for the next hour, until Kaltor’s eyes ached from prolonged amplification. Honmour and Talen suffered similar fates, prodding the kittens occasionally as they struggled to lap up the last of the milk, one even climbing into the toppled milk bottle next to the bowl and getting stuck within it, unable to turn around or back out.
I hope Master Taneth doesn’t bring the Stunts along when he returns, Kaltor hoped. This is more than a little humiliating. The King’s rising generation of assassins playing with kittens. An entire bottle of milk gone and we’re still totally lost.
"At the moment, all I’ve learned is that Master Taneth’s lessons are a lot like that milk bottle," Honmour groaned, rolling his eyes sarcastically. "We’ve gotten trapped in the glass rules of this exercise with no way to find what we’re after, and no way out."
They all sighed in defeat.
Master Taneth returned, carrying a large pillow this time. Something snapped inside Kaltor. "Oh, for the love of the Gods!" he grumbled. "We going to get a massage, next? I feel like a noble woman with her pets, blankets, and pillows. How is that supposed to be a part of Battleborn training?"
Honmour and Talen’s faces went white at Kaltor’s rebellious tone. Taneth’s eye brows rose inquisitively. "Haven’t figured it out, have you?" He tossed the pillow over. Kaltor caught it easily, wondering what kind of secret lay within its folds, and then realized too late why his friends were both scrambling aside.
Master Taneth smashed into Kaltor, hard. The air rushed from his lungs as his teacher’s shoulder collided into his diaphragm. Varadour power rushed through his extremities instinctively, amplifying his strength, but Taneth already had his arm and shoulder locked up in a vicious hold. Kittens scampered away in surprise as Kaltor sailed into the air and gracelessly collided with the boxes on the opposite side of the room.
Taneth advanced, pushing and kicking boxes aside as he strode forward. Anger boiling through his veins, a humiliated Kaltor caught hold of a wooden box and hurled it at his trainer’s face with a violent burst of strength. Even the war veteran Taneth couldn’t dodge the blow entirely. It smashed into his shoulder, lifting him a few feet into the air.
Something shifted in the master’s extremities, and his torso spun as he landed easily on his feet, dagger drawn from a hidden sheath. Honmour and Talen’s jaws dropped in surprise. The display of agility proved so impressive that even Kaltor’s flaring temper didn’t last long in the wake of his surprise.
"Any Varadour can land on his feet if he twists that way," Master Taneth explained coldly. "Some of you, even as Stunts, have a knack for landing awkwardly and still rolling to your feet. This is far faster."
Sheathing the dagger in his boot, he kept his stern gaze boring into Kaltor’s eyes, driving the lesson home. "Those cats can teach you to ALWAYS land on your feet. Only a Battleborn has the innate agility to pull it off from any height—even only a few feet up. It can save you precious seconds and help keep you in charge of the situation. You’re opponent will charge in thinking you’re on your back and disoriented, and that’s when you gut him."
Returning to the disheveled blankets and toppled boxes, Master Taneth put the training demonstration back together. In a few moments they recovered all five of the kittens and took time to watch them all spin through the air, the kittens adjusting their angles of approach and twisting so that they always landed on their feet. As they flipped each cat and discussed how they could do the same thing, a feeling of dread welled up in Kaltor.
Maker’s might! He realized. We’re going to be jumping from somewhere high next!
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Welcome to Shattered Realms
Bask in the tale of Keevan Stratagar's coming of age among the Children of the Sky
Fifteen years after Keevan Stratagar's disappearance as an infant, Keevan carves out a living among the Children of the Sky, a race forgotten by the known world. Among their kind, command of the elements is the surest way to riches, influence and respect. Which is why young Keevan, a wiry Outlander with no elemental gifts at all, spent his childhood dismissed by the powerful and feared by the ignorant.
But Keevan is a young man now. Powerful enemies are turning their attention his way. Mysterious forces will sweep Keevan into a tide of dark secrets, terrible intentions and a devious plot with far more ambitious goals than the life of a single Outlander.
Battling for life, friends and loyalty, Keevan must uncover the hidden worth behind his Outlander power. A strength he's overlooked his entire life. The conflict between Outlander and Children of the Sky will shake the city of Issamere to the core, where one misstep could bring the might of an entire civilization down on top of Keevan and all he holds dear.
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About the Author
S. B. Sebrick was raised in Vancouver, Washington where he currently studies nursing. He has published short stories in 2005 and 2006 of Clark College’s annual ‘Phoenix’ Anthology. He recently finished the ‘Dire’, the last of the ‘Assassin’s Rising’ novels, coming out in March of 2014. He often posts updates and teasers about the rest of his works from his website at www.sbsebrick.com
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Assassin’s Rising Series
Decoy
Dismay
Defiant
Desolate
Dire
Deliverance
Related Short Stories
Fate of the Child
Betrayal
Other Short Stories
Revenge to Redemption
Binding Trial
Battle for Dominance
Lucian’s Trial
Outcast of the Flame
Decoy Page 33