Broken Blades Don't Sing (Tales of Ashkar Book One) (2 page)

It appeared, however, that unlike him she had
followed her mother’s advice about not inviting the frost so
openly.

“Mom, someone’s here!” she shouted as she looked
over her shoulder. Behind her was a cottage not unlike Serraemas’s,
with smoke bellowing from a chimney and warm light glowing from
within. She kneeled down and smiled at Serraemas as she extended a
hand. “My name is Elena. What’s yours?”

Chapter
1

292nd Dusk of the 4917th Age of Rimas

It’s always so dark.

The night was like all the rest, the skies pitch
black save for the bright dots of stars and the moon. They shone
down their bright light onto Ashkar from thrones in the sky. The
winds chilled Serraemas, and silence suffocated the vast expanse of
forest and rock surrounding the Peaks of Corsma. The quietness was
dominating yet sharp, like the tongue of Lorine’s king.

Atop the aged hill rested a single, dying tree,
its once vibrant leaves of turquoise withered down to a dried red.
With a powerful gust of cold wind went a set of its shriveled
fingers, swept north toward the tall towers of Lorine Keep.

Like all royalty scum they stuff their guts
until they vomit and drink their pains to sleep while the rest of
us starve.

"What are you thinking about?" asked a familiar
voice, bringing Serraemas out of his thoughts.

He turned to look upon her, his eyes softening
in a manner only a lover’s could. She was a beauty, without a dying
man’s doubt, her long brown hair scented to his favorite
flower—Tarue flowers—that dotted the very earth they laid upon. He
closed his eyes, the smell overtaking every bit of his existence.
In the darkness of his mind were born her round, brown eyes.

“Serraemas?” she asked again with concern.

“Will you be at my side forever?” he whispered
near silently, his question swept away by the breeze.

“What?” asked Elena as she leaned in closer.

He blinked, pupils refocusing. He couldn’t hold
back the smile that so satisfyingly crept onto his chilled lips.
“Nothing, Elena. I’m just thinking of how stunning you are.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, running her feminine
fingers through his shoulder-length dark hair. “But you’re just as
handsome, my—“

An extraordinarily loud boom shook the hill,
interrupting Elena and altering her balance. If it wasn't for
Serraemas’s quick hand, the poor thing would have fallen to meet
her end.

He pulled her back, securing her close, not a
single word escaping his lips. He sat there almost petrified, eyes
soaking in the heavy smoke produced by the infernos raging
throughout the city of Lorine. It was so abrupt. The devastation
itself wasn’t what worried him, however, for Lorine and its
surrounding villages often experienced the ruin wrought by
unforgiving flame—the breath of a dragon.

Not too far to the northeast rose Mount Corsma,
its peaks piercing the clouds that hung so commonly over the
kingdom. Word passed by mouth told that the sky was kept dark from
the mere presence of Corsma, the Black Dragon. The dragon was
blight to the kingdom, promoting unprecedented hardship for the
past hundred ages, or so they said.

The problem was that the devastation rampant
before his eyes was not produced by the malevolence of the dark
drake. No, it was much more ruin than the winged-reptile could ever
wrought. Of course, Corsma’s attacks were brutal, and she often set
fire to fields of crops or small villages. A few times she had even
assaulted Lorine itself, incinerating a portion of the kingdom. But
the city was not without its defenses, as ballistae were
strategically placed in towers that fired back at the soaring
dragon. The kingdom had also sent incursions to hunt down Corsma,
but it seemed any attempts at a permanent solution were
fruitless.

“It’s from within, Elena”, Serraemas
whispered.

The girl appeared confused. “What do you mean
from within
?”

He hopped to his feet, his slender but muscular
frame rising fully as he looked at the flames beyond. He needed to
be certain.

She rose beside him, scalp reaching his shoulder
blade. “Do you mean that there is conflict within the grand city’s
walls?”

He loved Elena so much—beyond anything she could
ever care to know. But… she was innocent. Too innocent,
unfortunately, for the world they lived in. His eyes remained
looking upon the fires, the dirtied scent of smoke finally reaching
his nostrils. “Yes.” His answer was absolute, not a single hint of
hesitation hidden behind the word. He continued to glare at the
reality that was his life, the hardships and losses.

And then that dreadful memory returned.

They still seemed so real, their eyes so
calming, and their smiles so warming. He felt safe when in their
presence, shutting off the world around him with but a closing of
his eyes.

Mother? Father? A-anybody? Help?

“Serraemas?” asked a soft voice. The voice he
held most dear.

“Everything will be okay,” he replied, sure of
himself.

Elena whimpered. “But—“

Serraemas turned to her, landing a kiss. His
cheeks rushed with blood as he pulled her close. How delicious her
lips were. So soft and sweet.

Elena moaned her satisfaction as she tiredly
wrapped her arms around his thin waist.

He moaned in return, though he couldn’t keep his
mind off the dots of smoldering flames that burned in the
backdrop.

Something wasn’t right.

---

Elena’s warmth was a welcomed contrast to the
night’s cold. Serraemas glanced down, his chin touching his bare
chest. She was breathtaking while awake, though even cuter while
asleep with the way her pink lips parted slightly from each
breath.

He ran his beaten hand through her soft hair as
he looked back up at the sky, twisting strands of brown between his
fingers as he neared the tips. A well-placed hand on Elena’s lower
back caused the girl to push herself closer to Serraemas. He
couldn’t help but enjoy the softness of her breasts against his
side, and an involuntary smile was testament to that fact. He would
marry Elena, of that he was certain.

You are my everyth—

Suddenly, the sound of distant footsteps caught
his ear, and he turned to look down the steep decline of the hill.
His eyes scanned the rustling tallgrass that rose so commonly on
the Peaks of Corsma. It wasn’t rare to find Corsman Ingols—small,
furry beasts with sharp fangs—taking refuge within the shelter of
the thorny hedges, and Serraemas could entertain with personal
experience.

The little things weren’t too dangerous,
but—

A dagger flew straight for Serraemas’s head.

Instinct took hold, and he rolled over Elena,
waking her as he pulled her over him.

“What?” Elena yelped in shock at the rapid
movement.

Serraemas hurried to his feet, grabbing his
staff as the sound of steel puncturing earth filled his ears. “Stay
behind me.” His tone was cool, and his posture collected. The
daggers fine hilt rose from the ground where Serraemas had been
laying upon just moments before, the blade wedged deep in the
earth.

“Would ya look at that?” barked a rough voice
from the shadows.

Serraemas glanced to where he had heard the deep
voice, and was rewarded by the sight of a shadowy silhouette
emerging from the darkness.

“That’s one adorable looking gal,” the man
continued, dead-gray eyes feasting from behind the veil of his hood
as he pulled it down to reveal his ruffian face. “I’m sure she
tastes real nice.”

Serraemas tensed, the disdain wrinkling his
face. He searched the man’s features carefully, and ran the images
of that fateful night ten years ago for a semblance of
familiarity—but nothing came to him.

Fate, it would seem, would not allow Serraemas
the sweet taste of vengeance his parched lips asked for.

“Oh?” the hooded figure snickered. “You don’t
like it when I speak of her like so?” The man straightened from his
slouch, risen index finger tapping against his invisible chin.
“Well, to be frank, you’re not in any position to—“

“Shut your mouth, animal”, shot Serraemas
balefully.

The mysterious man cocked his head, taken
aback.

"Do not fret, Serraemas", echoed a familiar
voice inside his head. “Together we will handle them with
ease.”

His greatest ally, the elemental Zaranet, had
surfaced to assist him. While Serraemas had heard tales of ancient
entities called elementals that existed where one’s eyes could not
follow, he had been surprised to discover that such a being resided
in him. Not only that, but Zaranet proved to be a great friend.

According to Zaranet, elementals existed in life
in another realm, the Elemental Plane. In death, however, the
mystical entity had been just as surprised as Serraemas to discover
that the two were bound to each other through a weapon. In his
case, the elemental manifested itself through the staff that
Serraemas wielded, and now, Zaranet’s essence resided in the young,
dark-haired human, granting Serraemas the power to control frost
itself.

Serraemas closed his eyes, hands uniting in
front of his chest.

The immediate temperature suddenly dropped,
surrounding foliage withering away until all that remained was
death. From the dried earth rose the chilling mist all too familiar
to Serraemas, a blueish, white chill that signaled the arrival of
his elemental’s power.

The overwhelming mist hardened, coating the hill
in shimmering ice for as far as the mortal eye could see. That ice
shattered, broken icicles and stardust rising to the air as if
guided by an invisible force. With a sudden crack the floating
carpet of ice shot straight toward Serraemas, transforming into a
thin pillar as it neared the empty space of his conjoined
palms.

“Is that all you can do?” mocked the brigand. “A
cheap trick?”

“You have sought death, so I shall give it to
you!” Serraemas exclaimed, chilled mist evacuating his breathe.

“Oh ho!” the hooded man bellowed.

No, it wasn’t him.

A second voice?

From behind the shadowed male rose the spiked
hair of a second assailant. This one was at least a foot taller
than his companion, and twice as thick in all matters physical. He
was wrapped in a thick hooded cloak, gloves, and boots much like
his shorter counterpart.

"Looks like the little pipsqueak’s a scary ol'
elementalist, Brag”, spoke the large man with glee. “I bet someone
would pay a high price for an elementalist. Maybe the king himself?
Imagine what kind of wealth he’s got in his coffers, eh Brag?"

Little? Did he just say I’m little?

Serraemas’s eye twitched slightly.

"Let me take this one solo, Tro", replied Brag
as he drew out another dagger from his ragged cloak, though this
new blade was considerably larger. "After I'm done with you we're
gonna have a good time with your lady friend." Without giving
Serraemas any time to answer the dagger-wielding bandit lunged at
the staff-wielder.

"Focus", Zaranet whispered softly.

With precision Serraemas swung his arms,
releasing the sliver of ice toward Brag. To his dismay, the bandit
sidestepped out of harm’s way. The spike flew past the bandit,
embedding itself into the ground.

The dark figure lunged again.

This time, Serraemas did not have the advantage
of a gap to prepare another sliver of ice. With a firm grasp of his
staff he thrust the tip, aiming at the man's head—

Brag ducked, narrowly dodging the strike and
then thrusting his blade in return toward Serraemas's throat. In
response, Serraemas quickly shuffled his feet and arched his torso,
shifting his center of balance to the right.

The blade cut the air where his neck had been
just before.

Brag retracted his arm intending to thrust
again—

Serraemas was quicker. With a swift kick he
struck the cloaked figure in the stomach, knocking him down.
Serraemas then leapt backward and slammed his staff into the
ground, freeing his hands. He tensed his body and generated more
ice out of thin air. This time, he created three spikes that
floated above him. A bead of sweat ran down his face, and he felt
himself grow hotter.

Brag snarled, attempting to get back on his
feet. "Come here you son of a—"

Serraemas swung his arms before the bandit could
finish his sentence, and the barrage of slivers flew toward the
bandit. The bastard slumped back to the ground, impaled three times
in the chest. A look of surprise mixed with horror flashed across
his lifeless face as blood seeped from his wounds and mouth.

Without pause, Serraemas wheeled around to where
Brag's accomplice had stood.

He had made a grave mistake.

The brigand named Tro now stood where Elena had
been, grasping her tightly with a blade pressed against her throat.
Fear rose within Serraemas, for he knew there would be no
bargaining with such wretches, especially now that he had taken the
life of one of them already.