Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening (6 page)

Amidst the chaotic sounds of yelling beyond the wall to rally a pursuit, he disappeared swiftly into the night.

Chapter
IV

T
ry again. Both of you,” he dimly thought he heard a man’s voice say. “This time don’t give up so easy. Give it all you got. He’s almost back, I can feel it.”

Vincent felt a surge of warmth go through his chest and permeate his entire body. It caused him to open his eyes and mouth while he made a sharp gasp. During the brief time that his eyes were open, he saw the ceiling of the infirmary section of the keep. After that, he saw only darkness. Somehow, much of the blood he knew had been in his breathing passages was already gone though leftovers of the coppery taste were still in his mouth and throat. The smell of clean, dry sheets with the lingering scent of soap as well as balm-like medicines he couldn’t recognize, filled his lungs. He still couldn’t open his eyes again after that one moment and was only faintly conscious.

“Good,” he heard the voice congratulate. “Good. He’ll probably sleep like that for a while. Eventually he’ll come around. Lay him on his side so he can breathe better.” Vincent heard soft breathing as he felt two gentle pairs of hands grabbing him, one twisting his shoulders and the other pulling his right leg over so he would lay on his left side. The left half of his face was smothered against a pillow.

The next deep and grating voice he heard shocked him. “When do you think he’ll be ready to submit a report to us?” It came from Grandmaster Treyfon, the old Elf man who was currently the leader of their institution. He recognized it from a public speech Treyfon gave during the promotion of a class of initiates.

“You must be kidding,” the voice directing the healing admonished. “We’ve only just got him breathing again. He’s been through a lot, can’t it wait?”

Another voice, old yet not weary-sounding, spoke up. “We would very much like to question him.” He recognized it as belonging to Master Anthony, Dean of Atmomancy. Was the entire council of masters assembled near his bed? He wondered.

“His body was damaged pretty heavily during the assault on The Crafters’ Vault. It’s taken several treatments just to get him back this far. I don’t know when exactly he’ll wake. It probably won’t be any sooner than by tomorrow though. We’ve done all that the healing arts can allow for someone in his condition; his body needs time to recuperate from both traumas and come back the rest of the way on its own. Only time can help him right now. I’m sorry.”

“Keep us posted,” Treyfon’s grating voice reminded in a gentle manner.

With what little of himself that was dimly aware of the world, Vincent tried to make himself struggle to get up so he could greet the masters with more dignity before they left. Somehow the strength to do so just wouldn’t come; his body wouldn’t move. He heard the footsteps leaving.

In horror, he recalled what had happened. Had it really happened? Or was this some nightmare where his worst fears simply came to pass? It certainly bore the mark of mortal terror and dire failure followed by the impending oversight by his superiors. Was he really just back in his bed inside his quarters? It felt like he was asleep though he couldn’t dismiss the other senses he had experienced. The bed he lay on was indeed comfortable, and the rest seemed too horrible to contemplate. Wherever he was, he was safe now. That thought carried through foremost before he blacked out once more.

It felt like no time had passed at all before he heard the voice speaking again. “Please go let the masters know that he is close to reviving. In fact, please go let everyone know, including that boisterous red-haired friend of his…you know, the one with the mustache that wouldn’t leave yesterday.” A woman acknowledged with a quick
umhmm
and went off to do as told.

Vincent immediately knew they were talking about Rick Miller, an overly energetic and ambitious pyromancer who seemed to get along well with him despite Vincent’s less than spectacular power and low standing within their institution. In his groggy state, he felt touched to know that Rick was also the kind of friend who would come visit him like this and not just a passing acquaintance.

Suddenly he came fully awake and sat bolt upright, taking sharp breaths while his wide-open eyes were taking in the scene of the infirmary with its rows of beds, each with white pillows, sheets, and blankets. Sunlight illuminated the entire room, coming through the killing slits carved into the wall on this, the third floor of the fortress. He had to blink several times because his eyes weren’t accustomed to the brightness. A thick crust of sand at the edges irritated them and so he wiped it away. He didn’t even remember having twisted to lay on his back again, but it was obvious he had by the way he was now sitting up.

With a deep chill, he remembered the attack. All of it. The horror and mental imagery of having cut apart and killed two people, the spilling of their blood and viscera, it all nauseated him and made his skin pale. Then he remembered the masters wanting to speak with him, and knew that he would be shamed for letting his weakness and revulsion allow the other two to slip by. More people would die, and it would be his fault. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his head, and he began to sweat.

One of the healers, a brown-haired middle-aged woman in a white dress, rushed up to his side and slowly pushed him back down with her warm hands on his chest. “Whoa, not so fast now,” she cautioned, “don’t put so much unnecessary strain on yourself just yet.” She had a kind and easy manner about her. Another healer woman with yellow hair showed up on the other side of the bed.

Her words were not enough to soothe his anxiety; worry overtook him. “The vault.” His voice was firm at first when his head came back to rest on the pillow, but his distress was soon betrayed. “They broke in! I couldn’t stop them! Where are they!”

“There, there, it’s okay now,” she comforted. He didn’t know if he had ever heard words that were more false.

“How can it
be
okay! They must have stolen something! What was it!” He started fighting and scrambling around to get up against the pressure of her hands.

Vincent was winning until the other grabbed on to help try and subdue him. “Sir, just calm down,” she implored in a strained tone. When he didn’t listen, they each put a hand to the side of his head, and against his own will, he fell back into a temporary slumber. He heard only their heavy breathing and then all was black.

The next thing he knew, the same hands were touching the sides of his head and using magic to wake him again. When his eyes came open, his bed was surrounded by the same two women, and a short distance across the room past the foot of his bed there was a crowd of people wearing wizard and sorceress robes of every color. They had all gathered in the infirmary to witness his recovery. Three from the council of masters-Master Crafter Clemens, Grandmaster Treyfon, and Master Anthony-were among them.

Master Clemens’ presence was to be expected since he was Vincent’s supervisor for his duties regarding The Crafters’ Vault. A number of things stored in there were made by him, but most were made by others in past centuries. Regardless, he was in charge of instruction for those whose gift it was to craft and construct objects fused with magical properties. As a high ranking wizard master within Gadrale International Mage Academy, Clemens did not appear at all like one would expect. Instead of wizards’ robes, he wore clothing far more reminiscent of a blacksmith: dirty, faded blue pants; tan leather boots; a white apron smeared in places with black grime; and a loose brown leather shirt underneath with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscular, hairy forearms. He appeared middle-aged, young for a master, and had graying dark hair on his head and on his thick full beard. He was balding on the top with hair receding from the front and corner edges. A strong, and portly individual, Clemens often seemed intimidating to others. He was fairly strict, had a loud, deep voice, and seemed overbearing, yet Vincent knew him to be a fair man. At the moment, Master Clemens’ brown eyes looked on eagerly toward him with a serious expression on his face, but occasionally his eyes darted around toward others in the room. What he felt about Vincent’s performance, Vincent couldn’t guess at but feared the worst.

Grandmaster Treyfon was obviously here in an official capacity. His old deep-blue eyes had the strange quality of all Elves: they seemed pointy even though the eyes themselves were round. Currently they were pointed at Vincent. His face was slightly wide, and his eyes were particularly large and round, more so than other Elves much less Humans, and were a distinct feature of his face that set it apart from others, making him easy to recognize. His straight gray hair ran down the sides of his head and was parted by his pointy ears before it reached his shoulders. His gray hair and slightly wrinkled face, more than anything, was a profound symbol of veneration since Elves were extremely long-lived, often living for centuries or even many millennia before dying in an accident or other conflict. They were rarely culled purely by the natural force of time.

The fact that his hair was gray meant he had lived for countless thousands of years. It was well known to everyone at the academy that Treyfon had spent the majority of this time learning all there was to know about every plant in existence and honing beyond mastery the skills of his gift, botanical magic, to the point of complete proficiency. None could hope to match his level of skill or intimate knowledge regarding the use of plant life. This magical discipline might seem harmless enough, but Vincent knew that deadly, ravenous plants shooting up out of the ground, growing at an incredible rate and devouring all that crossed their path, were not something to be laughed at. Because of his incredible wisdom, age, ingenuity, and power, he had long ago been chosen to hold the position of Grandmaster within the international mage academy of Gadrale Keep. More than these qualities though, he had a keen sense of leadership, problem-solving, and was a fine negotiator in times of dispute. Regardless of the drab tan robes he wore, everyone held the deepest respect for him.

Master Anthony, an old Human in blue wizards’ robes, was Dean of the Atmomancy Department and in many ways no less venerable. His white hair was short and his face had a short, neatly-trimmed white beard along with one or two more wrinkles than Treyfon’s. Astrology, the heavens, weather, wind, and lightning were his domain, and he could command the latter three with ease and read the former two with great insight, Vincent had been told. Though he might look a little older than Treyfon, he was in actuality a great deal younger. Atmomancy was nothing to laugh at either, and Vincent suspected that the woman who had thrown him into the wall with near fatal force had at least partial skill in its use.

Both masters besides Clemens had a calm expression on each of their faces that showed nothing other than small interest, perhaps centered around their reason for being here. Master Clemens on the other hand, appeared more anxious to dispense with the formalities so he could speak with him personally. Everyone else’s face seemed to brighten when he showed himself well enough to sit up, and they began clapping.

When Vincent looked down, he noticed that under his white blankets, he was wearing a white gown typical of those kept here in the infirmary who were seriously injured. His normal clothing lay cleanly washed, and neatly folded in a pile next to the bed. His sword was there too, in its scabbard, and looked much cleaner than it had been the night of the attack. He had secretly hoped that they wouldn’t have changed him, since that act was embarrassing for him and this attire now made him feel more vulnerable. The clothing itself was comfortable enough, he supposed, yet felt inappropriate somehow.

Vincent looked on at the other guests assembled. Though the old wizard, Arrendis-his lifetime friend and mentor-was not visible, Vincent knew he was present, standing in the back somewhere as he always did on such public occasions. Among those gathered toward the front of the crowd were his other three closest friends.

One was Rick, the red-haired, red-mustached pyromancer wearing crimson robes, whose energy and enthusiasm for most things was staggering at times. He was always positive, always on the go, never being disheartened or discouraged by damn near anything. Rick was also polite, encouraging toward others, and sometimes his vigor seemed to rub off. At the moment, he clapped more fervently than the rest at Vincent’s seemingly good health and even hooted and hollered. The other two were a girl he knew named Stacy and his cousin, Karl.