The Vitalis Chronicles: White Shores (44 page)

BOOK: The Vitalis Chronicles: White Shores

2.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

He lowered his outstretched hand to join his other on the knife, the force of Ardin's prison never wavering. Slowly he unsheathed the blade from its thick housing, tenderly, respectfully. He began to mutter under his breath, causing the runes to glow.

Ardin could hear the words, they rushed through his memory like a flood. He knew those words! Knew their history and their purpose in a sudden flash and his heart stopped. He was going to die.

“Sadly the Shade didn't remember all that I taught him.” The Mage looked up as the runes glowed red. “He didn't take everything, didn't fully destroy her. Unfortunately for you, I suppose, I haven't forgotten the last bit. The most wickedly delightful bit that will render Charsi's power mine in its entirety.”

He muttered a final incantation as he pointed the sheath at Ardin and uncapped its tip to reveal a glowing red gem. Ardin felt instantly sick, weakened. It contained some sort of
MARD
.

The Mage himself stumbled a bit, weakened by its presence, but somehow not enough to debilitate him. It seemed to be directional.

Ardin writhed against the Mage's weakened power, but it wasn't enough. Tertian closed the gap, bringing the knife to bear and keeping the sheath high. Ardin fought, struggling, and then he dropped to the ground.

Shocked, he didn't move at first as the Mage came at him with the knife, screeching like a demon as he thrust the blade towards Ardin's chest. Ardin kicked up, hard, catching the Mage in the groin and causing him to aim wide. He lunged forward, head butting the Mage as he stumbled, and then wrenched the knife away from him as he fell.

Ardin rolled to his feet, grabbing the glowing sheath and pointing it at the Mage who moved weakly on the ground.

“You seem to have forgotten,” he said as the power welled back up within him. “I'm not a rotten Mage like you.”

Suddenly, from somewhere deep within his mind came the final incantation, a different one than Tertian had intended, dark and evil in its tenor and depth. It came easily, causing the runes in the knife to flare to new brilliance. Somehow he knew this wouldn't separate Tertian's soul from his power. It would obliterate them both.

Tertian picked himself up weakly in his panic, his own power surging as he called it forth to defend himself, but the
MARD
and Ardin's anger kept him contained. They struggled, mist swirling around both in the strain.

Ardin yelled, vindictive as he slowly forced the knife through invisible barriers, pressing in until it tore into the Mage's robes. He pushed with all of his might, screaming with all of the hatred and pain and hurt that had been caused by this man. Thinking of his home, his family; of Alisia. The tension built, invisible pressures pushing and pulling on them both until Ardin felt the knife puncture the Mage's chest.

Tertian's eyes were thrown wide, wild with terror and panic as he fought back in desperation.

Ardin grinned in response.

“This is what comes of men like you,” he said quietly as he pressed the knife home.

The Mage's body went rigid, his back arching to meet the blade as his power, soul, and life funneled through the relic. They swirled around the room, pouring out of him like steam from a geyser. A deep, terrifying wail of despair rose from his shuddering body. It shook the hall like a tortured scream from the depths of hell. The heat grew and intensified as Ardin fell back, covering his face.

White smoke and mist filled the room as it whirled in fury against the containment of the mountain, pressure building until finally it found its release.

T
HE FISHERMAN PULLED
in a large net as he neared the North Shore. He hadn't caught much during the day and was wanting nothing more than to get home and go to bed. He looked back to the western horizon, wondering if the young Magess and her friend had made it safely to White Shores. He wondered if the Shadow King had found them and offered his protection as he had intended. He sighed, and wished he could be of use again. Much like him, fishing was getting old.

The storm in the Northern Range had begun to subside and he could see the peaks begin to reform in the passing of the clouds. They were so small in the distance, only visible through the gap in the cliffs made by the Delta. It belied their massive size. Suddenly a bright light flared up behind the nearest ridges. It lasted longer than lightning, and was significantly brighter. It reached to the sky and shot out like a writhing umbrella before fading into the night sky.

He didn't need to hear the thunder and cracking of the crumbling mountain to know what that meant. Someone had found a Mage. Someone had used the Demon's tools to destroy another life. It darkened the fisherman's heart; making him sick to his stomach. The discharge stood as a reminder of the failures of his office as he drew closer to Brenton. Another Mage destroyed by the enemy, another precious life lost.

The next morning he opened an old chest he hadn't taken from hiding in decades. In it rested his weapons and the armor he had worn into so many battles. He changed into the garb of his past and donned the broad sword that had brought him fame. He wanted to see what had happened in the passing of the storm.

Cid the Cleaver, Captain of the Old Guard, was back.

READ THE SEQUEL

The Vitalis Chronicles:

Tomb of the Relequim

by Jay Swanson

Click the following link on your kindle to download it!

http://amzn.to/Ory3OU

Acknowledgments

As with anything in life, something like this couldn’t be possible without the help and support of a lot of people.
My parents never told me to spend my time doing something ‘worthwhile’ and, in fact, saw most of my exploits as just that: worthwhile. They invested a lot of love and patience in me and taught me how to follow the Lord, something rare and valuable in itself. My sister has always been most fervent supporter, and if she’s ever off Gmail when I have something new to share I freak out.
I could probably write a book just to thank them.
My friends have been great too, and though there are an absurd number of people who have been supportive in this process, few have been so crucial to me as Rob, Shelby, Peter, Caleb, Jenna, and Marjolein.
Rob and Shelby raised my passion for this book to a new level when they loved it. And that was before I was even certain it was worth the paper it was on. Peter launched me even farther when he sat down with me after I’d finished it and told me the honest truth, good and bad.
Caleb died to read everything I sent him, and it would have gotten nowhere had Jenna not edited it like crazy. Marjolein deserves a book as well, her depiction of Charsi kept me up at nights. It was like seeing a part of my soul come to life.
Above all I owe Jesus thanks for using this book to heal me

Jay Swanson

In my own words:

I’ve been telling stories ever since I was a kid. Whether it was writing myself into fantastical battles with my friend John in my grandmother’s basement or telling my parents tall tales about exploding squirrels I’ve always told stories. I wrote my first play when I was in first grade, we actually produced it and I found the tape a few years back to prove it. Man was it awesome. I mean you probably wouldn’t like it but there were dragons and I was a prince and there was a princess to save… who doesn’t want that to happen in real life?

I mean honestly, that’s why I write. I do it because there’s a part of me that yearns for something more than what I can see; what is available to me on a daily basis. I want to be a part of a grand adventure where I’m the hero and just make it through by the skin of my teeth. The real-life situations where that happens are never so glorious as to provide the kind of satisfaction my stories can.

And so I write. Isn’t that why we read? To escape, to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes and see the world through their eyes? We’re all looking to live vicariously through someone else (except for the rare few among us who might actually be content with life). Perhaps we just like to be entertained, but there’s something much deeper and more real in a good book than simple entertainment. We extend ourselves into and through the words to become something greater than we already were. Good books can change us.

I don’t know that my own work is good enough to change people, but I know it was good enough to change me.