Breaking the Flame Read online

  Breaking the Flame

  BREAKING THE FLAME

  Book III of the Shadow’s Fire Trilogy

  Christopher Patterson

  Breaking the Flame

  Copyright © 2019 Christopher Patterson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by nay means without the written permission of the publisher.

  Rabbit Hole Publishing

  Tucson, Arizona, 85710 USA

  Breaking the Flame

  Chapter 1

  They came closer. Erik could feel them. He shivered as the air grew cold. He could smell them.

  “Get to the center of the hallway!” Balzarak yelled, his voice echoing off the walls and ceiling of the ancient hallway they expected—hoped—would finally lead them to Orvencrest.

  “You look after Befel,” Wrothgard added with a tug on Erik’s sleeve.

  A purple glow filled a small part of the hallway as Bryon unsheathed his sword. It didn’t shed much light, just enough to see a thin, ghostly arm reaching out from the darkness and towards Erik. He jumped back as his cousin brought his sword down. A high-pitched scream filled the hallway as the arm and hand fell to the ground. But when Erik looked to where the appendage should have been, it was gone.

  More light, bluish-white, filled the hallway, and Erik looked over his shoulder to see Balzarak, a sapphire studded circlet around his head. The gemstone glowed brightly and, as more light filled the space, the voices seemed to grow more and more distant. But they were still there. They lurked in the dark spaces beyond the light, in the shadows.

  As Bryon and Balzarak looked one direction, they—whoever they were, the undead, ghosts—crept closer. Erik felt something brush his leg. He looked to Bofim, a line of blood on his cheek where something scratched him. Wrothgard rubbed his chest where a blunt object struck him.

  “What the bloody shadow is this?” Switch yelled.

  He sounded scared. He never sounded scared.

  Erik saw another hand reaching towards him. Erik struck the arm away with one hand and pulled out his sword with the other before he jabbed into the darkness, which quickly consumed the edges of the light. As Erik attacked, almost blindly at whatever might be there, he heard more screaming. It didn’t sound like screams of pain, but anger and evil. When he withdrew his blade, it was covered in a black ichor. Then he remembered something.

  Erik sheathed his sword and removed his haversack. Opening it, he found the bag he assumed the moon fairies had given him.

  “When darkness consumes and all hope seems lost,” Erik said.

  He opened the bag and the brightest white light Erik had ever seen shone upward from the moon fairy dust. As the screaming and screeching voices became more distant, he grabbed a fistful of the dust and threw it up into the air. Like a thousand stars, each speckle of dust began to glimmer brilliantly, and it was as if it was daytime in the ancient hallway.

  Within moments, they were gone. Erik didn’t hear them, couldn’t feel them, couldn’t smell them. The chill in the air disappeared, and a comfortable warmth replaced it. The stale air became fresh, and everyone breathed easily.

  Beldar still lay on the floor, unconscious, the shards of a battle axe scattered about him, the result of the dwarf trying to chop at the wall in front of them. His breathing was still shallow, although he seemed a little better. Befel lay next to him, also unconscious, the strange voice that controlled him before he collapsed in a cataleptic heap still rang through Erik’s mind.

  “What was that?” Wrothgard asked.

  “I don’t know,” Balzarak replied.

  “Was it them?” Erik asked.

  Balzarak stared at him for a moment. A part of Erik suspected the darkness and shadow that had attacked them were the undead from his dreams, but there was something else there, something stronger, something more evil.

  “I don’t know,” Balzarak replied after a long moment of silence.

  Erik couldn’t help realizing the other dwarves stared at him, some in surprise, some in irritation, and Turk with a small smirk on his face.

  “Who is them?” Switch asked.

  “No one,” Balzarak snapped.

  “No one?” Switch asked, exasperated.

  “No one you need to be concerned with right now,” Balzarak said.

  “Well, if they are going to continue to try and kill us from the shadows,” Switch said, “and it seems like this place is full of shadows, assuming we can even get past this damned wall, I think we should all be concerned.”

  “They won’t come back,” Balzarak said. “At least for a while.”

  “Oh great,” Switch muttered, his voice full of sarcasm as usual.

  “What do we do Lord Balzarak?” Wrothgard asked.

  “Between the light of Bryon’s sword, my circlet, and the moon fairy dust,” Balzarak replied, “we have nothing to worry about. We need to wait for Befel and Beldar to recover, as well as everyone else for that matter.”

  “And then what?” Bryon asked.

  “Then, we figure out how to get through this wall,” Balzarak replied.

  ****

  “It’s not a wall,” Balzarak translated, as Gôdruk inspected their obstacle. “It’s a door.”

  Befel and Beldar had just regained consciousness, Beldar with a splitting headache and Befel with absolutely no recollection of what had happened.

  “Then bloody open it,” Switch said.

  “We are trying,” Balzarak replied evenly, but his lack of patience with Switch’s endless complaining was clear.

  Gôdruk traced a hand over the words written in blood, reciting what he knew to himself. Thormok and Threhof joined him, but they couldn’t figure out what exactly it said.

  “You understood your brother?” Turk asked while everyone else tried to figure out the door.

  “Yes,” Erik replied. “It sounded as if he was speaking Westernese to me.”

  “That is interesting,” Turk said, rubbing his chin.

  “What language was he speaking?” Erik asked. “It almost sounded like Dwarvish at first.”

  “It wasn’t Dwarvish,” Turk replied. “Related to it, perhaps. It is an ancient language—an evil one.”

  “You know it?” Erik asked. “You understand it?”

  “Enough to know that it should not be spoken,” Turk replied, “especially here.”

  “Could it be like the door at Aga Min?” Wrothgard asked. “Perhaps there is a lever or a button somewhere.”

  Gôdruk shook his head.

  “What’s the matter, Erik?” Turk said, seeing the concerned look on his face. “Your brother will be alright.”

  “It’s not that. I mean, I am concerned about Befel,” Erik replied, “but …”

  “What?” Turk asked.

  “After he collapsed,” Erik explained, “there was another voice. It sounded powerful, dark and evil. It said something that didn’t make sense.”

  “What?” Turk asked, and Erik realized that Balzarak and some of the others were now listening.

  “It said, your chains are not made of iron, but of flame. You cannot break the flame. I can’t think of what that means, or whose voice it was.”

  Gôdruk spoke to Balzarak with hushed words.

  “We must figure this door out,” Lord Balzarak said, “or else, I fear, shadow will befall us.”

  “Can’t you just say we’ll die,” Switch complained.

  “That’s just it,” Balzarak replied. “We won’t die. It is a fate worse than death.”

  “You speak in riddles,” Wrothgard said.

  “Aye,” Balzarak replied, “and perhaps I will give you the answer to the riddle soon, but for now, we must get past this door.”

  “W
hat black magic is this?” Wrothgard asked to no one in particular.

  “The blackest,” Threhof replied, and Balzarak nodded in agreement. “But this door … no, this is no black magic. This is dwarvish magic.”

  “And why would dwarves put a door here,” Switch asked, “to keep other dwarves out?”

  “Maybe they put it here when they abandoned Orvencrest,” Threhof said with a shrug. “Maybe they knew treasure hunters would come looking to pilfer what was rightfully theirs.”

  Switch rolled his eyes.

  “Perhaps,” Balzarak said. “However, I fear this door was not put here to keep people out, but rather, to keep someone—or something—in.”

  “Truly comforting,” Bryon muttered.

  “So, is there some code word you need to say?” Wrothgard asked. “Some ancient secret word, perhaps?”

  Balzarak shrugged. Erik couldn’t help thinking the general looked defeated. The dwarf put both of his hands on the wall, breathed heavy, and with a sigh of resignation, rested his forehead against the stone. Suddenly, the sapphire in the middle of his circlet began to glow brighter than it already had been, and the ground shook ever so slightly.

  “Oh, by the gods,” Switch said. “Can we just get this over with? If I’m going to die, just get it over with.”

  But rather than darkness and the undead returning, torches in high sconces appeared all along the walls of the room. Looking back, Erik could see that the stairway from which they came had reappeared.

  “Dwarvish magic,” Threhof said with a smile.

  “It must have been your circlet,” Turk said.

  Before Balzarak could reply, the door shook with a low voice. It was Dwarvish, or some form of it, but certainly not what Erik had heard before. Balzarak listened intently. It was such a different dialect and Erik, only recently proficient in the language, didn’t understand.

  Balzarak said something in return, and in an instant, a giant, dwarvish face appeared in the door disguised as a wall. It bulged out from the stone as if it were pliable cloth, stretching this way and that, looking about.

  It spoke again, and Balzarak replied. This went on for many moments until Balzarak finally bowed. The face also bowed and then returned to a normal looking wall. Then, in the flutter of a fly’s wing, the wall was gone, revealing more hallway, as tall as the one in which they stood, built of the same large stone that, despite many years of seclusion, looked almost polished.

  It was wide, deep enough that Erik couldn’t see the end, and perfectly straight, another testimony to the architecture of dwarves. Suddenly, the hallway lit with a myriad of torches, and Balzarak stood still, staring at the open hallway. He looked distant, lost in thought. Thormok and Gôdruk began speaking, almost arguing, until Balzarak hushed them.

  “General, what just happened?” Threhof asked.

  “What language was that?” Erik asked.

  “Old Dwarvish,” Balzarak replied. “It was a guardian, a type of lock dwarves used to use often. They rarely use them anymore.”

  “And, so, your circlet was the answer to the riddle?” Erik asked.

  “Somewhat,” Balzarak said, still staring forward. “The guardian opened the door because I am a descendent of Stone Axe.”

  “So, what are we bloody waiting for?” Switch asked, stepping forward.

  “Stop!” Balzarak yelled, turning hard to face Switch.

  The thief was so taken aback by the change in the general’s demeanor, he stopped cold, staring.

  “General?” Threhof asked.

  “The guardian wasn’t put here to keep people out, as I suspected,” Balzarak explained, “but to keep people in.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dwain said. His admission was met with nods and agreeing grunts.

  “This place is cursed,” Balzarak said, shaking his head and dropping his eyes to the ground.

  Gôdruk and Thormok began arguing again and, as Balzarak turned to the awaiting tunnel, others started chattering as well.

  “General,” Erik said, stepping up next to Balzarak.

  “Once we pass this point,” Balzarak said, eyes trained on the hallway, “we will not be able to return. This doorway will close behind us.”

  “So, this guardian means to keep us in,” Erik asked, “trap us in the city?”

  “Not us,” Balzarak replied. “Them.”

  “Who?” Erik asked. He felt the hair on his arms stand up and a chill crawl up his spine like some phantom spider.

  Balzarak turned slowly to look at Erik.

  “Evil, Erik. The Shadow’s minions. We shouldn’t talk about it here,” he said. “Let us move on.”

  Chapter 2

  “They are there,” Andragos said.

  He sat at his table in the living quarters of one of his homes. Being such a powerful man in Golgolithul, the rulers of the east had awarded him many such homes, some in the middle of cities, others in the countryside, a place he might retreat to in order to rest. This was his favorite home, close to their northern borders with Gol-Durathna. The land was often green here, and his little cottage, even though it was surrounded by a stone wall and guarded by his Soldiers of the Eye, felt quaint and simple. It reminded him of his childhood, so many years ago.

  “Who, my lord?” Terradyn asked. The large man poured tea into a small cup for the Messenger of the East.

  “Erik Eleodum,” Andragos replied with a smile. “He and the men he travels with have found the lost city.”

  “Who is Erik?” Terradyn asked.

  “The boy from Finlo,” Andragos said, looking up at his man. “And he is no longer a simple porter. I knew it would be him. I knew it when I first saw him in that tavern, so out of place.”

  “He is by himself?” Terradyn asked.

  “No,” Andragos replied. “He is with others. Dwarves.”

  “Dwarves?”

  “Yes.” Andragos laughed. “What a remarkable, resourceful young man.”

  Andragos took a sip of his tea, and his face scrunched into a look of irritation as he shook his head, grunting angrily.

  “Is the tea bad, my lord?” Terradyn asked.

  “No,” Andragos replied. “I cannot see them anymore.”

  “Shall I darken the room and light some incense, my lord?” Terradyn asked.

  Sometimes, when Andragos’ magic seemed to wane, certain things helped him concentrate. He was still more powerful than any other mage in Golgolithul, but compared to a hundred years ago, two hundred years … Andragos shuddered at the thought of how strong he used to be. But this wasn’t the same. However, he felt better, more dangerous than he had in a while.

  “No,” Andragos replied. “It is something about that place … about Orvencrest. There is a powerful magic presence there, something I haven’t felt in years that reminds me of …”

  Andragos’ eyes widened with a distant memory. He stood quickly, knocking his cup of tea to the ground. The small, porcelain teacup shattered when it hit the stone floor, and Andragos looked to the door. It swung open, and a strong wind, as if it brought night, rushed in and darkened the room, extinguishing all candlelight and the fire that burned brightly in the Messenger’s fireplace.

  “My lord!” Terradyn yelled.

  Andragos couldn’t see his manservant. Blackness consumed him. Then he heard another set of footsteps.

  “Terradyn! My lord!” Raktas yelled. He must have seen the darkness from outside.

  The darkness swirled around like a tornado. Andragos could hear things breaking in his quarters, wood snapping, and glass shattering. Within the darkness, he could hear chattering and laughter. And then he heard a voice—a deep voice—speaking an ancient language, one he hadn’t heard in hundreds of years.

  Andragos began to chant, using words from a language almost as ancient as the language he heard in the darkness. His voice grew louder and louder and, as he almost shouted his cant—over and over again—the deep, ancient voice laughed louder, the amusement shaking the walls.

  And
then the darkness was gone.

  “My lord!” Raktas said, running to Andragos.

  Terradyn was on the other side of the room, wide-eyed and afraid. It wasn’t often Andragos saw one of his manservants afraid.

  “I’m fine,” Andragos said. “Ready a carriage. I must travel to Fen-Stévock and meet with Syzbalo.”

  Andragos seldom used the Lord of the East’s name around his men, even Terradyn and Raktas, but his visions were so dire, he didn’t really care at the moment.

  “She is in Orvencrest.”

  ****

  Traveling down the new hallway, they had found a fountain, water fresh and cool, and when Erik woke from a deep sleep, the sound of water was comforting. It reminded him fondly of home. Collectively, the party decided this would be a good place to stop and rest. Erik was glad for it. Beldar and Befel looked worn, even more so than everyone else, and it gave Turk time to tend to them. Switch, after scouting around, rushed back, cursing about the door being closed.

  When Balzarak told him he knew that would happen, the thief stomped off rather than arguing with the general; Erik wondered if he’d ever see Switch again. A short while later, he found the slight man snoring softly as he leaned against a wall, and Erik wondered how such a despicable fellow could look so peaceful.

  Befel and Bryon still slept. In fact, the only other person awake was General Balzarak. He stood in front of one of the walls, just staring. As Erik collected himself and walked to the dwarf, he saw markings carved into the stone, along with pictures of creatures he had never even heard of.

  “A dragon with one head seems formidable enough, let alone one with three heads,” Erik said, pointing to one picture.

  He knew Balzarak wasn’t aware of his presence, but if he had startled the dwarf, he didn’t show it.

  “Creatures of the ancient days, Erik,” Balzarak replied.

  “Scary,” Erik said.

  “Terrifying,” Balzarak added. “And terrible.”