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  The Dark Wizard Chronicles: Book One

  Son of a Dark Wizard

  by Sean Patrick Hannifin

  Cover art by Jonas Akerlund

  The Dark Wizard Chronicles: Book One

  Son of a Dark Wizard

  Copyright © 2015 by Sean Patrick Hannifin

  Published: January 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or wizards, living or dead, or actual events or magical prophecies is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to offer a big thank you to my Mom and Dad. Their unending support was essential for having the time and the motivation to work on what many others might consider a frivolous endeavor.

  Also, a huge thank you to my friend Scott Pelath, who read my first drafts of each chapter and offered pages and pages of thoughtful notes and insights into what was working and what wasn’t. First readers with such attention to detail who are so willing to donate their time are not easy to come by. I feel very fortunate to have had Scott’s help with this, and the book is better for it.

  CHAPTERS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ONE

  The first thing Mordock noticed that night was the owl, the way its silhouette careened through the streaks of cold gray rain. He’d never seen an owl so big, and it was odd to find one roaming the north.

  The second thing the old man noticed was the river raging below, the way it shook the narrow wooden bridge beneath his feet as it swallowed the muck and garbage spilling in from the dark city’s cobblestone streets. He’d never heard water roar so loudly.

  The third thing Mordock noticed was the fire, flecks of light on a distant mountain, flickering like a candle’s flame. The high towers of the Wizard King’s castle were burning.

  A hand clutched the old man’s shoulder. “Mordock?”

  Mordock turned to face the one he’d been waiting for. Oakren was tall, bald, and sported a thin gray beard. He nodded and held out a long staff. It was made of a thick twisted length of black iron. At its top, strands of iron curled in wide spirals like branches of a dead tree, forming the bars of a spherical cage. There was no light inside.

  So it was true. The most powerful wizard who had ever lived was gone. Vonlock was dead.

  Mordock had thought he would be happy to learn the news. Long had he dreamed of taking Vonlock’s position as Head of the Nyrish Council. He took the lightless staff from Oakren, clutching it so tightly that his fingers went white. If someone had the power to kill Vonlock . . .

  “Who did this?” Mordock asked.

  Oakren’s voice quivered. “We must hold council.”

  * * *

  The clocks were chiming the hour of two in the morning by the time the wizards of the Council of the Nyrish Moon had gathered. They were the eight most powerful wizards from across the twelve kingdoms, some young, most old, some kings, some dreaming of becoming kings. They sat along the sides of a long black marble table with drinks in silver chalices before them. The chair at the head of the table was vacant now. Vonlock’s lightless staff sat perched at its side.

  Mordock spoke first.

  “As I’m certain you’ve heard by now, Vonlock was killed tonight. Oakren snuck into his castle as soon as we heard rumor of an attack. He brought back Vonlock’s staff and—”

  “And I insisted for an immediate call to council,” Oakren said, rising to his feet. His face was bulky like stone, complementing his gravelly voice. “The one who killed Vonlock has the power to kill us all. He can rid the world of the Nyrish power forever.” Oakren leaned forward, pressing his hands on the table. He spoke slowly. “I fear it may be time for us to disband. At least for a decade or so.”

  Some of the wizards scoffed.

  “How’d he do it?” one of them asked. “How’d he kill Vonlock?”

  “I don’t know,” Oakren said.

  “Then how can you say—”

  “It’s who killed him that worries me,” Oakren said.

  “And who is that?”

  “I don’t know his name,” Oakren said. “But I think all the twelve kingdoms will know his name soon enough.”

  “Why?” a young wizard at the far end of the table asked.

  “Have you heard of the Candlewood Prophecy?” Oakren asked, sipping wine from his chalice.

  The young wizard chuckled. “Prophecy nonsense?”

  Oakren slammed his chalice on the table. “Have you heard of it?”

  The young wizard slowly shook his head.

  “It was before his time,” Mordock said. He spoke gently, as if trying to calm everyone. “But why do you think this is the fulfillment of some old prophecy?”

  “Because,” Oakren said, turning to Mordock, “the one who killed Vonlock was a boy. Eleven years old, twelve at the most. He was commanding a group of Zolen soldiers like a king.”

  “What does it matter?” one the old wizards said. “It doesn’t necessarily mean—”

  “You can’t just hire Zolen soldiers. They’re not mercenaries. They would not follow a boy into the castle of the most powerful Wizard King who has ever lived unless they believed in him. Unless they believed in a prophecy. Unless they believed he was chosen.”

  “Are you saying,” Mordock said, once again speaking gently, “that Vonlock was killed by . . . the Chosen One?”

  Oakren nodded at the lightless staff beside the empty chair. “No one else could have defeated Vonlock.”

  “This is absurd!” the young wizard at the end of the table said. “Do you really expect us to believe—”

  “I don’t care what you believe!” Oakren shouted. “I know what I saw and I know Vonlock is dead! Prophecy or no prophecy, I will not—”

  “Wait!” An old wizard waved his hands about. “Wait, wait, wait! The Candlewood Prophecy concerns only the Candlewood family of wizards. Even if the prophecy is true, even if the boy who killed Vonlock is the Chosen One, even if the prophecy has just been fulfilled, why should we worry about it? We’re not of the Candlewood family. Only Vonlock was.”

  “So,” Oakren said, “if you found the Chosen One at the gates of your castle, would you invite him in for tea?”

  “What?”

  “He’s the Chosen One!” Oakren growled. “Who here would not fear to stand before the Chosen One, regardless of the details of his prophecy?”

  There was silence.

  Oakren nodded. “Therefore I say we should disband.”

  “If this boy is truly a threat,” a wizard with a big bushy mustache said, “disbanding would only make us weaker.”

  Mordock nodded. “We’re stronger as a council.”

  “We’re leaderless,” Oakren said. “We’re weak. We have never before managed without Vonlock.”

  “Well,” Mordock
said, standing from his seat and inching toward Vonlock’s vacant chair, “in that case, temporarily, perhaps I could . . .”

  “Don’t you dare,” Oakren said.

  “This is no time to fight for Head of Council!” an old wizard said.

  “Exactly,” Mordock said, “so just temporarily . . .” He took another small step toward the head of the table.

  Oakren formed a small orb of blue fire above the palm of his hand. “I am not playing games with you, Mordock.”

  “Trial!” the young wizard at the end of the table said. “I call for a trial to decide the next Head of Council.”

  The wizard with the big bushy mustache rushed to a desk along the side of the room and took some paper, some ink, and a quill pen. “I will write a contract to be bound by the Nyrish power.”

  “Wait!” an old wizard said. “The Chosen One just killed the most powerful wizard in the world, and we’re preparing a trial of succession?”

  “It’s trial or disband,” Oakren said.

  “We cannot disband,” the bushy-mustached wizard said, dipping his pen in ink and scribbling onto a blank scroll.

  “Who wishes to compete?” the young wizard said. “Put a hand on the table.” He put his own hand forward.

  Mordock grimaced, but put his hand on the table.

  Oakren smiled, sliding a hand onto the table as well. “Is this it?” he asked, looking around. “Only three?”

  “Come sign your names,” the bushy-mustached wizard said. He pinched his fingers together. “And a drop to make it binding.”

  The three wizards signed their names and left a dab of their own blood on the contract.

  “Now then,” Mordock said, “to decide tasks . . . I propose we—”

  Crash!

  Mordock jumped backward as a large raven flew through the room and landed on the back of Vonlock’s empty chair.

  “Is that a bird?”

  “A raven?”

  “Where’d it come from?”

  “Crashed through the window.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Flew right through the glass.”

  “It’s true. Look.”

  “Look! The staff!”

  “It’s not lightless anymore!”

  “Vonlock is alive?!”

  “No, look! The flame is green!”

  “Impossible.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Look! Something on the bird’s leg!”

  “A note?”

  “Who’s bird is this?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Look at the note!”

  “Take it!”

  “Read it!”

  “All right, all right,” Oakren said, carefully sliding the tiny scroll from the string tied around the raven’s leg. “Let me see.” He took a small monocle from his pocket and pushed it over his eye, then unrolled the scroll. He brought it close to his face, squinting and murmuring to himself. Then, after a short silence, he looked up, eyes wide. “He’s been listening. He wishes to compete.”

  “Who?”

  “Who?”

  “Who?”

  Oakren gestured to the staff, a green flame now glowing within its spherical cage. “Vonlock’s heir.”

  “You mean . . .” Mordock said.

  Oakren nodded.

  The bushy-mustached wizard looked confused. “So he survived? How?”

  “I don’t know,” Oakren said, “but council law says Vonlock’s heir is automatically a member of the council.”

  “But . . . But . . .” Mordock said. “He can’t be older than thirteen . . .”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Oakren said. “As a member of the council, he must be allowed to compete.”

  “It’s true,” the bushy-mustached wizard nodded.

  “This is ridiculous,” Mordock said.

  “I’m sorry,” the young wizard said, “but who are we talking about?”

  “His heir,” Oakren said. “Vonlock’s heir.”

  “Vonlock’s heir?” the young wizard repeated. “Who’s Vonlock’s heir?”

  An old wizard put his face in his hands. “We should have disbanded.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Oakren said.

  “Have you ever met the boy?” Mordock asked.

  “I know, he’s a bit . . .”

  “I’m sure he’s still listening,” the bushy-mustached wizard said.

  “Anyway, we signed already,” Oakren said. “We are bound by blood to compete.”

  “I think we just dug our own graves,” the bushy-mustached wizard said.

  The room sat in silence. The only sound was the night winds whistling through the broken window.

  “Maybe not,” Mordock said quietly, a thin smile creeping across his lips. “We still haven’t set the tasks.”

  Oakren squinted at him, sliding his monocle back into his pocket. “What are you proposing?” he whispered.

  “We’ll give him an impossible task.”

  “Ah,” Oakren’s eyes went wide. He gestured at Vonlock’s empty chair. “Pit him against . . . ?”

  Mordock grinned. “We’ll send him straight to his own grave.”

  The young wizard at the end of the table stood up, kicking his chair backward. “No one has answered me!”

  All seven other wizards around the table stared at the young man.

  “Who is Vonlock’s heir?” he asked.

  “His name is Sorren,” Oakren said. “He’s Vonlock’s son.”

  TWO

  THREE DAYS LATER

  A tall old man with long scraggly dark green hair leaned on his iron staff, waiting in front of a large wooden door built into the cavern’s wall. A twelve year old walked up beside him, holding the tray of breakfast food he’d been ordered to bring.

  The boy’s name was Thale. He’d been old Kovola’s apprentice for as long as he could remember, learning to make things for wizards, things that only worked with the power of the Nyrish moon. Toves, as they were called. And if you could not be a wizard, being a tovemaster was the next best thing. Of course, he could only make simple things, like clocks and music boxes that didn’t need to be wound. But someday he’d learn the secrets of making staffs and portal doors and dark mirrors. Someday.

  “Is he awake yet?” Thale asked, inching toward the door.

  “Yes, he’s been waiting,” Kovola said. “Just remember, do not say anything about—”

  “About his arm. I know.” Kovola had only warned him twenty times. Thale wasn’t even sure how Sorren had lost the arm. Kovola had mentioned something about finding him buried in a pile of stones, but nothing more.

  Kovola opened the door slowly. “Sorren? We have your breakfast.”

  Thale followed the old man through the door and into the wide cavern room. Everything was so dark within these cavern walls. Thale wondered if he’d ever see Vonlock’s castle again. It didn’t seem likely now that the Chosen One and a small army of Zolen soldiers had taken it over.

  Still, Thale didn’t mind the darkness. He could see in the darkness very well thanks to his tovocular eye. When he was five years old, he’d been attacked by a wandering mountain wolf, and his left eye had been torn from its socket. Rather than giving him a glass eye or an eye patch, Kovola had immediately set about creating a tovocular eye to be placed in the empty eye socket. It looked like a very small spyglass, gold with a dark bluish green lens, and could be removed at night when Thale went to sleep. But when it was in, Thale could see with it, and it worked better than a human eye. Everything was in focus, colors were vibrant, he could zoom in and out on things, and he could see in the dark.

  Sorren’s room was cold and barren. A large bed sat against the far wall, its blankets crumpled. A table sat close by, piled with metalwork tools and small bits of scrap metal, copper and silver and brass.

  Sorren stood by a mirror next to the table, pulling on his long black duster coat, collar up as usual. His hair was a thick mess of black and, as he turned around, Thale s
aw a pair of thin dark green goggles on his forehead. Sorren was one of the rare wizards whose powers often produced flames and sparks too bright for his own eyes. His skin was pale, almost ghostly white, the reward of a childhood spent in shadows. Like most wizards of the Nyrish power, he was nocturnal, and woke only after sunset.

  “Ah, breakfast,” Sorren said, eyeing the tray of warm cinnamon bread, fruit, and truddleberry juice.

  “Your arms . . .” Thale said.

  Kovola nudged him with his staff.

  Sorren reached out with his left arm, curling his gloved fingers. It moved with a faint whirring noise.

  “You’d never know, would you?” Sorren said, smiling. He pulled the glove off and pushed his sleeve up, revealing his new mechanical arm, an intricate system of brass and silver that moved as naturally as the real thing.

  “Hardly the thing you should be doing with your spare time,” Kovola said, clearing a space on the table. “You need rest. Thale, tray here.”

  Sorren slid the glove back on. Kovola may not have cared, but Sorren was not about to waste time resting. He sat at the table, took a sip of juice, and whistled. His raven, Quove, flew to his side and began pecking at the bread.

  “Oh,” Sorren said, “I’m going to create a portal soon. For Mordock.”

  “Do you think that wise?” Kovola asked. “You should keep this place a secret. If the Chosen One knows you are still alive . . .”

  “We don’t have to worry about Mordock,” Sorren said. “And he has my father’s staff. I want it back.”

  “I understand that, but . . .” Kovola seemed hesitant to say something. The old man turned to Thale. “Could you leave us for a moment?”

  Thale nodded. Sorren watched as the one-eyed boy left the room, closing the door behind him, then turned to Kovola. “What is it?”

  “It’s what we’ve both been avoiding,” Kovola said. “We need to decide where best to go into exile and find—”

  “Exile?” Sorren interrupted, munching on fruit. “I’m not going into exile.”

  “Sorren,” Kovola said, with that gravely serious voice of his, “your father was assassinated. Your assassination was attempted. Eventually they’ll realize you survived. You cannot stay in Morrowgrand.”