Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening Read online

  Storm of Prophecy

  Book I

  Dark Awakening

  Michael von Werner

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art: Felix DiRoma (http://samurairyu.deviantart.com/)

  Produced in the heart of the Rocky Mountains by Wodan Publishing

  ISBN 978-0-615-33951-1

  STORM OF PROPHECY: DARK AWAKENING Copyright  2009 by Michael von Werner

  To the Readers,

  this book was written for

  you and you alone.

  Storm of Prophecy

  Book I Dark Awakening

  Book II Pillar of Light

  Book III * Flames of Retribution *

  Book IV * Tides of Chaos *

  Book V * Captive Souls *

  Book VI * Edge of Fate *

  * Imminent *

  Pronunciation Key

  PLACES

  Ryga righ ‡ guh

  Gadrale gad ‡ drail

  Kairaus kare ‡ oss

  Vanir von ‡ ear

  PEOPLE

  Vincent Faren fare ‡ en

  Treyfon tray ‡ fawn

  Gautrek gaw ‡ trek

  Chapter I

  Vincent was feeling tired but instantly snapped awake the moment he thought he heard a slight swishing sound against stone. There was no one there in the hallway and so he ignored it. His mind was playing tricks on him again. He assumed the certainty of having heard nothing.

  Unable to stand the itching sensation any longer, Vincent reached his right hand back behind his neck and scratched himself under where his thick black hair cut off. A faint scraping sound ensued when his fingernails moved against his skin. There was another itch just below it on his upper back, and so he sent his hand down well under his dark blue cloak and tan leather shirt to reach it, having to bend his head forward to have it out of the way.

  When he did, his eyes came to rest on his black boots atop the interlocked gray stone blocks, which lay below his dark leather pants. After scratching, he folded his arms again and resumed standing in a firmly dedicated, solitary stance, a statue once more. Inexplicable itches often resulted from holding still for too long, and long hours of standing guard duty required him to do just that.

  All around him stood the cold gray stone walls of Gadrale Keep’s most inner sanctum: the stretch of hallway leading to The Crafters’ Vault. It was a storage area for complex and exquisitely constructed items of great magic power. Laying deep within the stone recesses, it was like a locked chest buried under tons of dirt and rock. Vincent often felt as though he had a mountain of stone resting above him.

  At this bottom floor, five stories below ground level, nothing stirred save for him. Behind where he stood, hidden from his view, was the golden disc-shaped door. The hall leading out lay ahead in his vision. Large stone slabs made up the walls going outward, each carefully cut, each flat and long, showing only a lengthy rectangle on the sides.

  The air was cool and damp on the skin of his face and hands. Despite the excellent design of the fortress, moisture still accumulated on the rock surface at this depth. Because of this, mold had invaded the dark recesses and plastered itself in various places along the wall. The area smelt like stagnant rainwater had been forever trapped in a frigid, empty stone coffin. A single bright orb with sunlight essence trapped inside was affixed to the ceiling in the middle of the hall and provided the only source of illumination in the otherwise dismal alcove.

  Imperceptibly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His appearance and overall posture did not change, but doing this allowed him to remain fluid should he need to respond. It was one of the things he was taught to do when he was trained for guard duty. Most guards, like he, had mastered the fine art of making this change less visible. Vincent doubted that anyone would have noticed him doing it even if they had watched.

  No matter the intense tedium that he was faced with during his duties, Vincent would not trade his hard earned position at the mage academy in Gadrale for anything. It had been his ambition since childhood to become a wizard who served here, and he still considered it an honor despite his low status and the little regard his particular gift engendered. Being assigned to guard a magically locked and secure vault door, which already had powerful spells protecting it, was perhaps a sign of this, but he didn’t care. He reasoned that anyone with enough power to break in would be better met with direct resistance than none. They could disarm the spells, if they were exceptional, but they couldn’t disarm Vincent without a fight.

  He heard the swishing sound again, perked up his attention and looked carefully at the hall intersection, ultimately dismissing it once more. His nerves were a little on edge because of what had been happening lately in the city just north of the keep and in the area around it.

  People had been going missing and had never returned. Only a few, the crumpled, broken bone remains of children, had turned up. The bones had bite marks on them that were consistent with that of a dragon or a wyvern, so the deaths were all written off as that: no more than a feral winged beast consuming the unwary as they traveled alone foolishly into the wilderness.

  Vincent would have believed this too except that many were reportedly nowhere near the woods when they turned up missing. In fact, many lived in the city. With the number unaccounted for, there should have been more Human pellets regurgitated than had been seen. Adult sized ones should have been among them. Dragons and wyverns often hunted larger game like cattle, elk, or deer. A full grown person might still make a decent meal, but the bones found broken in piles were still, frighteningly, much too small.

  Among the victims of these strange disappearances was Harold, Jessica Valens’ younger brother. Jessica was a botanical sorceress Vincent spent a lot of time with. He helped her tend the campus gardens whenever he could. She was a close friend that Vincent wanted closer, much closer.

  Vincent had met Harold only a few times before and could sense certain things about him. He was not magically gifted. That much was obvious. Whenever he came to the keep it was to visit Jessica. Overall he was kind to his sister, though sometimes he was mischievous and played the occasional practical joke on her and on others. Like most people, he was many things. One thing he was not was fool enough to travel into the wild alone and unannounced. Something sinister was responsible. Maybe something had dragged him there.

  In his spare time, Vincent had ventured many times into the woods north of the city, searching. Each time he feared for his life and jumped at every sound yet was always compelled to go again the next time, hoping that something would give him a hint as to what was really going on. So far, he had only found more of the small remains. The real investigators, with whom he had accompanied even before Harold turned up missing, had long since given up. They declared these incidents to be unavoidable predation and warned people to stay indoors at night.

  They also warned him to stop searching as well, telling him that if the best animal trackers and wizards could find nothing, he could not hope to accomplish more-he would just be added to the list. The local magistrate commanding the city garrison didn’t want to touch it either; the city had a high population and his hands were full as it was. The wizards at the keep abandoned it since the people lost were thought careless and they were unimportant. They had better things to do. Life had to go on, they said.

  That left only him, yet he was unfortunately finding himself not suited to the task just as they had said. Vincent felt that it was his obl
igation as a wizard of Gadrale to continue investigating, and continue looking for the missing people. He kept venturing into the woods and kept asking around. When described to him by others, the men and women could have been someone he knew but didn’t. He kept the mental image of each in his mind along with Harold’s every time he searched. They didn’t deserve to be ignored, and despite all the reassurances and uncaring dismissals…

  The strange disappearances hadn’t stopped.

  Vincent was not a normal wizard himself by any means. To those he consulted, he appeared more a rider, a traveler, a scout. None thought he was a wizard until he actually told them. His sword and cloak made them think he was working for the magistrate when he asked them questions. They were surprised to find out he did not.

  The sound of scraping against stone suddenly caught his attention again. His nostrils sharply drew in the damp, cool air as his mind came to a full and startled alert. Vincent decided that three times couldn’t be coincidence but saw no one in the hall.

  He had already spent most of the night here when his time should have ended much sooner. By his own estimation, he was two hours into a third guard shift in a row, another that was not his own. The sound couldn’t be anything real; no one ever lurked down here at these hours besides him. Sleep deprivation was obviously driving him insane. He was starting to feel resentful toward the two young wizards who were neglecting their duty to relieve him. Though the sound was strange and out of place, he couldn’t imagine what it might be. It couldn’t possibly be the thing he had come to fear.

  Unless it couldn’t be seen.

  Vincent found himself worrying that there was a legitimate reason for Stan and Craig’s absence this time. They were often late, and one night they had skipped on their shifts altogether, leaving Vincent to stand guard through the night and ultimately for a full day. Their punishment had been unpleasant for them, and he couldn’t see why they would desire a repeat of it or something worse, maybe even a demotion or expulsion from the Academy Guard.

  If someone wanted to break in here, incapacitating or killing a relief guard might be a good start. The guard on duty would be run down by exhaustion until they were either asleep or otherwise completely ineffective at their post. Vincent found himself wishing that Stan and Craig were negligent because otherwise they were dead and something was coming for him.

  His arms remained folded while his dark brown eyes continued to gaze at the other end of the stone hallway. Vincent’s right fist was not high above the black handle of his sword. At the beginning of his shift, he had checked to make sure it was loose in its scabbard. It still should be.

  Another swish came from the hall. Anxiety tore through him like it had a life of its own, screaming at him to avoid what was coming. Take action. Action against what? He could see nothing in the hall. He forced the feeling away and became angry with himself for giving in to paranoia. At least he thought it was.

  Whenever Vincent needed to, he could draw his weapon quickly. It was a well-practiced reflex that had become deeply ingrained in his mind and body. His was a rare magic tied to metal, but was seen as inferior to other natural gifts. There were no schools for his ability, not even a name for it. Around the keep, he was known as “The Swordsman,” more often than not as a derogatory appellation. He didn’t see it as an insult. He liked his sword more than he liked many of the other wizards.

  So far, he had never had to draw it for combat purposes; he had never had to kill anyone with it. He didn’t think he ever would either. The keep hadn’t been attacked in centuries. This suited him just fine because even though he was a member of the Academy Guard, a combat wizard who was charged with the defense of Gadrale Keep, he abhorred violence and was largely a pacifist.

  The swishing sound came again, slightly louder this time. He looked at the end of the hall from one side of its opening to the other and strained his eyes frantically. What in the world could be causing it?

  “Hello?” He called out. There was no answer.

  He felt a tingling dread creep through his chest.

  He knew at the very core of his being.

  He was not alone.

  Chapter II

  His right hand found his sword handle and gave it a gentle tug to make sure once again that it was indeed loose. He knew something was there. Frustration overtook him. Why couldn’t he see it! It was there. He could hear it.

  And it was getting close.

  He kept his hand close to his sword.

  The danger made several thoughts hit Vincent’s mind all at once. He immediately thought about Arrendis, the old wizard who was his mentor and friend, the closest thing he had to a teacher. There was much that Vincent was indebted to him for. He had done things that could never be repaid, like fighting to gain him admission into Gadrale Keep in the first place. Every time Vincent was tested by circumstances in some way, be it to prove his ability to others or to accomplish something asked of him, he tenaciously pursued the endeavor partly to justify Arrendis’ faith in him and for his own pride. These thoughts were surging forth in Vincent’s mind at this moment especially because he was getting a bad queasy feeling in his stomach, and he was developing an itch.

  A nervous itch.

  There was another small swish. His pulse quickened and his muscles tensed. If it was what he feared, this time it was coming for him. He could feel it. He had to fulfill his duty as a guard. This was the defining moment. He knew that his mind could not be responsible for these orchestrated and methodical sounds.

  “Show yourself!” He shouted loudly at the top of his lungs to whoever might be in the next hall. Again there was no answer.

  Vincent’s mind dove backwards in time, trying desperately to discern the phenomenon. He knew that illusionists could create images that were not real in order to trick the unsuspecting. The problem here was that Vincent wasn’t seeing something not real. He simply wasn’t seeing anything at all. A brief childhood memory of when he had glanced at a picture in a book suddenly surfaced. This time it was different. It was real and frighteningly so. There was only one thing it could be.

  A Seal of Cheated Light.

  Vincent’s nerves were really on edge now. It was an evil and forbidden spell, not something taught here. It required a sacrifice. The spell’s grisly and horrific nature alone kept it burned into his memory. He even recalled being partially traumatized as a child when hearing about it.

  It involved an elaborate ceremony in which one carefully cut open a person’s chest, held their still beating heart in their hands without killing them, and then magically extracted their living essence while they still breathed. Removing the flesh, tissue, and skin surrounding the heart somehow removed the barrier to this insidious reaping of life. When performed along with the proper signs drawn and incantations uttered, the user was made invisible. Light would not reveal them, because they had cheated it.

  He also remembered that it was a delicate spell and could be easily broken. If they were harmed or did something too drastic, the spell would begin to falter and they would be exposed earlier than desired. Despite this, Vincent was still firmly aware that what he couldn’t see could kill him.

  His blood was racing. His eyes widened as he looked ahead. There was another swish that had almost a patting quality to it. Instantly he knew why it was familiar to him. It was the sound of soft shoes against stone.

  He had never fought for his life before. Mortal terror was gripping him because he knew that in another instant either someone would take his life, or he would be forced to take theirs. He abhorred killing and was deeply horrified at being thrust into this situation.

  Vincent tried to judge their proximity by the last swishing sound. They would have been moving slowly, but he now guessed them to be very close. A person’s muted and controlled breath rose barely above silence for only a small moment. He gritted his teeth and began to sweat, his own breath began to accelerate. How could he make himself take another’s life?

  The Vault. He co
uldn’t let them take what was in it.

  He let his arms down from their folded position and gripped the top of his scabbard with his left hand. The other was not touching the hilt just now because he didn’t want to tip them off yet. His left foot casually and discreetly stepped back slightly as he steeled himself to the intense and miserable deed, reasoning that if there was no one here who shouldn’t be here, then he could do no wrong. He put the other possibility out of his mind and concentrated on judging distance and his intended stroke.

  In a terrible flash of speed, there was a streak of blood across the air where his sword had traveled. The figure of a man wearing a tight black suit with a short round hood and cloth covering his face was revealed when the severed lower parts of his arms fell to the ground and his torso soon followed it. His legs were last to crumple and drop. The spell keeping him invisible dissipated due to his grievous wounds. There was blood all along Vincent’s blade and the red liquid had splattered in a sharp line streak on the wall to the right of where his stroke had ended. The stone floor was being covered by it, especially in places where the person’s arms and torso had been rent. Parts of organs, the visceral tubes used for digestion, were spilling out on the floor from the top half in a nauseating mess.

  Vincent could feel the color draining from his face but forced himself to concentrate on his sworn duty. Before the sight could sicken him into inaction and total revulsion, he immediately advanced forward and to the left, turning away from the gruesome heap to frantically swing across at any additional intruders who might be there. Drops of blood from his sword briefly hit invisible forms in the air before becoming invisible themselves, and his strained ears in full panic heard feet thudding hard in a sort of jumping back fashion while others stepped quickly to avoid his blade.