Dread of Spirit: Rise of the Mage - Book One Read online

  Dread of Spirit

  Rise of the Mage

  Book One

  Jason J. Bilicic

  LAST LAMP PUBLISHING

  UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ©2016 Jason J. Bilicic. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Published Last Lamp Publishing, Inc-7/15/16

  Cover art by Steve Roberts

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  Book One

  Sinewy grey clouds stretched across the sky, interrupting the pale blue overhead. They held together even as they narrowed down to little more than reluctant pale slashes that failed to keep the winter sun from reaching the dead grasslands below.

  A raven lazily circled on the constant southern breeze, able to smell the slightest hint of the ocean that lay leagues upon leagues away to the south, past the distant port of Skurgaard, Symea’s largest city.

  To the north, almost beyond the bird’s keen vision, mountains rose from the brown flatlands, their dim purple bodies, topped by stark caps of white, stood out against the darkening skies beyond. Here another storm built, promising freezing air and a new layer of snow and ice atop the distant peaks.

  East and west the grasslands spanned beyond the raven’s vision. The easterly reaches of grass were ultimately interrupted by the city of Chinggen Mor where the Emerald Sea crept north to choke the grasslands into a narrow land bridge, the gateway to Reman. The Western Sweeps ended in sheer black cliffs that stood ominously over the choppy waters of the Ro’Daln Ocean.

  Time and again, the raven faced these far off landmarks as it descended from hundreds of reaches in the air, floating downward in a wide easy spiral. But it saw none of them.

  A bird of carrion and a war follower, the Grey Ironbeak raven’s red eyes stared downward, following the clash of battle. It circled patiently, waiting for the outcome to be decided so that it might fatten itself on the flesh of the weak, left dead or dying by the victorious.

  Far below, only one set of eyes noted the raven’s presence, and for the sparest moment only. Kelc had no time to welcome or be dismayed by the common sight of an Ironbeak, though he unconsciously offered the bird a brief nod. Its presence matched his current mood, dark and without hope.

  He returned his eyes to his father, waiting for the man to begin. Sparring, they called it, but each week Kelc gained a new scar, the collection of which was supposed to make him a better warrior.

  “Yeah,” he breathed.

  With Varrl’s first motion Kelc gave two steps, raising dust from the parched ground with his hard-soled boots.

  “Strategy, boy, or retreat?” spat the older man, his biting tone announcing which of the two he beheld.

  “Just do it how I showed you, Kelc,” called out Kreggen, Kelc’s older brother by two years.

  That was easy enough for Kreg to say. He stood five knuckles taller than Kelc, covered with dense muscle, his body designed for combat. For him, learning the sword had been easier than learning to walk, every motion fluid and well-timed, his responses to his opponent’s attacks innate and flawless. Rumor had it that the territorial warden already wanted to talk with Kreggen about joining him in his service, a prestigious honor among Symeans.

  Kelc shuffled his feet again, turning to face his father head on as the bigger man slowly edged to his son’s left side, his weaker, slower side. Kelc glanced back to the sky, finding the raven. Again, his lack of focus brought his father.

  In he came, jabbing his curved scimitar at his son, but pulling up. A feint. He tested Kelc’s speed, alarming his youngest child, causing the young man to sweat despite the chill winter air.

  “Watch him,” Kreggen yelled. “Watch his return.” Kelc spared only the briefest look of annoyance for his brother, quieting him.

  Adda, Kelc’s mother, stood on the front porch of their meager house, silent. When Kreggen fought, she coached and cheered for him to attack, her age-lined face animated with energy, her green eyes intensely following every traded stroke. As she watched Kelc fight, she held her breath and frowned, wincing at every exchange, her arms crossed beneath her breasts as she stood stock-still.

  Behind her stood his sister, Shaia, a year older than him, equally silent, her distaste for sparring etched into her normally warm features. She locked her brown eyes closed through most of the fight while her fingers gripped her loose skirts, her knuckles white.

  “You’ve got to handle the screams and noises that occur on the battlefield, boy. Any Symean man learns that quick enough, or takes a sword in the gut,” growled Varrl just before making a quick thrust at his youngest son.

  Kelc smacked his father’s sword to the side and leaped at him, cutting upward as he stepped into the larger man, his blade being redirected by a quick swipe from Varrl. Kelc continued, following a pattern that Kreggen had shown him. He spun in and brought as hard a swing into his father as he could muster, forcing his foe to set steel for a parry.

  As soon as the blades met, Kelc charged into Varrl, driving his shoulder through his father, but it seemed as if his thoughts were plain to his opponent.

  Varrl caught his throat in one of his powerful calloused hands and stilted his arm, pressing Kelc’s jaw upward and slowing him until he could drive the pommel of his sword into his son’s stomach while driving his left knee into the boy’s hip, unbalancing him. As Kelc grunted, losing strength, Varrl forcefully hurled him to the ground.

  “Aggressive,” Varrl barked, “but poorly executed. You must hide your intentions better than that.”

  Kelc lay on the ground for no more than a moment, knowing that his father would show no mercy. He rolled away from the older man and gained his feet, bringing his sword into a ready position as he struggled to pull air. His neck felt raw and the knuckles of his right hand burned. A quick glance showed that they were scraped up and bleeding from the fall.

  He narrowed his gray-green eyes and let his anger fuel him.

  “Kelc,” Kreggen immediately said, “don’t fight angry. It causes mistakes.”

  “You fight your way,” Kelc muttered.

  “Kelc,” Shaia pleaded, a rare effort on her part. “Listen to Kreg.” So worried did she sound that Kelc looked to her for a moment.

  It was then that Varrl came, the flat of his scimitar smacking into Kelc’s head. Kelc spun away causing the edge of the sword to cut a shallow line into his scalp.

  “Varrl!” cried Adda, his mother, as she took a quick tentative step toward her husband, her light boot sounding out on the wooden planks underfoot.

  Kelc hacked at his father, rage driving his blade, though Varrl expertly parried the shot. A second and third cut fell on the larger man, but both clashed against his steel and fell safely to either side of him.

  “Come on, boy! Shy could hit me harder than that!” seethed his father. Kelc fell away from him for a moment, the idea that his father goaded him more of a warning than an
ything anyone else could have said.

  The cut in his hair began to burn as sweat ran into it.

  “Varrl,” Adda said again.

  “Silence, woman! You know nothing of training Symean swords. If he fought like this during a battle he’d be raven’s bait.” Kelc’s father spat, his gray eyes locked on those of his youngest. His lips drew into a sneer. “A shame to his kinsmen.”

  Kelc found the Ironbeak overhead, silently considering the possibility that he might be its dinner tonight.

  “He’s bleeding all down his left side,” Adda responded to her husband.

  “I can see it. If he hadn’t been so worried about Shy’s crying over there, he wouldn’t be. As it is, he’ll have a scar and a ruined shirt.” He began sliding to Kelc’s left again, waggling his sword, keeping his arm lively. “A good reminder that he should give his full attention to his opponent. Armed men tend to fight to kill after all.”

  Looking into his father’s eyes as he spoke, Kelc could see the truth there. His father would kill him before he let one of his sons embarrass him on a battlefield, more able to deal with loss than shame, though Kelc questioned whether Varrl could feel loss with the way he treated his sons. Like a good Symean man, he had beaten both of his sons routinely, though he no longer raised a hand to his oldest.

  “Kelc,” Kreggen said calmly, “spin with him. Keep him off your greeching left.” The unexpected profanity drew Varrl’s eyes for a spare moment and Kelc attacked.

  His first shot snaked in and smacked the older man’s sword and his right foot followed, the toe of his heavy boot pounding into Varrl’s left knee.

  “Hells,” grunted the larger man as he stumbled, but Kelc offered no quarter. He punched his father in the chin and dragged his sword across his face, the razor edge missing by less than a knuckle as Varrl pressed his scimitar up under his son’s. Kelc rocked his steel against the parry and his blade cut into his father’s chest, leaving a line of scarlet behind.

  “Kelc,” shrieked Adda and Shaia together, neither moving.

  With a powerful two-handed thrust, Varrl forced his younger son away from him. “So,” he roared, “you want to bleed together, do you?”

  The older man surged to his feet and rained shots on his son. Kelc caught and deflected the first four or five before one bit into his shin, followed by a cross-cut that caught his right arm. A final quick cut sliced his right side before reversing direction and blasting his blade from his hand.

  A balled fist bashed Kelc square in the face, followed by an elbow, blasting him to the ground. No sooner did he land there than a boot caught him in the stomach, driving the air from him. Another followed.

  “Stop,” yelled Kreggen.

  “Varrl!” shrieked Kelc’s mother.

  A third kick plowed into Kelc’s gut, though he could do little more than offer a whine, lacking the air to do more. He struggled to roll away from his father, but terror claimed him. Unable to breathe, his eyes clamped shut and he pulled his knees up to protect himself.

  “No more,” bellowed Kreggen as he rushed forward to his little brother’s defense, bringing his scimitar into readiness, the blade sizzling through the air as it snapped upright.

  “Back,” Varrl warned, but Kreggen knew better. He’d seen his father’s anger, and after twenty years of abuse he knew that there was only one way to quench it.

  He drove a cross cut into Varrl, forcing him to give a step before rushing to his right and jabbing into his torso quickly, causing the older man to rotate to keep with him. But Kreg was far quicker with a blade. His curved steel darted in and smashed Varrl’s fingers before he rotated the weapon trying to rip his father’s sword from his hand, but experience won out.

  Varrl jumped back, keeping hold of his sword.

  “This bout is done,” Kreggen said. “It is one thing to teach Kelc a lesson. But to beat him while he is down?” Two knuckles taller than his father and wider at the shoulders, Kreg pointed his sword straight at the older man. “I won’t allow it.”

  Varrl’s rage seemed to instantly vanish.

  “That’s a Symean man, Kelc. Look to your brother and learn.” He barked a bitter laugh.

  Kelc did not look to his brother. He buried his face in the brown grass, hiding his tears even as he struggled to breathe.

  “Kelc,” cried his sister as she shouldered past her mother and dropped to her knees next to him, wrapping her arms around him.

  “Coddle him, Shy.” Varrl cast only a backwards glance at the scene of his youngest son and only daughter while limping into their house to tend his own wounds. “Coddle him.” He shook his head in disgust.

  Kreggen walked away, quietly moving off to allow Kelc some privacy while he dealt with his pain. More times than he cared to make account of, Kreg had suffered his father. He knew all too well the pressure of being a Symean man while feeling helpless before an overpowering brute. He knew what it did to a boy’s mind.

  Shy hugged her brother, crying with him. Adda slowly followed Varrl into the house though she hesitated for several moments, looking to her youngest where he bled on the ground. But her husband would need mending, and she, too, sought to avoid his anger. She looked to the sky for a moment as if asking for help, though she dare not. Such an act, like shedding tears, showed a lack of strength that was unacceptable.

  “Kelc,” Shy sobbed. “Breathe. I know it’s hard, but you need to breathe.”

  After a few moments, her younger brother managed to get a breath, though that immediately forced a coughing fit. She pulled him into a sitting position and held him while he suffered.

  As the coughing abated, he took shallow pulls of air. “I hate him,” Kelc breathed. “Greeching hate him.”

  Shaia said nothing, only nodding shallowly. “Two years and a little more and you’re free. Kelc. Two years. You’re almost eighteen already. Just two more years.”

  “He’ll kill me, Shy.” Again his words were little louder than a sigh. “Kreg will be off saving the territory in half a year. After that…” Kelc slowly shook his head, glancing at his sister’s face. Her brown eyes, rimmed in red, locked on his, offering unspoken compassion. “He’ll kill me.”

  “No,” she whispered. “I won’t allow it.”

  “Shy,” Kelc rasped, prepared to tell her that there was nothing she could do. But he stopped. Looking at her, he no longer saw warmth. Now he saw cold resolve. Fury. In his sister. He bobbed his head, acknowledging her words.

  “Good,” she said. “Come on. I’ll need to put some cold presses on your ribs and sew up those cuts.” She stood and helped lift Kelc to his feet. He grunted as he stood. The pain of his injuries forced new tears down his cheeks.

  “Hells,” he grunted, nearly collapsing to the winter-browned grass.

  “Don’t give him this, Kelc,” Shy told him. “You cry as we walk through the house and he wins.” She wiped her own face clear of tears. “Don’t give him this.” She pressed her cheek to that of her little brother, whispering vehemently, her lips so close to his ear that he felt her soft words on his flesh. “Don’t give him this.” She waited for her younger brother to recover a little. “Be strong. For you,” she added. “For me.”

  Kelc took tremendous comfort from the warmth of his sister’s cheek pressed to his, her long brown hair caressing his agitated neck. He nodded that he was ready. “Okay,” he offered through clenched teeth. “Together.”

  “Together,” she echoed. “Together.”

  Kelc sat up, wrapping both arms around his ribs, growling through the pain. His feet touched the cool floor, feeling the rough wood for the first time in three days. He couldn’t be certain of the time of day, but it felt cold and early.

  He rested there for a while, knowing that he needed to get moving. “The sooner you do,” he muttered, “the sooner it fades.” He immediately regretted saying the words, words his father gave him.

  He set his jaw and forced himself up with a minimal grunt, keeping his arms around his midsection until he
gained his feet and checked for contingent pain. He then plucked his coarse robe up from where it lay across the foot of his bed, unable to pull a tunic on over his head. He slipped his bare feet into his work boots and left his room.

  The main room was quiet. His mother and sister were off somewhere. He slowly plodded through the house, his boots sounding out on the wood, until he arrived at the front door. He glanced over to the stove and small table that served as the kitchen, but no one sat there.

  He heard a whinny and knew that someone was harnessing the team. I wonder who, he thought, concerned with more than who handled the horses. The team was used for only one thing.

  He threw the door open and lurched through onto the porch. His mother stood there with a burlap sack, waiting to give Varrl some supplies, probably some food for whatever trip he must make, and perhaps a change of clothes.

  Kreg settled the lead lines on the team, a four-horse pull, harnessed to a low sided wagon. Varrl waited on the driver’s bench, grouping the reins as his oldest son sorted them out.

  “Ah,” called the older man, noting Kelc, “you finally got up. Nice to see you, your excellency.” Adda lowered her gaze to the ground.

  Kelc simply looked to his father, unsure what was happening.

  “I figure you must be some sort of nobility. Your brother, mother and sister all rose to your defense.” He tilted his head toward Kreggen. “Your brother raised his sword against me to protect you.” His eyes pinned his wife where she stood, her chin still lowered. “And then your sister and mother fought me tooth and nail so you could lounge in bed for days while the men worked.” He fell silent, suddenly staring at his boy. “Glad to see you finally made your way off the apron strings.” He shook his head. “Get dressed. I need you to dig.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kelc answered weakly.