Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening (48 page)

The experience was like nothing he had ever felt before. It was warmth, goodness, fulfillment, and ecstasy all wrapped into one. He didn’t want it to ever end, but finally it did. She pulled back and they both opened their eyes. They stood holding each other lovingly, listening to each other’s breaths and gazing into each other’s eyes. Jessica gave him a gentle, affectionate squeeze of her hands. She smiled and pulled him in for another. Hot passion ignited within him.

They parted lips again but held the embrace, staring at one another. All he could think about was how much he loved her. Every fiber of his being resonated with happiness and contentment. It was like something warm, something tangible. It was so strong that if he could have poured it out of his heart and into hers, to let her know how much he loved her, he would have.

“You should have said something sooner,” she whispered.

“How does one go about giving a flower to someone who is surrounded by them all day?” She laughed softly again, continuing to show him her beautiful smile, and when done, it gave him joy to hear her let out a satisfied sigh.

It was soon tempered by a rising worry. His sudden alarm triggered a look of concern on her face. He pushed out from Jessica, holding her by the shoulders at arm’s length. “I have to go!” He said frantically. “My friends need me!”

She held on tight to his lower arms before he could pull away, making him turn his attention back to her. “Wait! Maybe they already have enough people. You might not have to go. Stay here.”

Vincent shook his head vigorously. “The dark ones are intractable! You don’t know how ruthless they are! Things could go very wrong very fast! I have to be there to help!” He couldn’t believe that earlier he had even thought about not helping.

She looked into his eyes, considering. “Then I’ll let you come with me,” she said at last.

He now understood her original meaning.

Images of the blood-filled, gut-wrenching horror of combat immediately flashed before his eyes. “No!” He burst out loudly, making her flinch. He then remembered himself. “…I mean um, it’s too dangerous. I’ll fight much better knowing that you’re safe over here.”

A scowl formed on her face. “They killed Harold!” She reminded. “I have more magic than you do. If anything, I should go and you should stay!”

Jessica was underestimating him. She didn’t know what he had been through. At the moment, he didn’t care about his pride. That wasn’t what he was worried about. He was far more worried that she was underestimating their enemy, underestimating what it meant to be caught up in a violent struggle. She just didn’t know. How could she?

He shook his head. He had to make her understand. “You’re going to need more than magic to survive them.”

“Like what?” She asked, the scowl still on her face.

Vincent tried his best to articulate it. “Like courage………and a lot of luck. Your nerves can improve over time, but no one can give you luck. Death isn’t so easy to avoid.”

“I’m not staying here after they killed my little brother!”

“
Jessica, it’s not…”

“
Get out of my way!” She started to push past him.

Before she could, he forcefully grabbed her by the shoulders. “YOU’LL JUST BE KILLED TOO!”

Everything was quiet for several moments. Jessica stared long and hard at him. For a time, his own expression didn’t change. He strained himself to quickly think of how best to reason with her again, and made himself speak before her shock wore off.

“Jessica, I know you’re angry about what they did to Harold. I know you want revenge. I do too. But you can’t rush into this. Battles are a terror you can’t even begin to imagine. You may think you are doing the right thing by trying to avenge your brother, but if you enter the fight, none of that will matter. They won’t care that he was your brother, and they won’t care that what they did was wrong. They’ll just kill you, viciously, any way they can. That you are right won’t save you. It will come so quick you might not even see it, and once done, it can’t be undone
-
you’ll be gone. The others won’t be able to help you; you’ll be dead, and they’ll be too busy fighting to keep the same from happening to them.”

“What about you?” She countered. “Do you think you’re being heroic?” Tears started welling up in her eyes though her voice held. “Do you think you’re saving me by doing this?” She wiped them away with her hand before looking in his eyes again. “What makes it okay for you to go? What makes it okay for you to…” she couldn’t say it.

“There’s nothing okay about it. Because of what happened, fear doesn’t paralyze me anymore. I wasn’t prepared the first time. You can’t do anything to prepare for the first time. I got lucky, but luck doesn’t last. In a battle as big as the one we’re about to fight, I can’t even guarantee that I’ll live through it.” He felt his own eyes glisten. “If something minor happens down the road, go ahead and fight in it. Gain the understanding I wish I didn’t have, if it’s that important to you. But not by doing this. I beg you, stay out of this. You can’t go. If you do, you’ll die.”

“So you should just die instead? Is that what you want?”

Vincent stared at her more intently.

His voice was subdued. “I would die for you.”

“I can’t accept that.” She tried to move past him again. He moved to stand in her way.

Vincent tried to be patient with her as he resorted to the last thing he could think of. “Jessica, I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve tended these gardens with you, and I even risked my own life just for the slim chance of returning your brother. I’ve never asked you for anything before. I’m asking you now to grant what may be my last request: stay behind.”

“But I can help!” She insisted.

Vincent shared a long look with her. He moved forward and gently caressed the side of her face with his right hand. He put his hands on her waist and drew her near. His face was only a few inches from hers. “I know,” he whispered softly. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you either,” she whispered sadly, unable to keep back the tears.

“You won’t.” Then he found himself smiling. She frowned in confusion. “With your love to come back to, I’ll be more careful and alert. I’ll want to live even more. I won’t let them take me.”

“Vincent…” she breathed out worriedly, pulling him into a tighter embrace.

His head rested over her shoulder. He turned and kissed her neck. “I promise I’ll come back soon.”

* * *

Vincent finally entered the city of Gadrale, hot and winded. His feet thudded on the cobblestone street, and his dark blue cloak billowed out behind. It then occurred to him that he didn’t know which of the three things Master Anthony’s company had decided to do first or where they were. He slowed himself to a walk.

He asked around politely several times on the street until a hunched-over old woman was able to tell him that she saw troops moving east down Bennings street, a good while back. He thanked her, took a right at it, and dashed past people to go find them. When he got there, he found that the street was on the other side of a busy market square and had only shops housing saddles, tack, and other utilitarian goods. He asked around again until he learned which of the stores they had gone to. Only a boy remained watching the store, claiming that the owner had gone to the city hall to seek reimbursement for a king’s voucher signed by a wizard. Apparently they had just made some sort of large transaction for supplies and equipment. Vincent asked which way the wizard and his men had gone, and was told that they headed south, toward the corner of the city.

He went down the streets, scanning with his eyes for signs of their passing until he finally saw a huge mass of soldiers in red tabards. He came closer and saw a smaller group of wizards off to the side, including the pair of healer women that had twice treated him. The soldiers and many of the wizards all seemed to be wearing packs with straps across their shoulders. The sound of several people in their midst talking, filled the air. Having found them at last, Vincent slowed somewhat and walked over to join his fellow magi.

As he got closer, he immediately noticed Karl, who stood out as the only one in the crowd wearing green robes, and approached. Karl was standing with his back to him, talking to Rick. He wore a pack on his back as did many of the others.

“Vincent!” Rick greeted as soon as he saw him. “We told them to get one more because we knew you were coming.” He tossed a pack to Vincent, which he caught in both hands and continued walking toward them. Karl turned around.

“Thanks,” Vincent said, starting to take off his dark blue cloak so he could put on the pack. After he did, he put the cloak back over it and let his left hand rest on the hilt of his sword.

With a finger, Rick scratched an itch on the side of his face. “We’ve already spread the word of what happens if you don’t remove their heads.”

“Good. What are we doing here anyway?”

Karl answered him. “Master Anthony is trying to recruit some Edmarian mercenaries.”

“He’s been at it for a while,” Rick put in. “Maybe we should go to the front and find out what’s taking so long.”

Vincent walked with Rick and Karl a good distance toward the head of the company. The soldiers in red tabards were not standing as perfectly lined up as he had seen before, and many with the war axes resting over their shoulders were talking idly with their neighbors. The drummers all waited silently.

At the head of their wide column, the flag bearer continued to stand at attention, holding high the Rygan Banner. Beyond him and his fellow soldiers was Master Anthony’s entourage: a portly cerebist man, a young woman with dark brown hair who was a seeress, a couple of pyromancers wearing red, and a few atmomancers in their usual blue.

Master Anthony, who still held a wooden box in his arm, and the black-caped Rygan officer were standing in front of a curious site. In a part of the town where most buildings were made of wood, stood this single taller building made of stone that had three floors and many rooms inside. It was made with smooth gray bricks and built with flowing, circular designs around the edges and shuttered windows. The top was built with crenulated parapets and appeared more a fortification than a roof.

The curious architecture appeared Elvin, mixed with some local Rygan traits. The door was made from such solid slabs of oak that it appeared as though a battering ram would be needed to break it down. Everything about it seemed to give the impression that the owner was not content to trust its safety to the city garrison.

The only thing left unprotected was a collection of bones outside on a bench near the door. They were from different creatures, but many were distinctly Orc skulls, and there was even an open bag of teeth. No one wanted these items, and so they didn’t seem to fear them ever being stolen.

Above the door was a wide rectangle carved into the stone surface. In its center were strange letters that he couldn’t make out. Vincent had learned to speak Elvish fluently, but he had never learned the complex patterns that the written form took. Thankfully, just below it on a metal support that jutted out into the street, there was a wooden board flapping slightly in the wind: It was a sign stained with three words written in his own tongue.

Deralon’s Edmarian Mercenaries

Vincent immediately saw that to the left of Master Anthony there were around twenty of them standing in a row in front of the building, off to one side of the door. They wore light tan leather clothing that was almost like his own except that the sleeves were missing on many, revealing dirt-stained, muscular arms. The clothing looked far more suited to hiding in the hot, arid wastes of the Badlands than in any forest. Vincent thought that was where they must spend most of their time.

None looked like what one would expect from upstanding or affable Elves. They had short-cut hair of blond, black, or brown. Some had even shaved their heads bald, which made their pointed ears look even bigger, and their overall appearance more demonic. A few of these wore a single braided horsetail off the back of their heads. There were many old scars on each face, some across their foreheads, noses, cheeks, and a few were near their strange pointy eyes of yellow, green, or blue. They carried long light yellowish-brown bows, and a few bent over them to spit.

They wore numerous, wicked-looking knives on leather straps and wide full quivers hung across each back. The types of swords they carried were in no way uniform like the weapons seen in the Rygan Army; they each appeared custom-made by blacksmiths to each owner’s preference. Some carried pairs of curved blades that were only slightly longer than the biggest of their knives. One carried a black metal-hafted mace, and one of the larger Elves carried a two-handed long-sword over his back that looked thinner than expected, apparently meant more for speed coupled with long reach. Others had many Elvish blades of different kinds with curved handles from the ornate to the purely functional, and there seemed to be no pattern to where each of them kept their weapons.

Their commander looked no less savage. He had black paint all around his burgeoning, wolf-like yellow Elf eyes, his eyebrows, nose, and upper cheeks. Sandy hair hung just down to his neck behind his pointed ears and numerous scars. He appeared to be having a heated discussion with Master Anthony.

At first, Vincent had only heard some of it above the white noise of the surrounding city and talking soldiers. Now that the three of them had gotten closer, he paid more attention to it. “…the sum you’re offering is too small, Human,” he heard Deralon insist in a snide, arrogant voice that was more refined-sounding than Vincent thought it had a right to be.