The Willbreaker (Book 1) (8 page)

              Edward looked around as she exited the alleyway. Blood streamed from her temple down to her chin. She seemed to walk in slow motion. Her hand lit with fire and her outstretched fingers rose upward. Hate flashed in her eyes, as she launched a ball of flame from her hand. With the speed of lightning, the growing ball slammed into Brandon’s back. A dying scream burst from his lungs as the fireball engulfed him. Edward collapsed as the fireball burned his right arm and the side of his face. Crippled in pain, he looked up to see the fiery maiden of death step over him. Her lip snarled and her clenched fists ignited in flame.

              Edward shut his eyes, trying to grasp hold of the magic within him. He could feel it, but he could not reach it. He strained for it, he cried for it, but it would not answer his call. The pain in his limp arm and blistered face overpowered his ability to touch it. He could not find the inner peace to grasp what he so desperately needed.

              A small smile stretched up the right side of the elementalist’s face. The crackling of the flame at her fists grew stronger. She knew she had control. She was a beautiful woman, with fair and smooth skin and gorgeous green eyes, as green and bright as anything he had ever seen. Her eyes seemed like beacons of life, although the look they gave him told him otherwise.

              Suddenly, the woman’s eyes went wide as the tip of a half-melted long sword tore through her chest. Her body jerked forward to the sound of metal on bone and breaking ribs. She panted for air, eyes staring at the sword in disbelief. With her final breath, her legs buckled and she collapsed.

              The grey-robed woman stood behind her. A look of hate and revenge stained her soft features. She spat on the ground at the fallen woman’s feet.

              “I told you I would kill you someday,” she growled, as she stared hard at the dead elementalist.

              “Brandon!” Edward yelled, nearly forgetting about him in the chaos of his own near death experience. Brandon lay face first in the dirt, reeking of burned hair, flesh, and leather. Not paying any more attention to the woman standing above him, Edward rolled Brandon over. The fireball had completely engulfed him. When it hit him in the back, it wrapped around him as the impact exploded the flames outward. His blackened ears were dry and cracked. The skin, on the high points of his face, peeled in bloody strips. He sat in a pool of blood; leaking from the fissures born of his flesh by the blazing hotness of the elemental fire. He looked ghastly.

              Edward shut his quivering eyes, and pulled at his power, from deep within. He tried, but he could not command it. He could not concentrate enough; thoughts of Brandon kept disrupting his mind.  He would have to do this the old fashioned way. Edward quickly wrapped his hand around Brandon’s wrist, his fingers placed at the bottom of Brandon’s palm. His other hand stretched up to Brandon’s neck. He checked him for signs of life. Panic struck across his face. Edward suddenly looked as if all hope had vanished. He slammed the bottom of his hand into Brandon’s chest as his head collapsed on his shoulder.

              “No! How can this be! This can’t be happening!” he yelled, behind raging tears and shock. The woman in the robe bent down on a knee and rested her hand on Edward’s shoulder. Edward’s head rose to look at her.

              “He’s dead,” Edward whispered, as tears flowed from his reddened eyes.

             
Preclass
- Noun

1. An individual who can access, manipulate, or control magical energy. A Preclass is defined by their unfiltered or raw power, which does not fall into any of the three magical spheres: Body, Mind, or Spirit. The pure energy used by a Preclass is typically more extreme, or much stronger than the energy used by a “classed” individual.
   

The sun blazed its graceful heat down upon the world. The baby blue sky stretched through the air with cloudless clarity. A few ravens flew over the trees where he stood, eyeing the hacked bodies that scattered the small camp. Blood soaked the ground, leaving puddles in the footsteps and shallows of the dirt. The trees had thick, chunky pieces of human entrails stuck to them, mixed in with the heavy waves of blood that sprayed across their faces.

              His head, clean-shaven and dark tanned, matched the rest of his muscular body. Two masterfully crafted short swords hung lethargically in his hands, a stream of fresh blood still running down the backs of his arms, following the blades to the ground. He wore a thick leather war harness; similar in appearance to a set of suspenders, but two inches thick that crossed each hip and went over his shoulders to the back side of his hip, joined with a cross strap laid across his sternum. Two-inch spikes protruded from the harness straps every few inches, making it a fearful looking piece of armor, even though most of his upper body was bare.

              Blood matted down his loincloth and colored his skin red, making him appear evil and demonic. Armored bodies of fallen warriors covered the ground around him. They had not expected him. He had walked into their camp from the road and killed them, all of them. The camp sprang to life as the first women fell to his blades, wielding their long metal staves with scimitar-like swords on top. They attacked him with unyielding furor. His muscles exploded with primal savagery as he opened up his opponent’s insides and hacked off limbs with calculated precision.

              Bram stared down at the corpses. The reflection of the carnage mirrored in his deep brown eyes. He looked across the form fitted chest plates that bore the letter “A” around the neckline. He thought that their long bladed staves were too large and clumsy. Although they did not inflict a scratch upon him, they performed better than he thought they would. He spat on the ground, as his lip curled. He shook his head from side to side in disgust.

              Bram’s head rose from the twenty warriors on the ground to lock eyes with a small, skinny man on horseback that watched him from the road. His horse pranced nervously as he rocked the reigns from left to right. The horse lifted its front feet off the ground, ready to move. The rider kept his eyes locked upon Bram, anticipating action and ready to move at a moment’s notice.

              Bram kept the snarl on his face as he leaped into a dead run at the man. A roar burst from his lungs. The horseman expected this outcome, and with two quick jabs of his legs into his horse’s side, he sped off at full sprint. Bram burst through the trees onto the road, throwing small sticks and twigs flying into the air.  He leaned into the run with all his weight. He would chase this man down, even though his prey rode on horseback. Bram did not fear being seen. In fact, that excited him. He would kill the rider because he could. The rider spurred his horse on, racing away as if his life depended on it. This day, it did.

              Although Bram could not run as fast as the horseman, his bottomless supply of stamina allowed him to run at full sprint without being winded. The road beneath him blurred, and the trees flew past him in countless succession. A slight grade increase led to the top of the broad hill, and the trees thinned out considerably. The rider’s dust trail lifted skywards over the rise. Bram reached the peak of the hill and stopped.

              The horseman’s yells could be heard commanding the horse to keep full speed as he neared the base of the valley that opened up before Bram. Across the valley, on the opposing peak, a wall of heavily armored dragoons waited. There had to be thousands of them. The two lines of dragoons, one in front of the other, held long polished lances, each pointing to the sky, in the same fashion as the dragoon next to him. Their horses had polished steel plates draped over them; layered like the scales of a dragon, one over the next. The armor had spiked rivets that made them look more intimidating than they already were. Every hundred paces, a flagman held the Red Banner of the Lion high into the air, Lord Reinhold’s signature battle flag. Behind the dragoons, grouped assemblies of armored footmen stood ready for their call to battle. The legions of archers could be seen in the back.

              The lone man looked over the opposing army. He watched, and studied. Bram smiled with excitement as he looked past the archers where large fires, split about ten paces apart, burned their black breath into the air, creating a curtain of concentrated ink-like smoke that blocked view of everything behind it. Bram knew that the wall of smoke hid the rest of the army.

              “Smart,” he whispered to himself. “But it will do you no good."

              Bram rolled his head in a circular motion around his shoulders, stretching and popping his neck in a series of cracks and knocks. He wiggled his arms for a second, ensuring good blood flow. His eagerness for battle made him antsy. All these men assembled here for
him,
but Bram felt no fear or nervousness. He had crushed armies larger than this one before. He had crippled entire kingdoms. That is what he did. He was Bram, the Avatar of War. His name had not been passed down to him, or given to him in jest or even out of respect; they called him the Avatar of War
because he was
. Not a man alive could kill him in physical combat. He had a unique ability. He knew it, and he could use it as a master smith would use his hammer and anvil. Born to fight, Bram felt more at home in battle than anywhere else. Across the valley, the massive army awaited.

Lord Reinhold stood proudly, head held high, in front of his men. Cedric Reinhold had always been a handsome man; his rust-colored eyes added accent to his full head of auburn hair. He had a thick jaw line and a cleft in his stout chin, and his six and a half foot solid build made him appear more masculine than most . His eyes focused on Bram. He wore his well-used set of battle gear; steel riveted plate mail, highlighted behind the thick steel plates with elven chain mail the color of gold. His armor did not reflect the normal suits of armor worn by Kings. Most men of standing wore polished armor, accented in gold and adorned with intricate stamps or designs. Their fancy armor sets them apart from others, as a status symbol, but functionally they were less adequate than the armor worn by the knights.

He held his battle helm at his hip. The light breeze rustled the tips of his hair. As he stood surveying the sole man across the valley, another well-armored man approached his left side; his long cloak flapping behind him.

              “Excuse me, Lord Reinhold, my forces have arrived." The man paused with a slight look of bewilderment on his face, as he looked across the way at Bram.

              “Sir? Where is the opposition? I was under the impression we were brought here to fight a war?”

              Lord Reinhold spoke slowly, and clearly, as if trying to explain basic things to a child, never taking his eyes from Bram. “General Stromberg, thank you for making haste. Do you see the man standing on the ridge across the valley from where we stand?" He waited until Mark nodded his head. “That is our opposition. I called you here because of
him
." He pointed to Bram with his left finger.

              Mark scoffed. “Sir?" His voice elevated with anger. “I do not like to question your decisions, but I think I may have misunderstood your intentions. You pulled us from Darrow’s Hold for one man, and now Darrow’s Hold has been crushed! My scouts informed me that the Flame Legion toppled the city in one night. The number of dead there has to be in the thousands. We could have defended that, sire. We could have stopped her forces before they entered the city gates. And now, I find out that we left them unprotected for
him
?" The irritated look stayed on his face as he looked at Cedric for an explanation.

              “Yes, General, you are right, Darrow’s Hold has been crushed. You know this, as do I. And it is true that thousands have died there at the hands of the Flame Legion. What you do not know is that three weeks ago I sent two teams of messengers to Darrow’s Hold. The people who lived there were informed that I had strong reason to believe Aurora’s forces were heading there to destroy the city. They were also informed that my infantry would be leaving because I needed them elsewhere. I needed them here,” he said, as he swept his hand in front of him, implying the valley. “They were offered free refuge at Castle Belkin; free rooms to sleep in, and free board, until they were able to establish themselves once again elsewhere. Two times, I sent messengers. Those who did not leave stayed of their own accord. Although my heart aches for those who have died, I do not feel sorry for them. I just wish they had listened to me." Cedric’s eyes still did not look away from Bram.

              The General’s angered expression softened. He nodded after a moment of silence. “I was unaware of the whole situation sir. I apologize, but I still do not understand why you need half of the Belkin Army to fight
him
?”

              “I am going to forgive your oversight of the first rule of war, General. I know you are tired. I know you have traveled for days with little rest to get here." Cedric took a shallow breath. “Rule number one: never underestimate your opponent. The man standing across from us is named Bram. If I didn’t summon your men here, we would not have enough men left by morning to defend against Aurora’s army. He has single-handedly killed more men then all of those behind me. He is not one to scoff at, General. A mistake like that has cost kings their throne. And do not think we will be able to kill him today." Cedric’s expression changed to alarm. “He’s moving!”

              Bram took long strides down the hillside, watching the army that faced him with interest. He swung his swords, one in each hand, in circles as he walked. Lord Reinhold glanced around to see his men’s positioning.

              “Is Auralee here yet? Did she arrive?" Cedric’s iron face showed a hint of worry.

              “My Lord, he has reached the base of the hill. Should we engage the archers?”

              Reinhold glanced down at Bram, who walked in excited anticipation of what would be coming. The apprehensive look on Cedric’s face showed his apparent worry. “We have to slow him down. We
have
to. Engage the archers, and God help us." He paused for a second as he watched the oncoming man in troubled thought.

“General!" Breaking him out of his trance, General Stromberg turned towards the army behind him. “Mark, keep your men on defense. He kills without regard to numbers. You cannot overwhelm him. Your job is to stall him until Auralee gets here." He spoke with finality, as if it were the last thing he would ever say.

              “Yes, Sire,” he said as he thrust his right arm high into the air, all his fingers held in a tight fist except his first pointer, which shot to the sky. He twirled his arm frantically in a circle.

              “Archers!" The ‘swoosh’ of readied bows swept the line as they met raised formation. Archers, bows, and their arrows waited for the command. “Fire!" In an instant, it began.

              A horde of arrows whirred into the air. The sky blackened as the wall of razor tipped death made its path at the sole man walking towards the army. The shadow of the arrows swept the ground like a monstrous plague upon its target.

              Bram looked up at the beast with a wicked grin. He blinked calmly, as the explosive cracking noise of his power rang clear within his mind. If anyone but he could hear it, they would have been deafened by its reverberant detonation. After the release of his power, all movement seemed to stop. He glanced slowly upward as the arrows now only crept towards him. The scores of soldiers on top of the hill were captured in a single frame of excited movement. The birds off to his right hung in suspended flight above the trees, that a few minutes before gave them shelter. Silence rang free.

              His eyes blinked slowly, caught within the wings of his own power. Everything slowed, his movement included. Time moved to everyone at only a fraction of real speed. A web of manipulated time trapped everyone's movements and thoughts. The real dominance of Bram’s power hid within his own mind, where the blood pumping energy shielded his thoughts from the leaden drag of time passing. To all else, time passed within their thoughts normally, but to Bram, one minute of real time to his opposition equaled six to him.

              Bram waited two minutes as the arrows crawled patiently towards him. He turned his shoulders into the blackness of prickled spines and stepped through the sharpened steel tips carefully as they lingered past him. He raised his swords and methodically struck down the arrows that were unavoidable. Within a half second of real time, it ended, as the sucking power of his energy once again withdrew. He stood on top of the ground, which now resembled a blackened pincushion of missed arrows, staring at Lord Reinhold. He moved towards his enemy, stepping on the arrows as if he walked in a field of wheat.