Read Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1) Online
Authors: Aron Sethlen
Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1)
BY
ARON SETHLEN
Copyright © 2015 by Aron Sethlen. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons living or dead, business, events, or locales is coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
A Station Press book.
WINTERMORE
AEON OF LIGHT
BOOK ONE
CONTENTS
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
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
NOCKLIN CREEK
An adolescent boy with shaggy brown hair sidesteps a puddle. Cool misty air clings to his skin as he races through a hollow of thinning trees, lining the patchy grass-covered road. Wet multicolored leaves plaster the muddy ground.
A decrepit wooden sign pokes out of the overgrowth.
Nocklin Crossing 12 to 5
is etched between the dirt and the moss.
“They’re on us and closing fast,” the boy says, frantically turning his head to look behind him.
A hooded man on a motorcycle quickly approaches. His dark-brown leather duster flaps in the breeze. Trailing him, another motorcycle and six men riding horses. The motorcycle engines hum and sputter as a brownish-grey cloud plumes in their wake.
I’ve got to get to the crossing or no escape
, the boy says to himself, out of breath. He glances back at an old man skipping and hobbling, balancing his weight on a crooked walking stick.
We move too slow, we move too slow, come on.
The old man’s weak bones unable to keep up, he slows to a crawl. “Glynn, slow down,” the old man says, gasping for air.
Glynn skids to a halt and waves for the old man to move faster. “Iago, come on, they’re gaining on us.” He eyes a steep jagged cliff rising above the pine trees. He shakes his head in frustration and turns in the opposite direction toward a large creek. A rickety wooden dock extends out into a dark, calm section of the water. Two flimsy signs hang from a thick post reading:
Nocklin Crossing—Gone
.
“No!” Glynn scans the creek for another way to cross.
It’s too wide, it’s too wide
. He spins toward thick bushes on top of an embankment rising away from the road and leading up to the forest’s edge. Glynn stutter steps and moves toward the giant pines.
“Wait,” Iago says, thrusting his walking stick into the rain-saturated ground.
Glynn peeks at the old man while still inching toward the forest. “But they’re almost on us.”
“Wait, Glynn,” Iago says with a steady voice.
“We’re done.” Glynn lowers his head in defeat. He faces the old man and searches for any sign of hope.
Iago’s leather face is dark and wrinkled, grey hollow eyes that forgot remorse long ago stare back at Glynn.
Glynn glances amongst death approaching, the old man, and his escape into the forest. Again he steps toward the pine trees and the embankment.
“I said wait.” Iago raises and thrusts his walking stick back into the ground.
Glynn flinches to a stop and draws a dagger with unsteady hand. He glances back at Iago. “Please, they’re gonna kill us.”
“Steady yourself.”
A hazy aqua-blue light forms under Iago’s feet. The haze suddenly sucks together, morphing into two thin glowing strings of light inching along the ground away from him.
Glynn’s eyes widen, staring at the electricity arcing toward him. “What the heck?” He takes a shaky step back. “
Iago
?” Glynn turns away to escape into the forest, and the light shoots toward him in a blink of an eye, latching onto his ankle. The dagger falls out of his hand, and Glynn’s body goes rigid.
I can’t walk,
I can’t walk
, Glynn says, though his lips don’t move.
“Calm yourself,” Iago’s voice says inside of Glynn’s head.
Glynn’s arms rise to his chest with palms inward. His eyes closed, Glynn’s a spectator of his own body; he feels yet can’t control.
“Aquadiam-Maidauqa,” Iago says.
Feet planted, energy surges through Glynn’s body in pulsating waves building in his chest. Through his extended arms, energy rushes out.
“Aquadiam-Maidauqa,” Glynn says, and his palms turn over and arms thrust toward the oncoming riders. A luminescent bluish orb bursts out of his hands; it lingers in the air for a split second and then disappears.
Glynn’s legs collapse, and he falls to his knees. He clutches his stomach—the wind knocked out of him. “What the hell was that?” Glynn’s head wells up in a fierce throb, and he presses his palm against his forehead.
The hooded man and the seven riders continue closing in on them.
“Get up,” Iago says, “into the forest, go and don’t stop, go, go now.”
Dazed with blurry vision, Glynn staggers getting to his feet.
Iago scowls. “Now boy, into the forest, don’t look back, don’t stop, don’t you ever stop!”
Glynn scrambles up the embankment and crawls on all fours into the bushes and pine trees. His head throbs harder, and his legs wobble. Brushing aside a whip-like branch, he takes a few steps deeper into the thick underbrush. He huddles behind a large rotting stump and peeks over the top back toward Iago. “Come on, move
,
old man.”
Iago stands motionless on the open path, staring down the oncoming riders, no words, no escape, no fear.
Rapids form in the creek and rushing water echoes off the cliffs. Swift currents cascade over the large boulders lying on Nocklin’s bank.
The hood’s black-and-chrome motorcycle skids to a stop, and he kicks out the kickstand. The other motorcycle sputters as it slows, and the rest of the riders dismount their horses a hundred paces away from Iago. All the riders hand their reins to a burly bearded man with a red sash around his waist, and he corrals the horses and leads them to the creek side of the road.
The motorcycle engines continue sputtering on idle, and the hooded man points at Iago as his men draw their weapons and move forward laughing and joking.
One of the men, bushy mustache and wearing a black leather duster similar to the hood’s, clashes two metal blades together in rhythm.
Glynn’s fingers pulse, and he digs his fingernails into the dank tree bark with every clash. “What are you doing? Run, old man.”
Fifty paces, forty paces, thirty, they close in.
With every step, the metal blades clash louder.
Leaves rustle and flutter across the road from a wind gust. Cascading water rumbles. Trees near the creek sway, and the branches shake. A gentle mist rises from the creek’s surface, creating a light fog drifting toward the men.
Iago shuffles his feet and props himself up on his walking stick.
The men stop talking and gaze at the creek and then to each other.
Shapes the size of a man’s head barely pierce the turbulent water’s surface.
The men stand still in confusion. Their laughing ceases, and the striking metal transitions to a weak, shaky grind. They eye the hooded man still standing by his cycle.
The hood slowly raises his arm and points at Iago. His long brown duster ripples from another wind gust. Only his pointy chin exposed—his face obscured by his hood.
Glynn peeks back toward Nocklin Creek.
Linear translucent mist columns ascend from the water. The columns mutate into twisted giant hands, then arms. The creek rises high in the air, hovering thirty feet above the road. The hands oscillate, the water flows through the arms as if blood giving them life.
The shaky men point at the creek floating above them. Some drop their weapons and take awkward steps toward the forest while others stand in place unsure of what to do next.
The hands go still, and with a violent twitch, each hand points at a man.
All the men freeze in place, shaking in their boots.
Then the creek’s hands spring toward their targets.
The men mutter and squeal, scurrying about like frantic rats on a sinking ship.
All six horses jump at the same time and pull the burly man holding the reins to the ground. The reins rip out of his sweaty fingers, and the spooked horses scatter.
The creek’s hands relentlessly chase their targets through the hollow, and hysteria ensues, men cuss and grunt and scream incoherent words, waving their arms and running in every direction looking for a place to escape or hide.
Iago stands firm, seemingly unafraid of the horror developing in front of him.
The hooded man drops to a knee and calmly tilts his head toward the ground.
The creek’s hands stalk their prey, grasping the air like steel traps until they find flesh.
Shrieks make Glynn shiver, and he digs his nails deeper into the spongy bark.
The men crawl and squirm, kicking and digging their fingers into the dirt as Nocklin Creek grips them tight, not letting go. The hands hoist them high above the road as they shake the men violently, until finally plunging them straight into the creek’s bubbling, black waters.
Another hand emerges from the depths and points at the hood. It shoots in his direction and crashes on the road, flattening with a watery splash. The water unnaturally sucks back together and morphs into a hand. Fingers spread wide, water spurts and drips off the ends. Five fingertips lower to the ground and gallop toward the hood like a bounding beast. The hand springs off the dirt like a long jumper toward the cycle.