Storm of Prophecy, Book I: Dark Awakening

Storm

of

Prophecy

Book I

Dark Awakening

Michael von Werner

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

ISBN 978-1-935691-01-3

STORM OF PROPHECY: DARK AWAKENING

Copyright  2009 Michael von Werner

All rights reserved.

Wodan Publishing ™

Smashwords Edition

This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form.

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

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 Cage of Mist

Book V Pyres of Sacrifice

Book VI Gathering Clouds

Book VII * The Living Fire *

Book VIII * Tides of Chaos *

Book IX * Captive Souls *

Book X * Edge of Fate *

* Forthcoming*

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 1

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 obligation 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 2

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 couldn’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.

Fear powering his every move, he charged forward and yelled as he closed the unseen distance to attack again. The tip caught another assailant below their chest, slitting them deeply in another red streak. It cut off their spell, they stumbled back into the left wall, he moved in for the stabbing kill−and froze in his tracks.

It was a woman.

The tight black suit revealed her feminine shape, and the long, deep cut formed a red swath right below her breasts. Having killed at all terrified him; knowing that a woman was about to die because of him was even worse. True revulsion, guilt, and surreal horror held him trapped in place and made the moment seem an eternity. Unable to move, he continued to stare openly, looking above the black cloth covering her face into pretty blue eyes that were laced with pain as sweat from the trauma dripped on the paled skin to the sides of her face.

Vincent soon regretted his hesitation.

No longer hindered by a self-induced restraint of avoiding magic since the spell hiding her was already broken, she used her dying breath to lift a black gloved hand and sent a harsh wind throwing Vincent fast and hard at the opposite wall across from her at a high, oblique angle. Vincent’s right back and shoulder painfully crashed high up near the ceiling and he was sent turning and falling along the wall’s side. Agony hammered into his chest and abdomen when he hit the stone floor face-first.

He was stunned and still couldn’t breathe after the air had been knocked out of him. Worse yet, he landed facing away from her or any others. The woman had expected the impact to kill him, and it nearly had. He was barely conscious and was struggling to get air against the weight of his own battered body that was pinning him down. Blood came out of his mouth. He spit and spit again, but there was always more left.

Disoriented, he barely lifted his head against the awful throbbing ache to look forward and saw that across the short distance on the stone floor his sword was still clenched in his bruised and scraped right hand, which was numb. His entire body was racked with terrible pain, and the thumb and fingers from the hand that held his sword were beaten from hitting the hard stone during his fall, having been almost crushed by the impact of the hilt’s weight itself. Despite this, he had somehow forced it to remain where it should be: in his hand. Something within him had kept it from being lost during the near fatal blow he had suffered. The blade’s shiny polish amongst the crimson stains was like a beacon of shining metal hope in the middle of what he knew would be the hour of his death.

Vincent tried to move himself and felt an intense burning pain throughout his every fiber. The things in the vault could put a great many innocent lives at risk if they fell into the wrong hands. He was already the worthless swordsman. He swore to himself now that he would not be the one to fail in this. His will to fight on burned strong.

There were careless footsteps on the stone behind him.

He suddenly realized that the woman he had just killed had been faced with a similar moment. She knew she was finished; she had not merely retaliated against him for revenge. From the sounds, he guessed that there were two intruders left. She had done it for them, so they could succeed at the break-in. Unlike before, they were proceeding toward him and the vault door loudly without concern for opposition. Vincent was the only person who could resist them. And he would resist them. Even with his dying breath. Deciding to make his effort count, he waited.

A moment later when they were closer, he sprung into action. Every bit of motion was like a thousand hot needles stabbing into his muscles as he pushed himself up while turning around and slashing out with whatever strength he had left. The tip of his blade cut a shallow gash in one of their legs, the blood partially dampening the effect of the spell and making the black clothing of its owner visible. Unfortunately, the small hurt he had inflicted on their leg had come at a high cost to himself.

When Vincent’s arm was out of position from the swing, it left him vulnerable. He was not able to pull the sword back to recover for another swing fast enough before the barely injured assailant rushed forward and with their good leg kicked him squarely in his face. It should have knocked him out, but somehow Vincent barely hung on to a strand of consciousness. Vincent could feel more than see the blood coming from his own nose as it ran down his face. The invisible intruder then stepped on the wrist of his hand holding the hilt of his sword to keep him from moving it.

Come on! He quietly shouted to others, ushering them to continue on.

Vincent focused all his will power into his left hand and pulled out his knife. He viciously buried it into his invisible assailant’s good thigh. The man growled in pain as he tried to pull it out but Vincent kept his grip firm on the handle. Another invisible assailant rushed forward and kicked him in the head again.

He just won’t give up! Vincent thought he heard the rescuer comment in frustration to the other. As the world started to go black, he felt his fist still clutching the knife being pulled to dislodge the blade from the leg, skipping any attempt to get it out of his hand.

*   *   *

Stubborn bastard! The wounded intruder said in anger after pulling out the fist clutching a knife. I’m going to kill him!"

There’s no time! The leader exclaimed, pulling him by the arm. Our spells are going to wear out, and yours is already failing! We have to get what we came for and go!

Just let me pry his knife out of his fingers, the first insisted, I’ll use it on him.

Forget about it! The second yelled at him, furiously pulling him away by the arm. He’s dead already! They both walked toward the door to the Crafters’ Vault, one with a limp while the other helped him move along.

At last they stood before it: the gold colored disc that was the only entry into what was one of the richest arsenals of potent and dangerous magical constructs in all the lands. His injured companion’s breathing was still ragged from the pain of his wounds and the lurching needed to carry him. The door was protected by more than any novice wizard they may have left to stand guard. Spells that could kill someone just for touching the metal plate in the wrong way had been woven into it. Numerous runes both seen and those which could only be made visible by applying the right kinds of magic abounded in its protection as well. The largest of the rune sets were inscribed in a circle around the edges. Rather than compete with their power, he and his fellows had spent months preparing a Seal of Cheated Light for each of them so that they might slip past one spell ward in particular.

His less apt subordinates had perished, and now only one other remained. The invisibility spell flickered and faltered, revealing the blood dripping on his fellow’s black pant legs. What fools. But then again, how could they have suspected that the lone swordsman would be such a competent guard. He was hardly more than a normal, yet if not for his inexperienced hesitation after seeing Jeanette’s grievous wound, they might not have made it past him at all. At the time, they were restricted from using any magic on him because it would have destroyed their invisibility spell, and it had put them at great risk when he somehow detected them. At least that man would trouble them no more; he would no doubt perish by suffocating on his own blood. Regardless, stealing the artifact was now going to be much harder than they had originally thought.

The somewhat bulbous dull gold plate waited for him to act. Due to the deadly nature of the enchantments placed upon it, no one dare try to polish it. The surface was smudged in places and not what one would expect of clean gold. He desperately wanted to attempt to open its lock but found the prospect unsettling.

What are you waiting for! His injured companion scolded. Hurry up and open it!

It’s got light trackers on it, you dolt! He fired back with indignation. You shouldn’t have injured your leg! They’re going to see you!

Well we can’t just stand here!

For once, he and his colleague were in full agreement. He left him to stand under his own power and moved to the right end of the wide disc near the edge that could be gripped. His injured associate would simply have to die or not. Find a way to keep your legs out of the trackers’ sight, my friend. Otherwise, farewell, he said to him.

How am I supposed to do that!

Not my problem, he replied, sending the tiny trickle of magic that would trip the release, just enough to do what he wanted, but not enough to undo his own shroud. The other growled in annoyance.

A great swath of light shot out near the ceiling and moved across to the other side. It was not that much shorter than a man, and moved down before cutting back across, tracking them. On this second sweep, it passed through the invisibility screen of his fellow but only barely missed his wounds. As it began its course along the bottom, he watched as the injured other quickly made a leap toward the other wall and tried to stand on his hands while putting his legs as high in the air as he could, leaning against the stone of the wall for balance and support. With a hissing sound, the light beam instantly incinerated into ash several stray drops of blood that had fallen from his leg during the maneuver. Distortions on the legs he held high in the air were barely missed as the lowest and most threatened portions disappeared only just in time while it swept past. It ignored the others in the hall because they were either dead or their life signs were too weak. After the light beam detected no one, it shut off.

It took longer to bypass the other spells since there were only two of them to work on each, sometimes combining their efforts when certain spells were too difficult. There were a few close calls that could have resulted in a quick death for both. Once they finished, the rounded gold plate began to slowly swing open. He stayed out of its path and let it by, he dared not touch it. It was time-consuming and exhausting work, but now they were finally being granted entry.

Past the doorway, interlaid stone block walls gave way to a pitch black, perfectly smooth floor which seemed to reflect no light, only absorb it, and smooth white walls and ceiling. The large light orb at the top of the ceiling, which he knew to be there, only radiated the same hue as the walls and was camouflaged against the ceiling’s white so well as to not be seen. As a whole, the intensity and flawlessness of each color could not be more in opposition to the other. When one walked on the floor, it felt like there was no floor, only a black void in which one could fall forever. Upon glancing up around from it, one felt like they were hovering in the middle of a bright cloud on a sunny day. The effect was visually disorienting yet in complete harmony with the maze that lay beyond. A person not knowing their way through the interior would soon find themselves lost.

Though it did not appear so from here, since all that could be seen was the seamless illusion of a white and black room, he knew that it had many twists and turns leading to various chambers housing a multitude of different talismans. He needed to find his way to the one he wanted and extract the desired item.

As he started walking forward, his injured fellow tagged along. He stopped partway through the visually perplexing hall to find his bearings to the next and then turned in the direction of his lurching companion, seeing his legs flickering into visibility. A few red stains showed up on the otherwise unspoiled black floor. He inwardly sighed with disgust. His companion was outliving his usefulness, and there would have to be a moment of reckoning between them sooner or later, before he could make his full escape. However, that moment was not now, and so he set his mind to the task at hand.

It was difficult to discern the passageways since everything looked the same: a black floor with white all around. Eventually he did. Finally he was coming toward the end of the one he wanted. What soon gave the illusion of a black hall running through the white void eventually ended with the opening to a black room which had otherwise been obscured to the senses when viewed at a distance.

He went in to retrieve the object of his desire, and quickly returned to his injured companion. It was a magical silver-colored feather that was a quill-pen. This one, like many others, did not run out of ink on its tip, but this pen was also very different from the others in one distinct way. However, it wasn’t the object itself so much as the rarity of the one ingredient in its conception that was important. This seemingly harmless ingredient would be carefully extracted, and the magical elite here would never be able to guess for what.

The heavily sought after item−the last piece of the puzzle they needed to initiate their lord’s plans−was finally in his possession. Their sovereign, whose coming had been foretold in the prophecy, would be completely victorious. Nothing, no power in the world, could prevent that. Only fools chose to stand against the full wrath of a god’s firestorm, and only the sane of mind sought to appease him so that their righteous deeds would be rewarded. Now that he had the talisman in his possession, there was only one thing left to do:

Escape Gadrale Keep alive.

Chapter 3

Finding the path out was much easier than finding the way in. His injured companion had left a dotted trail of red from his legs. He avoided stepping on them. The man’s incompetence was going to show any investigators the way to the exact room they had visited, but it was also making exiting The Crafters’ Vault quite simple.

Since there was nothing the fools could do even if they did discover the room he had stolen from, he put any resulting consequence out of his mind. Their progress getting out was effortless for now, but that would be where the helpfulness of the bleeding would end. A trail marking his escape route was not something he needed, and he didn’t have time to stop and tie off his friend’s wounded legs with torn off strips of cloth either. He didn’t even suggest it, nor did his fellow remember to think of doing so. The Seal of Cheated Light only lasted so long, and they had to get out of the fortress before its time expired. Sooner or later, his fellow would simply have to be dealt with before he became a liability.

With their loot in hand, the two intruders moved back toward the door’s opening. The gold disc was still extended into the open hall. It was now a matter of making their way out of the fortress and the surrounding campus without being detected by any more of the Academy Guard: deadly wolves who would undoubtedly catch their scent. The first of which had caused them too much trouble already. They were in no condition to fight and needed to escape with the talisman. For now, it was kept concealed by physical contact with his spell, as were his clothes, but getting out still wasn’t going to be easy. There would be a constant urge to run. He controlled this impulse within him and continued to help his injured colleague walk along, the spell near his legs continuing to flicker and falter.

Out in the hallway, they kept moving steadily without concern for whether or not someone might hear the soft echoes and scraping of their footsteps. Everything looked much the same as it had before. The light orb at the top of the ceiling still bore mute witness to the carnage below as it cast its white glow over the floor and walls, the bodies, and the pools of blood. The scent of the red puddles mixed with the stagnant and damp smelling air.

They walked past the stubborn swordsman whose unexpectedly skillful opposition had caused them so much woe, being careful to avoid stepping in the splatter of blood that came from his mouth not long after he landed. He was laying on his back with bruises all over his face, and blood continuing to flow out of his nose and down the sides of his mouth, forming in a pool and soaking his hair. His wretched, menacing sword was still clutched in his right hand, his knife in his left. Both remained bathed in crimson from the encounter but with small stretches of shiny metal where the fluid had drained to other portions. Certain that this man was now deceased, they ignored him and continued moving forward.

Next they passed by the severed gore of the first of them to fall to that guard. Although his guts lay strewn about motionlessly, the blood that had spilt from his remains continued to spread on the stone floor. A third smell had been added to the already revolting concoction: the smell of sliced viscera and internal fecal matter. He could feel the nauseating taste in his own mouth of added saliva much like what one had just prior to vomiting.

The disgusting appearance and stench of the remains drove them on even faster, and all was silent except for the sound of their ragged breathing. Such a waste. He should have been more careful than to walk right up to that guard. The trackers built into the door would have done the job for them. He and his limping fellow skirted the mess to avoid stepping in any of it.

They passed Jeanette last, whose corpse still lay with its back and head partially propped up by the wall. She seemed to be sliding down against it at a visible, yet infinitesimally small rate. Her face was pale, and her dead blue eyes stared vacantly at where the swordsman had been just before she had thrown him. Blood from the deep horizontal slice in her torso, just under her breasts, had spilled out to cover the front of her black clothes and then to drip and settle in a large pool where it continued to spread underneath where she lay. He stopped helping his companion long enough to move closer and use his fingers to close her eyes, giving her death at least some semblance of dignity. A faint scent of perfume masked other odors in the hall, for which he was grateful. Such a waste.

The two continued moving through the hall and exited on the other end, taking a right at the split intersection. They walked along as quickly