Chaos Stone: A fantasy novel in progress.

The speculative literature novel I'm in the process of writing.

A dark shape evanesced into a wintry haze blown on a gust of wind, emerging from the roiling snow like a specter as the somber howling faded into a brief calm. A distant light appeared from behind a row of boreal trees, their boughs bent toward the ground with frozen snow, clinging rigidly despite the gale. The traveler trudged down a small rise, watching a modest wooden building materialize from the whiteout, the illumination from its sole window shining like a beacon into the night. Yet, it wasn’t the saffron glow of torch light the cloaked form beheld, but the reddish aura of the one with magic inside.

The full moon had started to rise from behind the Koliaris Mountains, an icy radiance surrounding it on this long, frigid Jidooran night. But, it mattered not to the traveler, who was of the Magi, as few without magic would dare wander far under such perilous conditions.

The traveler felt nothing, with a soul bitter as the very air, even though he knew his long journey would soon come to an end. Worn and wearied, he entered the dim, close confines of the Quellehurst Tavern in a swirl of wind-blown snow, his deep cowl hiding his face from the prying eyes of the patrons within. The stench of stale booze and harsh smoke greeted him, turning the inviting warm air into a heavy miasma. He made his way to the bar, letting his heavy pack slip thankfully from his shoulder, followed by his weathered gloves and thick fur overcloak, which he tossed onto the stool beside him unceremoniously. He felt eyes on him, those of a man sitting fireside, and the sidelong glances from the men who sat with his quarry at a smoke-wreathed table in the corner. He felt no need to look upon the man he’d pursued across nearly the entire continent, as his face was seared into memory, and the sense of his magic overwhelmed the stranger with a vile impression. Just the thought of what caused the scar his prey concealed with a glove and sleeve made the stranger long his requital.

He sat himself at the bar, listening intently to their hushed conversation over a game of chance, his face still hidden from them by the cowl of his ebony mage’s robe. As far as his quarry was concerned, the stranger was just another ordinary Magi seeking shelter from the cold, his true identity hidden behind complicated layers of magic.

“I bet ten copper,” one of them called.

Another made a grunt at this, and tossed his cards onto the table in disgust.

A lumbering sound announced the barkeep as he clambered up from the cellar behind the end of the bar. He greeted his unexpected customer with a feigned smile, his heavily accented words slurred almost into one, “What c’n ah getcha?”

“Whiskey. Double,” the stranger responded tersely in a young, wispy voice from the depths of his cowl.

There was no need to conceal appearances from the barkeep, who took a glace at the newcomer’s face, then quickly averted his gaze, startled by the cold, menacing eyes that glared back. He fought a sudden shiver from running through him, and feared the trouble this young man may portend.

“Your bet, Joroco.”

The stranger scowled as he overheard the name of his prey, and the piercing voice which replied made the stranger’s blood burn.

“I call, and raise ya one silver.”

“Too rich fer this shite hand,” a player declared.

“Jus’ you and me now,” Joroco said in a confident tone, his intoxication quite evident. He clearly looked older than the man who hunted him, his wiry frame concealed by a plain, faded blue wizard’s robe. He had a pallid, gaunt face, grizzled auburn hair, and an overall disheveled appearance which belied his true age.

“You’re bluffin’,” his opponent claimed uncertainly.

“Try me!”

At the same time the barkeep slid the stranger his drink, “That’ll be one copper.”

He shot his drink without a wince, just as an uproar came from the players’ table behind him.

“Argh, ah had ya beat! Ya bluffed me with a Elves’ Den!” The sound of laughter and the banging of mugs resounded in the confined quarters.

“That’s one of the weakest hands!”

“Ah can’t believe it!”

“Another round, ‘tender!”

“On him,” came another bout of laughter. They were all husky, bearded men, obvious stock of these northern lands, speaking thickly with accent and the drawl of uneducated laborers, discriminating Joroco’s smooth intonation. They were most likely mountain men, seeking refuge while winters’ first series of storms heralded the coming season of death.

The barkeep sidled away while the stranger produced a dull copper coin, leaving it beside his empty snifter.

“Looks like my luck’s changin’ for th’ better,” Joroco exclaimed drunkenly over the din as he collected his winnings, laughing heartily.

Satisfaction crept across the stranger’s face at the irony of Joroco’s words. A twisted smile curled his lips as he withdrew a long dagger from inside his sleeve, momentarily examining the ornate etchings that snaked crosswise along its shining, curved blade. He turned and stood slowly, deliberately, with the sounds of cheer fading at the sight of the stranger, his dark form stark and menacing, the blade glinting in the light at his side. The man who sat fireside bolted for the door, and the barkeep followed his lead, escaping into a backroom. Before the gamblers could ready themselves, the stranger raised his hand and cast a burst of rippling, compressed air toward them, rending their table in a blast of splinters and debris, throwing its occupants violently to the floor.

The stranger casually strode past the dazed men, the remnants of their table crunching beneath his heavy boots, and stopped before Joroco, who lay prone and covered in debris, his shield of sorcery unable to protect him. He slowly lifted his head from the floor and strained to look up, trying to peer into the blackness underneath the stranger’s cowl, in an effort to find some human semblance.

“Who?” he asked in a shaky voice, blood streaking his face from a gash on his forehead.

The stranger took a handful of Joroco’s hair and pulled him up to his knees with a cry, then grabbed his throat and wrenched him against the wall with inhuman strength. Joroco grasped at the stranger’s wrist, eyes wide with bewildered realization as firelight faintly illuminated the youthful features of his assailant.

“Christian!” Joroco choked.

“Did you truly believe you could escape my wrath?” Christian hissed.

“I thought,” his reddening face contorted with the effort to speak, “you were dead…”

Christian smiled slightly, “Even the bounds of death couldn’t keep me from my vengeance! Take a long look into my eyes, at the hatred you have wrought! Watch, as it becomes your undoing,” he seethed, plunging his long dagger deep beneath Joroco’s sternum. Finding his wretched heart with the tip of the blade, Christian twisted it violently, and then felt warm blood pulse in streams over his hand with a terrible satisfaction. He withdrew it and let Joroco fall to his knees, blood gurgling in the depths of his throat. Christian studied his victim’s face with wild eyes, and then slowly drew the edge of his dagger across Joroco’s neck cutting deep, watching in pleasure while his quarry’s life spurted from the wound for a long moment. Joroco finally collapsed in a heap, his wizard’s robe wetted with a dark crimson, pooling at Christian’s feet.

Joroco’s gaming partners shot to their feet defensively, interrupting Christian’s macabre reverie. He wheeled, raising his bloodied long dagger, eyeing his confronters as they armed themselves.

“This doesn’t concern any of you, nor do I wish to fight you,” he warned.

They edged closer, readying their weapons for battle, when Christian raised his hand, stopping them in their tracks. “Fools, you shall meet your ends this night!” he hissed, blue flame erupting around his outstretched hand.

Two of the men turned and ran at this sight, but the remaining three moved in, attempting to surround their solitary target.

“Cowards!” one of them yelled out after the two fleeing men.

“Magi scum,” the nearest one snarled. He started to swing his broadsword, but was instantly engulfed in a searing blast of blue-white fire, consuming his body in slow, agonizing throes, his screams fading as he fell in a heap of charred remains. The other two looked on in wide-eyed horror, shocked by the young Magi’s ability to cast magic so quickly. Balking at his grim visage, they took heed his warning and rushed for the door, but were stopped as a group of armored men came storming through, swords drawn. The two men relinquished their arms as an imposing figure strode in behind the line of soldiers, with the man who earlier sat beside the fire following close, trailing snow.

“He’s a magic-user, Captain Hale!” he yelped excitedly.

“I realize that, Shea,” Captain Hale murmured as he took in the deathly scene. He was a sturdy, heavyset man, well into his thirties, with a full head of ear-length brown hair beneath his crested helm. Square-chinned and stern-looking, he was an imposing armor-clad figure, with dark, hard eyes that had surely seen the face of war. He examined the young man before him with a determining glare, still uncertain what to make of the situation. At first glance, he seemed an ordinary young Magi, an initiate mage whose innocuous robes were worn by so many as to be inconspicuous even in small gatherings. But, Hale had long been suspicious of the ritualistic caste system of the Magi, as many do not always ascend their ranks by power and ability alone, like one would with a trustworthy profession, such as the knighthood. No, a black robes could be anything from the typical novice to a rogue Adroit; a toothless gardener’s snake or a coiled viper, readied to strike.

“No moves! Even a Magi cannot best this many men,” he declared with the muted accent of the learned, as even more soldiers entered the already cramped quarters.

What little he knew…

“Now, what is the mean of all this?” the Captain questioned indignantly with a sweep of his arm.

“A love requited,” Christian whispered distantly.

“The both of them, Magi?”

“One. The other was warned, but insisted on getting in my way.”

“You came all the way from the Southland to requite this love?”

“From the welcoming warmth of Tyrsis to the bitter cold of this frozen wasteland, I hunted my prey…” he snarled.

Hale scowled at Christian’s arrogance, leaned in and ripped the cowl from the young man’s head, only to flinch at the sight. The Magi’s menacing eyes were like dark mirrors, reflecting all they saw in opaque pools, their pitchest night broken only by startling red irises. The Captain could focus on nothing else, drawn to them with the feeling of immersion in a seemingly depthless black void.

“Joroco,” he managed, “the wizard was a southerner as well.”

“He was a murdering coward,” Christian spat venomously. “If only I could have prolonged his suffering…”

The Captain forced himself to look away from the young Magi’s piercing gaze, instead taking in the rest of him, as though for the first time. Fatigue was written in weary lines on Christian’s youthful face, with long, dark hair framing his slim jaw, angular cheeks and brow in slight waves. He seemed to be on the verge of collapse, the strain of hard travel surely taking its toll, but there was something more, a distant look to his strange eyes that told a story of unknown pain. He was lean and fit, nearly eye-level with the Captain, but wasn’t particularly intimidating, aside from the menacing look if his eyes. He wore an ordinary, ebony mage’s robe, made of a rich, woolen Southland fabric with very little trim. It was close-fitting and cut high up the middle, revealing darkly tanned, fur-lined trousers and heavy leather boots. The only adornment was a mysterious orb radiating a soft azure glow set into a dull metallic armlet, barely visible underneath his right cuff. He held a long, curved dagger in that same hand, dripping with Joroco’s blood.

“Shea, confiscate that blade,” Hale barked, “and search his personage.”

Shea obediently seized the long dagger aggressively, wrapping it in a cloth. Then, he started patting Christian down, becoming noticeably apprehensive, even though the young Magi put up no resistance, as if such intimate contact could bring about his wrath. Shea abruptly halted his search, reached around Christian’s hip and removed a slender short sword from a hidden sheath. Its brilliant blade and bejeweled cross-guard seemed to luminesce, brighter than mere reflection. Shea stared, spellbound by its silver radiance, but Christian remained apathetic, regarding their actions with indifference. Hale took the sword and Shea began rummaging around in the concealed pockets of Christian’s robe, then rifled through a pouch on his side, stunned as he emptied several gemstones into his hand.

“Anything else?” Hale inquired, receiving the stones from a bewildered Shea.

“That’s my pack on the floor,” Christian volunteered, “and there’s my overcloak.”

With a motion of the Captain’s head, a soldier quickly inspected the pack, slung it over his shoulder, and then searched the overcloak, finding only items unique to magic.

Hale stepped close to face Christian, “I don’t know how they do it in Tyrsis, but these lands are governed by the rule of law, and I am Captain of the Guard. You picked the wrong kingdom to carry out your revenge.”

“Spare me,” Christian retorted with a sneer. “My retribution was righteous and justified.” His voice became distant, a newfound wariness to his words, “My life has been forfeited, so punish me as you see fit.”

Captain Hale felt unexpected sympathy for him then, for whatever loss he may have suffered. But, this boy was a killer, and obviously an adept wielder of magic, so he couldn’t take any chances with the safety of his men.

There was sudden movement from the concealment of Hale’s crimson cape, and Christian barely had time to recognize the device that struck him, draining his strength with a flash and a shock, before he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

Author's Note

I'm self-taught, so any help/suggestions would be greatly appreciated, and I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Reviews

[slate41]

I love what you have so far,keep at it, I'd like to read more.