Chaos Stone: A fantasy novel in progress.

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

     A dark shape evanesced into the wintry haze blown on a gust of wind, only to materialize from the roiling snow 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 journey far under such conditions.

     The weary traveler felt nothing, as cold within as he was without, even though he knew his long trek would soon come to an end. Worn and wearied, he entered the small pub called 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 strange traveler 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 unceremoniously onto the seat beside him. 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 table in the corner, scrutinizing the newcomer. He had no need to look upon the man he’d pursued across nearly the entire continent, as his face was seared into memory, the sense of his magic overwhelming the stranger in a vile sensation of perception and emotion. 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.

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

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

     Suddenly, the barkeep clambered up from the cellar behind the end of the bar, and greeted his unexpected new customer with a feigned smile, “What c’n ah getcha?”

     “Whiskey. Double,” the stranger responded tersely in a young, wispy voice from the depths of his cowl. The barkeep began preparing the drink and took a quick glace at the newcomer, then quickly averted his gaze, startled by the cold, menacing eyes that looked back at him. He fought back 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 quarry spoken, and his piercing voice 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, tawny 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 took the shot just as an uproar came from the players’ table behind him.

     “Argh, ah had ya beat! You bluffed me with an 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.

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

     “Looks like mah luck is changin’ fer the better,” Joroco exclaimed as he collected his winnings.

     Satisfaction crept across the stranger’s face at the irony of Joroco’s comment. A faint smile played on 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, 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 the 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 semblance of a human face.

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

     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! Mine shall be the last face you ever see,” he seethed, plunging his long dagger deep beneath Joroco’s sternum, then twisted it violently, feeling the blood pour over his hand with a terrible satisfaction.

He withdrew the blade and released Joroco, letting him fall to his knees, blood gurgling in the depths of his throat. Studying his victim’s face with wild eyes, Christian slowly drew the edge of his dagger across Joroco’s neck cutting deep, watching in pleasure while his life spurted from the wound for a long moment. He finally collapsed in a heap at Christian’s feet, his wizard’s robe wetted with a dark crimson.

Joroco’s gaming partners shot to their feet, interrupting Christian’s macabre reverie. He wheeled, raising his bloodied long dagger, eyeing his confronters as they armed themselves. They were all husky, bearded men, obvious stock of these northern lands.

     “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.

     “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, but he immediately noted the Southland make of his unusual mage’s robe.

     “No moves. Even a Magi cannot best this many men,” he declared 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.

     “A love requited,” Christian whispered distantly.

     “The both of them, Magi?” he admonished.

     “One. The other was warned, but still he got in my way.”

     “You come all the way from the Southland to do this?”

     “From the welcoming warmth of Tyrsis to the bitter cold of this frozen wasteland,” he snarled.

     Hale scowled at Christian’s arrogance, leaned in and ripped the cowl from his head, only to flinch at the sight of his menacing eyes. They 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 mage 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. The young Magi wore a black, close-fitting mage’s robe, made of a rich, woolen Southland fabric with very little trim. It was 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 under 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 obliged and 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, then searched the overcloak.

     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 again, 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, for whatever loss he may have suffered, but this boy was a killer, and obviously an adroit 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

Im self-taught, so any help/suggestions would be greatly appreciated, and Id love to hear your thoughts!

Reviews

[slate41]

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