The Flame Weaver Read online

  THE FLAME WEAVER

  by

  T. I. Elicker

  © 2011 Tania I. Elicker

  Prologue

  The sun sank down behind the green hills of Fierra Dell. Shadows from the falling dusk blanketed the valley in cool darkness. A tall city gleamed white and brilliant against the last crimson rays of twilight. Birthed from graceful swells of grassy hills, the walls of the city stretched high into the night sky. Yielding to the contour of the land beneath it, the walls arched and bent with every slope and peak of the rolling valley, shaping the city into an irregular, but unbroken ring. Grand towers, slim and smooth, rose up from within the protective embrace of the imposing walls, casting their blue shadows down upon the land.

  Once proud and unwavering, this great and ancient city of Graffis seemed now to wilt beneath the brutal siege set upon it. A vast army, dark and heinous, flooded the valley far below the lofty walls of the stone city, and thousands of wicked voices rumbled and cheered in imminent victory. From a distance, it seemed that a raging black ocean crashed and parted, wave after wave, upon the shuddering walls.

  A hundred men, clad in black leather and elegant steel helmets, steadied themselves atop the crumbling bulwark. With keen eyes and longbows in hand, they let loose their arsenal of arrows with brutal speed upon the advancing horde below. Shrouded by darkness, the black army rolled and heaved in a mass of indiscernible shapes and shadows. Not faltering beneath the barrage of arrows, the mass pressed forward, howling and shrieking in crazed defiance.

  An enormous ball of fire roared over the defending soldiers’ heads at the northern wall, flattening a wooden guard tower that stood behind them, sending flaming timbers flying through the air. Fire and ash rained down into the city’s compounds. Ceaseless plumes of thick black smoke billowed from gaping holes in the outer walls, sullying the polished white stone of the great citadel, and staining the newborn moonlight a sickly yellow. Women, both young and old, hobbled frantically from building to building with heavy pails of water. All around them, the dead and wounded lay sprawled about the courtyard, bloodied and unattended.

  Amidst the chaos, a lone man, tall and lean, dashed through the burning courtyard and up a long flight of stone stairs to the failing west wall. He cast his bow aside and ripped the helmet from his head, his long white hair falling about his shoulders. Wiping the blood and sweat from his wrinkled brow, he looked out over the siege of darkness closing in from every side.

  “Ladders!” he bellowed to the soldiers on the wall. “Keep your bows on the ladders! Do not let them up!”

  “More catapults come!” a frightened voice shouted out from the crowd of anxious men.

  “Stand your ground!” the commanding figure ordered. “Keep your eyes on your targets! Their engines will fall!”

  Raising his hands above his shoulders, the man spoke softly into the chilled night. Words, ancient and strange, rolled from his tongue like a sweet melody, rising on the air and swelling with the wind. Below, under the cover of thirty shielded foes, a great wooden catapult, already heavily burdened with an enormous chunk of rock, began to shudder. Swirling clouds of dust and bits of stone whipped about as a fierce funnel of wind encompassed the siege engine. The windstorm spun faster and faster in a blinding fury, spitting out defenders of the treacherous device and completely swallowing the catapult until, with a creaking moan, the engine was sucked up into air, spinning and tumbling as it was heaved upward with astonishing force. Then, with a single word from the man’s lips, the howling wind abruptly dissipated. The massive machine plummeted downward, crashing to the ground with a terrible noise, crushing a dozen dark minions beneath its massive weight as it fell apart.

  On the wall, the soldiers cheered as the sound of snapping timber and twisting metal echoed through the citadel. With renewed courage, they let fly another volley of arrows down upon the horde, but it was not long before their hearts were gripped by fear once more.

  A chilling, rhythmic chant began to rise from the dark valley above the noise of battle. Accompanied by the steady beat of far-off drums, more and more of the dark army joined in the daunting mantra. Grunting and howling in unison, they slapped their wooden shields and metal breastplates with heavy swords and pikes. Soon, the ground shook beneath their stomping feet, and the city of Graffis trembled before them.

  “Steady yourselves!” the white-haired man insisted of the shaken defenders. “Hold your positions! You are defenders of Graffis! Stay your ground and defend the city!”

  As he spoke, a much younger man rushed up the stone stairs to his side, a long wooden bow slung over his shoulder. His sand-colored hair was knotted with blood and dirt, and his youthful face was speckled with fresh gashes. Winded and clearly exhausted, he rested his hands on his hips as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “It is kind of you to finally join us, Eligh,” said the older of the two.

  The young man smiled in return. “It’s good to see you well, Fen.” His smile faded as he looked out over the spoiled dell. “The northern wall has been abandoned,” he admitted with a shake of his head. “Leather armor is no match for the crossbows these devils carry. The few men who survived the last barrage fled in fear into the city. I had not the prominence to keep them at their posts nor the heart to tell them they flee in vain.”

  “Where are the other wizards?” Fen demanded in exasperation, swatting a tuft of white hair from his face. “Is there not a single other Guardian left in this entire citadel? I cannot fend off these catapults alone.”

  “I’ve seen none, other than you, since the outer walls were breached. I fear most have already fallen.”

  “Then it makes no matter whether the men stay or flee.” Fen sighed. “The walls of Graffis will fall to rock and fire.”

  Down in the valley, beneath the shadow of night, the droning chant of the dark army gradually relented to the sounds of heavy wooden wheels and cranking metal gears as the next wave of catapults were rolled into striking range. Like reluctant beasts of burden, the massive engines were heaved and towed onto the battlefield, their great arms cocked back, ready to launch their deadly attack.

  For a moment, stillness gripped the land. A scattering of stars pierced through the smoke-filled sky, casting the dying city in a cold glow. Across the blackened vale, hundreds of torches ignited simultaneously, and great blazes were set upon the vessels of the catapults. Smoke and the smell of sulfur wafted over the white walls of the city.

  Eligh and Fen watched, unblinking, as the catapults took aim.

  “I would have liked to have held my wife and son one last time,” Eligh said, his voice quavering.

  Fen smiled sadly at his young friend. “Let your heart be happy knowing they are far from here. Your son will grow up strong and proud with the knowledge that his father was unmatched in courage and heart.”

  The catapult’s burdens were released with a sound like cracking thunder. Countless scathing fireballs pelted down upon Graffis. Eligh shielded his eyes from the blistering flames as they roared overhead, setting the night sky ablaze in their fury, pounding the city walls mercilessly, and soon, the already weakened western wall began to sway.

  Sharing a final, knowing glance, Fen and Eligh clutched their weapons to their chests as the world shuddered beneath them. Moaning in defeat, the great wall finally gave way, crumbling into a twisted heap of stone and iron.

  Greytok stood alone atop the innermost guard tower, watching the enemy scramble over the fallen walls and pour into the defenseless city. His long, ivory hair was matted with sweat and dirt, and his aged brow was knitted in concentration. Though thin and quite old, only those who had never seen a wizard might think him meek. For even now, in his tattered black robe with the faded image of a silver dragon sew
n onto the chest, there was no mistaking his leadership. Wisdom and power burned brightly from behind his humble eyes, and each leathered wrinkle upon his clever brow marked a decade of his noble existence.

  Raising his hand in a sudden gesture, he muttered an inaudible string of words. The hairs upon his outstretched arm stood on end. Tiny bits of sand and rock swirled around the old wizard as if caught in some invisible current. With a deafening crack and a blinding flash, a bolt of white lightening struck down from the still heavens and into a drove of the advancing horde.

  “Greytok!” came a call from the stairwell.

  Another wizard, young and strong, scrambled up the stone stairs to Greytok’s side. Like all wizards, his hair was as white as frost, and true to his position of apprentice, it was kept neatly trimmed above his ears. Robust and muscular, a heavy sword gripped tightly in his hand, one would likely think him more a warrior than a wizard. Clad in black leather armor from head to toe, he was a proud example of a Guardian of Graffis.

  With a wave of the young wizard’s hand and a soft whisper into the wind, the ground far below began to rumble and quake. Stone snapped and crumbled beneath the swarming horde. Like great jaws born into the foundation, the ground opened with a terrible groan, swallowing the cobblestone street as well as a pack of the hapless minions. The yawning fissure cut off the advance of the attacking army, whose enraged screeches flooded up and over the tower walls.

  “As always, you spend yourself too readily, Ilagon,” Greytok scolded the young wizard. “You will be too weak to face the enemy by the end.”

  “Forgive me, Greytok,” Ilagon answered, visibly drained by the use of his magic. “But I fear the end is already upon us. Whatever men are left alive are either scattered or fleeing. The last of the Guardians were likely killed when the west wall fell. There is no hope left for Graffis.”

  As he spoke, the young man lifted his hand in an effortless wave just in front of Greytok’s face, and a hail of tiny rocks and pebbles sprayed upward, shattering to bits an arrow that whistled toward his master’s head.

  Greytok’s gaze drifted toward the smoke-filled heavens, his eyes lost in some distant reflection. “How arrogant we have become, Ilagon.” He sighed sadly. “Too long have we wizards sat idly behind the sanctuary of these stone walls. Too long have we thought ourselves untouchable. Now the world will pay the price for our disdain.”

  A long silence followed before Ilagon finally spoke. “What shall we do, m’lord?”

  Awakened from his far-off rumination, Greytok nodded urgently. “You are right, Ilagon. Graffis has fallen. But as long as the boy lives there is hope yet for this world. There are drainage tunnels in the lowest level below the armory. They lead far enough away from they city that you may yet escape undetected. Take the boy and flee as silently and swiftly as you can.”

  “Take the boy?” Ilagon hesitated. “Where would I take him? What would I do with him?”

  “You will know what to do when the time comes,” Greytok answered.

  Ilagon stammered anxiously. “M-Master, I do not know how to care for a child. And I know nothing of his powers.”

  “There is no one else,” Greytok insisted. “You must take the child and flee the city at once.”

  “And what of you, Greytok?” Ilagon begged.

  “My place is here.”

  “I will not leave you here to the mercy of these creatures!”

  The air crackled around Greytok as he spoke in a thundering voice. “You are the apprentice, and you shall do nothing less than your master commands!”

  Ilagon bowed his head timidly before the great wizard.

  Greytok’s face softened and he laid a gentle hand on Ilagon’s head. “We all have a path to follow, my friend. This is not the end for either one of us, only a new beginning.”

  Ilagon turned his eyes from Greytok’s gaze to quell the tears welling within them. He looked out across the once beautiful land of Fierra Dell, his home, which now lay in ruin. Ash and smoke choked the green valley. The black army flooded the city, swarming through the streets like rats. Their numbers seemed infinite. Ilagon’s heart sank.

  “Do not despair, Ilagon.” Greytok’s voice was soft and kind. “There is still good in the world. For that we must have hope of better days.”

  A slew of arrows suddenly shot over their heads, snapping as they hit the stone walls above.

  Greytok turned his back to Ilagon and faced the oncoming horde. “Go now, Ilagon, before it is too late!”

  With a last painful glance, Ilagon turned and darted down the stairs toward the armory. As he sped down the winding stairway, the echo of Greytok’s incantations filled the chamber.

  His heart pounding behind his aching chest, Ilagon followed the winding stairs and narrow passages for what seemed an endless age until finally reaching the armory. Inside, there were dozens of swords and spears thrown about the stone floor in haste, as well as piles of mismatched chain and plate armor. Many of the unattended torches and braziers that lit the massive chamber had gone out, leaving the room cold and shadowy.

  “Where are you, child?” Ilagon called urgently. “Kazen! Kazen! Do not be frightened! I am Ilagon! Friend to Greytok!”

  A tiny figure peeked out shyly from the shadows. It was a small boy, no more than four years old. His short, frosted hair flashed in the dancing torchlight. He wore only a gray, man-sized shirt, which was tucked and knotted to fit his tiny frame. His blue eyes never looked up from the floor as he stepped forward hesitantly. Ilagon snatched him up with one arm and dashed out the door.

  A terrible drumming sound boomed through the halls. The enemy was breaking down the tower gate. Had Greytok fallen already? Ilagon shook the thought from his head and bounded down another flight of stairs to the lowest level of the stronghold. The room was vast and damp. Barrels of dried fruit and salted meats were stacked from floor to ceiling. Only one small lantern flickered faintly beside the entranceway. Long, distorted shadows danced impulsively on the walls.

  Ilagon set the child down and darted across the room, tossing crates and barrels aside, searching for their escape tunnel. Finally, he found a small opening secured with iron bars. Dropping to the floor, he kicked ferociously at the bars until the masonry around the metal frame began to crumble, and at last the bars gave way. The size of the cavern was troubling. It was barely more than shoulder’s width wide and less than knee high. Even slithering on his belly, the fit would be tight indeed.

  Thundering footfalls and hideous shrieks resounded down from the halls above. Torchlight filled the stairwell as the villainous troops made their way ever nearer.

  “Come, Kazen, I cannot carry you. You will have to crawl ahead of me.” Ilagon tugged on the boy’s arm, but he recoiled.

  Kazen stared at the dark hole in fear.

  Kneeling before him, Ilagon cupped the boy’s face in his hand and wiped the tears from his dirtied cheek. “I know you are frightened, as am I. I do not know what is to come of this night, but I swear to you, that with my very last breath, I shall protect you.”

  Kazen nodded nervously, took a deep breath, and plunged bravely into the tunnel on hands and knees. Ilagon threw himself into the opening, headfirst, and slithered his way after Kazen as fast as he could. Angry growls and screeches shook the air behind them. Ilagon was certain that at any moment he would feel the cold hands of some cursed creature clawing at his feet. But the ruckus behind faded slowly as they inched their way forward through the passage.

  The air in the tunnel was moldy and rank. The bleak darkness seemed to stretch on endlessly. Kazen scuttled along with a fair amount of ease, while Ilagon slid through slowly and painfully, all the while fighting off twinges of crushing panic. At times, the passage narrowed so dramatically that it threatened to wedge Ilagon in permanently, but each time he would manage to wiggle his way free with a great deal of grunting and cursing. The icy trickle of water that ran through the black tunnel chilled them to the bone, making every bruised knee and cut shoulder
scream in pain. Knowing they could still be discovered at any moment, the two pressed on in silence. Only the sounds of the babbling stream and their own shuddered breathing filled the constricted channel.

  At last they could see a pinhole of light ahead. The passage widened, gradually, until it was big enough that Ilagon could slip ahead of Kazen and have a peek outside. He stood slowly, his body trembling as the crisp night air touched his already cold, wet body. Ahead, gentle hills rose and fell into the distance until they were lost under the cover of the still night. Behind them lay the great city of Graffis, now engulfed in flames and teaming with shadows of evil.

  In this final stand of good verses evil, the Guardians had failed. More than that, they had all likely perished, all but him and this small child. They were all that was left of the once mighty order of wizards and men.

  “What am I to do?” Ilagon whispered desperately to himself as he looked down at the quivering boy clutched to his leg.

  With the heaviest of hearts, he scooped the child up in his arms and slipped into the darkness, not knowing where they were bound.

  Chapter 1

  “Take it back!” Kazen shouted.

  Now in his seventeenth year, he stood tall and strong, his face chiseled and spotted with rough whiskers. Long hair, black and untamed, brushed past his shoulders, while his eyes, blue as ice, blazed with anger as he towered over a second boy sprawled in the dirt, nursing a bloodied nose.

  “You take it back or you will get more of the same!” Kazen’s fists were clenched and trembling. Though part of him regretted having let his anger get the best of him, he mostly reveled in the exhilaration of giving the little worm exactly what he deserved. Long had Kazen felt that the one thing Brinin Mult needed was a good thrashing, always looking down his nose at any one who had to get their hands dirty to make a living, as if being the son of a small-town bookbinder and stationer was worthy of more respect than any other trade. Ludicrous, of course, especially considering only about half the people in town could read at all anyway. In any case, it should have been little surprise to Kazen when Brinin showed up at his home with a sack of old rags and bits of leather, supposing, in his narrow little mind, that Kazen and “his pitiful uncle” might be able to patch the scraps together for a cloak or blanket come winter. A noble offer of charity in Brinin’s warped perception, a contemptible insult to anyone else. Harsh words were quick to follow, and before Kazen knew it, he was standing over Brinin’s sniveling form.