The Flames of Arathia Read online

  The Flames of Arathia

  Jordan Liberatore

  Published by:

  Light Switch Press

  PO Box 272847

  Fort Collins, CO 80527

  Free cover design, formatting, publishing and distribution with Light Switch Press. Visit: www.lightswitchpress.com

  Copyright © 2017

  Printed in the United States of America

  NO PART OF THIS PUBLICATION MAY BE REPRODUCED, STORED IN A RETRIEVAL SYSTEM, OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY MEANS – ELECTRONIC, MECHANICAL, DIGITAL PHOTOCOPY, RECORDING, OR ANY OTHER WITHOUT THE PRIOR PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED SOLELY BY THE AUTHOR. THE AUTHOR GUARANTEES ALL CONTENTS ARE ORIGINAL AND DO NOT INFRINGE UPON THE LEGAL RIGHTS OF ANY OTHER PERSON OR WORK. THE VIEWS EXPRESSED IN THIS BOOK ARE NOT NECESSARILY THOSE OF THE PUBLISHER.

  Part 1: The Outcasts

  Prologue:

  There was in the world much to be discovered and changed. The world of Arathia was in many ways as old as it was young. It had, though, kept its roots of stories so marvelously that there was no competing religion or controversy. However, every light has its darkness, and Arathia was the same. It was in this world, in the kingdom of Galdirr that this could be found. Rolling hills sloped down towards the sea and for many years it held its peace.

  Its darkness came in the form of its leaders. For centuries the kingdom had been justly ruled by those who deserved it, the firebloods who had fought and died for the land despite it being much smaller than its sister lands. However, during the reign of King Latorro, darkness struck. Such a darkness had come in the form of the even smaller kingdom of Romarn down in the south. It was this kingdom that fought to overtake Latorro, only winning in part when the king was murdered in his hall and his city destroyed. A new city had been built near it, a city that King Anikarra had named after himself.

  However, it was not the royal line that truly ruled. No, it was not long after that that the true shadow rose in the form of the Brethren. The flames of the world that had once ruled the land were now living in such a fear as they had never known. Innocent people watched their villages burn, and people lost families. The king was no more than a man on a throne, a spectacle for the rest of the world. It was a list of names and faces, not anything time would ever really remember. Anikarra’s reign began and ended with him and him alone. That was what fate had dictated, letting Galdirr fall into a war that had never really ended.

  It was true that all fighting had stilled. Yet, in truth, the true final battle had yet to come. The people had not yet come against the darkness, though they knew they had to. Everything relied on the past, on the words of the greatest Seer to ever grace the earth. For it was she who explained the true end, the rising of the true heir to take back what had been taken from him. And take he would, though not alone. Never alone could he think to do what was needed. For does history not show that it is the masses striking together that fixes all wrongs? Well, only time would tell.

  It was all a story, spinning and turning towards an unseen end. Death, betrayal, loyalty… It all began with the cry of a young daughter born amidst the rain alone with just a mother. It was with tears her life was brought forth, and tears that would mark the path of her life. It was all set in stone that night, and it would all play out like clockwork afterwards. Fate had long known what would come and all the lives that would need to be groomed for the moments to come. Yes, the flames of Arathia would now most surely burn.

  Chapter 1:

  Trust was a wary thing, given and taken. Fate threw it in and took as needed, mixing it with chance and destiny, though it was not always clear which is which. All that was heard was the pitter pattering of rain upon the cobblestone pavement, and the softness of her gasps. The tears were spent, the trust betrayed, and she was alone, and despite her near two decades of life she was no more than a child. Blood dripped from her hands, not a blood she took but a blood she had tried to save. The body itself, the body now cold and dead, was barely a few feet off.

  The woman, as a woman she was now to become, was kneeling on the cold, numb to all save the gaping hole in her soul. What had been ripped out could never be refilled. The rain stopped suddenly but not so, leaving her dirty blonde hair hanging drenched in front of icy blue eyes. It was all so clear and all such a blur. It was the peak of night, coaxed out from the comfort of the fire… It was peace followed by a scream, that final scream of life. Silence… She’d barely heard her own cries as the shadow of the man snaked along the wall retreating into the darkness of night.

  Just that morning it had all been well. There was talk of spring and laughter, not this. Death was not on the horizon, not then. Now the blood was still warm on her hands, a dark crimson falling like the now past rain onto the alleyway beneath her legs. Gasps stilled to barely even breath, her mind kicking into gear. The blame would be hers, however right or wrong it was. The man was very good at coaxing trust. The ice eyes landed on the body. How could someone betray such a saint? The sound of the dagger hitting the stone ground echoed in her mind again and again until finally out of rage her hand grasped its hilt, pulling it off the ground to silence the damn nightmare in her mind. She staggered to her feet, fear setting in. Would he come back? Would she be killed? Her mother’s body rested in the blood of blood seeping out between the cracks of the cobblestone. It hadn’t been from lack of trying. No, she’d tried so hard to breathe life back into the one who had given her life.

  “What’s your name?” the man had asked, a wanderer out in the forest so close to the village.

  “Melody,” the blonde had replied with a shaking voice.

  “No… Not your given,” Luther growled. “Pick another. You’re what? Nineteen? You’re on your own. Melody is dead and let her be. So I say it again. Pick another.” It was true. Melody Kloy had died when the knife had met the chest of her mother. The innocence, the child, had been buried a week later when the woman who had walked out of the alley had met the man now asking her such questions as who she was.

  “Drusilla,” the blonde breathed four years later, tasting it on her tongue as she shouldered her bag. A near hundred villages had gone by, Drusilla now 23. She’d drifted to and fro, repeating the places she’d been except for one. She’d heard the tales, the ones of Melody Kloy murdering her mother. She’d also heard of Malcolm the Dark, the Brethren leader’s right hand man. Malcolm Mace… the very man who had betrayed their hope, love, loyalty, livelihood, and trust without a thought. He was a phantom of nightmare, on the edge of her thoughts at all time, that moment that was destined never to leave her alone. He was destined never to leave her alone.

  The Eknar, the leader of the Brethren, stared at Malcolm a few days after the murder. “What should we do with you?” the Eknar sighed.

  “She’s dead. Don’t worry,” Malcolm lied. He’d loved her, despite the lies he had told her. He didn’t just love her. No, she was his soul mate. Those hours they’d spent talking and laughing… He couldn’t go back and kill her. After the mother was dead, he’d run. He had to escape her. She’d stolen his heart, and if the Eknar knew, well, it’d be his body next. The Eknar smiled.

  “I am pleased. You have done so well, Malcolm. Go and enjoy your reward,” the Eknar cooed. That night he had taken his wine to his room, crying himself to sleep. He could only pray to the Beings that one day Melody would forgive him. He could only hope she’d one day know he truly did love her. And for the next four years, no one knew the better. Melody Kloy was gone in the wind, and the Eknar never realized what was coming. It was the end of an era, of a war. And the Eknar’s downfall would be the love that Drusilla never knew had been given to her.

  Chapter 2:

 
There was a vast mix of people at the shoddy inn where Drusilla had stepped into on this late summer night; an inn tucked away on a cliff that overlooked a great harbor filled with many ships tossing about on the stormy waves. The drunk gathered around the bar like moths to a flame, laughing, singing, and yelling like the buffoons they really were. The girls flirted with sailors now at dock, too naive and caught up in meaningless fairy tales to see the sailors’ shallow intentions. Soldiers now off duty laughed at those too drunk to do anything, whether it be good or bad, sitting in a cluster against a wall, too prideful for their own good. Their pompous glares settled on the room like that of a hungry vulture, waiting for fresh meat. Those such as Drusilla who wished to hide and watch all that goes on took to the corners and sat alone, carefully watching each passing thing as if it were a play. The flames from the candles created dancing shadows along the wall, shadows that protect those like Drusilla. Her mug of warm buttersip, a sober’s choice in this kingdom of Galdirr, sat steaming on the table in front of her. The winds howled outside. She could scarce hear the roars of the waves crashing against the rocks over the sound of the people.

  A fight, one Drusilla witnessed, had just ended though the air of it still stuck. One man was so drunk he had begun some fight with a soldier until two others had yanked them apart, taking the drunk man to his room. Drusilla should have been in her room as late in the evening as it was, though sleep was far from coming. She wasn’t much for sleep now. Every time she’d try she’d see the scene in the alley all over again, or worse. She would feel his hands as they caressed her skin, his breath on her neck as he whispered such sweet words like honey. Some nightmares were just too real, and the more pleasant memories were always the most painful. So Drusilla just sat drinking as she watched the fools, as fools they all were in that inn.

  Maybe Drusilla was a fool as well. She could drink something else, burn out the memories and the aching pain that came with them, but she never did. Her father had walked out before she was a born an utter drunk. She wasn’t going to be him. No, she had sworn to do better. Even when Malcolm had… No, she had to force herself not to think of him. She heard some soldiers go on about some people that had been discovered and killed by the Brethren. They were all such fools. Innocent people were dead but the soldiers called it justice. Was it justice to be born with such a power? Was it all really that evil? Drusilla sipped at her buttersip in anger.

  The door to the inn thrust open against the wind and rain, a man stepping in. The way he stood hinted at him being a young sea captain, though he must have been no older than three years Drusilla’s senior. His cold gray eyes, so dark and mysterious, gazed around the room in such a calculating and strong manner. The laughter and chatter fell silent. Mugs became still as the bar went quiet, every eye on the new comer. Drusilla leaned back, sipping her drink as her eyes locked on this man. He was clearly not from anywhere near Lokko. Oh no, every ounce of him screamed otherwise and everyone could hear it. He would learn the rules soon enough, though someone would have to teach him.

  The noise picked up again as the man walked to the bar to order a drink. No silence in the inn ever lasted long, from a variety of sound in the bar to creaking in the rooms. The man began to stride across the room in a noble and patriotic manner, straight across to sit with Drusilla. No one ever sat with her kind. They were ignored and forsaken, not addressed unless they wanted to be. Drusilla really would have to teach this man some things. The man stared at her straight in the eyes, seeming to be trying to study her soul. No one said a word, not at first. They were studying each other, waiting to see who would make a move and what that move would be. Drusilla noted that the man’s hair was a thick ragged mess of browns, same as the thin mustache right above his upper lip. He seemed to be in need of something, something he thought Drusilla could give him.

  “You must be a stranger to these parts. One does not just waltz in this sort of hub with an air such as yours. You earn your respect, or lack of it, and rarely just have it,” Drusilla warned. She’d been in Northern Galdirr long enough, all 23 years of her life in fact, to understand how things worked. The stranger looked at her and laughed, showing his white teeth. He clearly kept himself well groomed, more so than many of the people Drusilla encountered in the inns where she stayed. Even Luther hadn’t kept himself that well together, and he was deemed respectable in Drusilla’s standards. No, the last time she saw someone that well put together was Malcolm. She tensed at the thought.

  “You must be one of those free walkers I’ve been warned of,” the stranger clicked in a proudly Southern Galdirrian accent. It was very distinct compared to the Northern dialect as though not from the same kingdom. It would make sense that this stranger would have this accent if he were a sailor, as many sailors came from the southern villages not the north. “They say your kind is tough as stone, and stubborn as any. The name’s Captain Nathan Rodrick. I’m looking for a partner in adventure. I’m taking a journey into dangerous lands and I need a kind such as you are.”

  Nathan Rodrick seemed more than amused and pleased to be talking with a Free Strider such as Drusilla. The Striders were those who have no home, family, or job. They did as they pleased and had a great deal of respect from any with a right mind, and no need for fighting. Most importantly, they were those who had a reason to run, keeping below the law and out of sight. Drusilla had become one that fateful night when the love of her life betrayed her for reasons she hated more than anything. It was Luther that had trained her, made her what she was now in that inn. It wasn’t too bad. Drusilla had come to enjoy her new life, or at least be content with it. It was near impossible to tell the difference anymore.

  “Well Captain Nathan Rodrick, my name is Drusilla, no last name to add. For future reference, I’m a Free Strider. As to this assumed offer of yours, let me say that danger is anywhere if you know where to look. If you mean by dangerous that you wish to search for some of stronger power than they should have, or nearly certain death, then a fighter is what you need. Striders are all fighters. Just let me ask, what would be in it for me?” Drusilla inquired, almost completely interested. She was bored of the same old wandering around, sticking to what she knew and seeing that damned face every time she closed her eyes. She needed the adventure, the chance to live again and take back what was rightfully hers.

  “Well, I have a small ship with a worthless excuse for a crew, but you’d get your own room. I would also be willing to give you any payment as necessary for your time and help once we reach the destination, and the task has been completed in full. We will provide any food needed as well, but it may be a safe bet to bring any money possible just in case. Now, would you be interested, Miss Drusilla Free Strider?” Nathan offered in a hopeful tone. Drusilla thought for a moment, trying to find some hint of a lie in Nathan’s face. She knew what the consequences could be if she wasn’t careful, and she couldn’t risk that. Free Striders had to be good at discerning fact from fiction as they had to rely on strangers. Besides, Melody had been betrayed, not Drusilla. Drusilla had just carried the scars and all the aftermath. Still, Drusilla had to trust Nathan. It was time she moved on anyways. That was a Free Strider’s trick: leaving at the right time to avoid suspicion. That was what kept them alive.

  “I suppose I could spare some time and see the world. I have always wanted to travel outside of these forsaken borders. Just make note that I am not going to speak of my past or anything near close to it. My business is mine, and mine alone. I will expect full compensation for anything that happens on a negative note rather than a bright. If any treasure is to be found, I would also like a fair share in that,” Drusilla replied. With that the two shook hands. Nathan’s grasp was firm and confident, strong most of all. Drusilla felt that prickling warmth beneath her skin and took her hand back, fearing what could come. She fought hard to hide her curse as it had caused her so much pain. The fear passed with the sensation, causing Drusilla to relax.

  As Drusilla retreated to her room, she couldn�
��t help but reflect. That one curse had almost cost the woman her life. Instead it took another, and what for? A petty excuse for peace when the kingdom was in a war long forgotten about? Drusilla slammed the door to her room shut, eyes prickling with tears as the sound of the storm outside hit her ears. It all reminded her of the past, and Drusilla sat on the ground with her back against the door. She fingered the ring in her pocket. Why had she kept it? Luther had tried to get her to part with it, but Drusilla couldn’t. For whatever reason she could never give it up. It was all she had of them, that and the knife. She carried the dagger with her always. She couldn’t give it up, not ever.

  Drusilla jumped to her feet, wiping her eyes. This new adventure would be good for her. Luther had always suggested she leave Galdirr if only for a little while. She had to let go. She began to gather her few belongings in her leather bag, the only home she really had. It was old and weathered, but still strong as an ox. It served its purpose. Everything had a purpose in Drusilla’s mind. Even Malcolm had one. It wasn’t the first time she’d ever loved, but Beings above it was the best love she’d ever known. Her mother’s death served a purpose too. Drusilla was stronger now, not so naïve as she was those four years ago in the rain. Drusilla had a purpose as well, and her curse. She just… She didn’t know what it was. What she did know was that it was now taking her to be with Nathan and his crew.

  Malcolm stood waiting for the messenger. The Eknar was used to using middlemen to get across messages. Malcolm hated it, especially as after errand he still had to go meet the Eknar in Tiarta, a small island off the coast of Galdirr. It was late evening, and the children in the city were just starting to go in to bed. Malcolm had his eyes on a little boy maybe three years old. He had the widest smile and biggest blue eyes Malcolm had ever seen on a child. The boy’s mother stepped out, eying Malcolm where he stood. “What a wonderful son,” Malcolm cooed.