The Sword and the Flame (Book 3): The Lightwalker

By CP Bialois

Four years after the end of the Minotaur War and Berek's sacrifice, the friends have moved on with their lives. Each has faced new challenges, but nothing can prepare them for what's to come. Solaria fought against the Gods of Pyrain for dominance in an age long forgotten by most. Defeated, he was imprisoned within the bones of the world for eternity. The coming of the Phoenix allowed The Fallen God Solaria to escape from his prison. Promising revenge on those that wronged him, Solaria seeks out those with anger in their hearts to champion his cause while he gathers his strength. Will the prophesized Lightwalker rise before the world is destroyed by a ancient conflict?

• Language: English
• Publisher: CP Bialois
• Release date: Aug 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370394258

CP Bialois

Where do I begin? Well first I guess it's only fair to say that CP Bialois isn't my real name. It's a collaboration I made out of the three greatest pets anyone could ever want. My real name is Ed and I'm just an average person that has found a way to do what he loves. For as long back as I can remember I loved to pretend. Whether it was with my Transformers, GI Joe, or He-Man toys I loved to create intricate plots and have them fight it out. As a fan of horror, science fiction, action, and comedy I dare say my taste in movies are well rounded. Some of my favorites were Star Wars, Star Trek, martial arts, and anything with Swarzenegger in them. I'd write my own stories about the characters I saw in the theaters or TV or I'd just daydream about what I'd see myself as the hero of course. You can't have a daydream without beating the bad guys, getting the girl, etc. It's just not right to envision yourself as a flunky or sidekick. As far as books I loved Sherlock Holmes, Treasure Island, Dracula, and the normal assortment. My early love was the Star Trek novels, I'd read them or the Hardy Boys relentlessly. For a time I could tell you the plot of over a hundred books not to mention comics. I have to come clean and say that I learned to read because of comic books. I was bored, make that extremely bored when we started to read in school. Reading "the cat fell down" really didn't interest me. My dad, who continues to astound me with his insight to this day, figured comics would work. With that in mind he went to the newstand in town and bought issues of Donald Duck, Scrooge McDuck, Tales From the Crypt, and Spider-man. He patiently read through them with me until I picked it up. Whether it was him or the comics I learned to read in about two weeks and for a while few were as good as I was. For years after that whenever we'd go out he'd always spring for a couple of comic books for me. While it wasn't exactly the perfect beginning everything I've ever read or have seen has influenced me in some way and now is the time I'd like to share some of the ideas I've had over the years with all of you. I hope you enjoy my stories, they're always fun to write and I don't see myself stopping anytime soon.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The continuous lapping of the waves against the side of the ship did little to help the seasick woman in her private cabin. Priestess Omara, prize pupil of Dark Priestess Hulgara, sat against the soft cushion separating her from the wooden wall of her cabin. Not one to travel beyond the borders of the Tower of Heidel, Omara wondered why the Dark Priestess had selected her for such an undertaking. Surely, there were others in their order capable of traveling across the Troubled Sea to speak with the King of Solava.

Being chosen as an emissary of the Dark Priestess and the Goddess Falloria was an honor and a privilege she should’ve felt lucky to receive. She’d been given the task of becoming the first cleric ever to stand at the side of King Vernaco. Why did she feel nothing but anxiety from something she worked so hard for? For years, she dreamed of being given such an important task and here she was, fretting over it as if she were a babe.

Maybe it was from the pressure she felt to succeed. Since the war with the Minotaur, the kingdom of Solava remained in a weakened state as its people fought among one another over possible annexation by the Kingdom of Ryloth to their north. Such thoughts were only natural, as portions of the land between them had passed back and forth numerous times up to a hundred years earlier. With the weight of being a head of state, King Vernaco stood on a precipice where if he stepped too far right or left, Solava could fracture into a dozen kingdoms. Not yet accepting a cleric to help with the sick and his continued refusal to allow any magic user to enter the city under penalty of death added to King Vernaco’s woes. As hard as he tried, many felt they were witnessing the fall of the greatest kingdom to grace Pyrain. Some of the rumors claimed the King sought the advice of a former cleric serving as governor or some such position in one of Solava’s cities, but that seemed more folly than truth.

The weight of winning a place in the court and helping to heal the realm put Omara in a precarious position. Should King Vernaco continue to appear aloof and weak and the kingdom ceased to be while she was there… Omara shook her head. That was something she refused to accept as a possibility. She would succeed or die trying. There was no other way for her to go. She had proven herself to be among the Dark Priestess’ most powerful clerics. None but the Dark Priestess could match her in her thirst and drive for power. She would focus on that instead of the problem set before her. After spending the previous ten years serving her order, this was her opportunity and she refused to allow something as trivial as nerves to deter her.

Over the years in service to the Dark Priestess, Omara learned more about the intricacies of the art of healing than she would have in a thousand lifetimes roaming Pyrain or studying in the Temple of Fallor. Using spells to heal was one thing, but to have the ability to summon the life energy of another, albeit from a willing individual, to aid in the healing seemed close to necromancy to the priestess. To heal is a cleric’s life mission, for when healing they become one with their God or Goddess.

Letting out a sigh, Omara paused to look at herself in the mirror on the wall of her cabin. The black hair, beady eyes, and pale complexion staring back at her told of her chances of winning the post in such a manner. She turned from the mirror with a low growl and cursed herself for being foolish. She was there to win a place at the King’s left hand, not to become his wife. Glancing around the tight confines of her cabin, she fought against the urge to race onto the deck. Doing so on the Troubled Sea was the best way to find oneself cast into the rolling waters. If fortune favored her, she would be eaten by one of the sea hydras living in the light blue waters instead of being left to drown.

A shiver beginning at the base of her spine quickly spread throughout her body at the thought. Cursed if she did, cursed if she didn’t. Being able to come and go at will while at the tower helped her to cope with being in a small room for most of the day, but being in a cabin for a week at sea? She wished Falloria had allowed her to travel the route of magic to Solava. Going the way of magic seemed less of an evil than braving the tumbling seas in her small cabin. Without thinking, she sent a prayer to Falloria to guide her safe and true. With the sun barely breaking over the horizon, she was thankful she only had to endure a few more hours of traveling before she’d be able to once again set foot on the solid ground of Pyrain.

*****

You there! What do ye think yer doin’? Harbor Master Flak’s voice boomed over the din of the dock; standing a full head taller than most of those on the dock helped his voice reach its intended audience. Being Harbor Master had its share of benefits, but having four ships arrive at midday was not one of them. The burly man strode down his dock, shoving a smaller less fortunate out of his way. He was determined to get through the day without following through on the need to kill one of the moronic fools pretending to be a sailor. A handful of strides brought him face to back with a squat figure of a man kneeling over an iron cleat while tying a rope around it.

The squatting Dwarf stood and turned to face Flak. Having heard the man’s yell, he carried on with his business until he heard the approach. Facing the large man, the Dwarf straightened to his full four feet with a glint of a challenge in his remaining eye. Ya have a problem, do ye?

For the briefest of moments, Flak wasn’t sure he heard the Dwarf right. The fact he didn’t notice the figure was a Dwarf at first notwithstanding. When the information processed, his face turned a dark shade of red as he pointed to the small skiff. Yeah, I do. Where in the Abyss do ya think yer puttin’ that! This here’s fer larger ships, not yer dingy.

Standing as though he wanted a fight, the Dwarf remained unmoving for several seconds before shrugging. Suit yerself. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled the rope he was tying free from the cleat and tossed it into the Harbor Master’s hands.

Moving out of reflex, Flak caught the rope as an uppercut drove into his stomach. The blow forced the air from his lungs and brought the large man to his knees. Gasping for air, he raised his eyes to glare at the smiling Dwarf who swung a large sack over his left shoulder.

There ya go, me boy. Tie this were it suits ya ‘fore yer boss fires ya. Flak grunted in rage but the Dwarf waved him off and started down the dock. No need to thank me, all in a day’s work.

Flak struggled to his feet and tried to follow the Dwarf, but the newcomer disappeared into the crowd like a ghost. To the Abyss with him, he’ll be back. Smiling at having added a dingy to his possessions, he turned to his work. The others on the dock continued about their business, knowing full well it was best to keep the Harbor Master in good spirits.

When Flak looked toward where the Dwarf’s boat had been, his heart sank as thoughts of the silver he planned to earn from selling the small craft disappeared. The boat was still there, but it sat over a foot under water at a cantered angle. The only thing keeping it from sinking further was part of the rope caught on the barnacles covering the dock post the Dwarf had attempted tying his boat next to.

Flak howled curses at everyone near him before he turned and stormed back up the dock. Knowing he wouldn’t catch up to the Dwarf, he contented himself with shoving the few people choosing to step into his way aside. Damn that Dwarf and whatever God he prays to. To the Abyss with the lot of them!

While most of the people were used to Flak’s temper, a few newcomers weren’t impressed by his rampage.

Of all the reasons to avoid such a place. Why was I chosen for such a task? Omara muttered under her breath as she enjoyed stepping onto something that didn’t sway or bob with the rise and fall of the ocean. It amazed her how fast her strength returned simply by stepping off the ship.

Careful, M’lady. The waters are cold enough to kill in minutes at this time of year.

She accepted Morgan’s guidance to move away from the edge of the dock, unsure of how the water could be so cold in the middle of summer. Omara pushed the question aside. Over the previous few months, she had learned to trust Morgan’s instinct on various matters. It mattered little to her that he recently passed his test in Narosia, as his wisdom was as ageless as the stars.

Thank you, Morgan. Her smile of gratitude earned her one from Morgan. No older than seventeen, he had yet to fully grasp the abilities awaiting him under the tutelage of herself and Hulgara. In time, she estimated he’d surpass them both in the art of healing.

Having been seasick for the previous week left her suffering from more than cabin fever as one of her goals while on their journey was to work with him to refine his craft. The herbs they brought with them did little to soothe her during their trip and using another’s life energy for something non-life threatening was forbidden, even to Dark Clerics. Had she felt comfortable with Morgan’s abilities to revive her, she would’ve attempted sacrosanct, the clerical art of entering near death. While one of the most dangerous of the self-healing arts, it was often done with another cleric of great skill nearby. Without more teaching and practice, Morgan would’ve been forced to stand by and watch her die. Such an end wasn’t something Omara cared to experience. Watching the large Harbor Master create a wide path along the center of the dock, she looked to Morgan. I assume we have to deal with him.

Morgan sighed and smiled. No, M’lady. It’s already been taken care of.

Relief swept through her at the idea of not dealing with such an oaf, but her mind darkened as she wondered why one beneath her would be informed of something she wasn’t. In the time she knew him, Morgan never once attempted to display anything aside from a desire to learn and aid her. Perhaps that was the key to her understanding why she was sent there. Her ambition was well known, as she never sought to hide it from anyone, but for Hulgara to send her eventual replacement to sit at Vernaco’s left hand… she shook her head to clear the thoughts away. Their order weren’t mages or thieves, but clerics. They served in the name of Falloria to heal those in need, not advance their own standing.

To Solava, M’lady?

Morgan’s voice pulled Omara from her thoughts. She eyed him for a moment out of curiosity, wondering how much more he knew that she didn’t. After a few seconds, she shook her head. No, there’s someone we need to see here first.

Morgan’s face twisted in confusion but the expression disappeared as quickly as it appeared. As you wish, M’lady.

Omara’s smile didn’t give off any warmth, but that wasn’t something new to the young man with her. Without another word, she began walking along the path the Harbor Master cleared before the people could turn the dock back into a thin stream of humanity.

*****

Gilliam rubbed his eyes in an effort to focus them on the papers sitting before him. Over the course of the last four years, Berek’s Harbor once more became an important trading hub. The path hadn’t been one of ease, but with his steady vision and the sturdiness of Nom’s hand, the remaining thieves were forced out. Their efforts were often remembered with a shared laugh and pint of brew.

In the time they worked together, Gilliam grew to look at Nom as his nephew had. For all of his faults in serving Ragnar Davies, Nom’s loyalty to the city never wavered. Such a trait was odd in a mercenary, or so the former cleric-turned-mayor believed. It was the strength of his loyalty that prevented the warrior from following Galin in marching on Solava four years before. In hindsight, such an action was wise beyond words. Even Galin found himself forced to agree, although due to the usual stubbornness of a Dwarf, Galin hated to admit it to anyone. Thinking of his friends did more to clear the tiredness from his eyes than anything else. While it’d been several years since he last saw Galin, he knew his friend was well.

Moving his hand from his eyes, Gilliam turned the page of parchment so he could read the inscription. Magistrate Ewell wants what again?

A bodyguard. Nom’s voice had grown rougher over the years as well as his appearance. Time proved itself to be anything but a trusted companion to him, but his smile carried through to his words. Apparently, he feels his life is in danger.

Whatever gave him that idea?

Nom shrugged. The usual. Bandits, thieves… paranoid delegates. Everything a pompous Magistrate fears beyond his loss of wealth.

Gilliam nodded his understanding. The first time he met the Magistrate he fought back the urge to throttle the man himself. Had he not had the teachings of Fallor, God of the Light Art of Healing and twin brother of Falloria, to soothe him, he didn’t doubt he’d be in the dungeons beneath Solava awaiting punishment. How many men is he requesting?

Twelve. Gilliam’s eyes opened wide at hearing the number and Nom nodded. I ain’t stuttering.

The Mayor shook his head. Why does he think we can spare so many men? King Vernaco doesn’t ask for half that. See what you can do, but don’t strain yourself in doing so.

Nom nodded with a smile but remained standing in his accustomed position for another moment. Knowing the man’s mannerisms, Gilliam sat back on the tall-backed chair. While it wasn’t anything special, the chair proved to be as close a friend as he had over the years. After giving the man enough time to offer his thoughts, he leaned forward. Well?

Nom’s disfigured face twisted into a cheeky smile. There’s another matter… He allowed his voice to trail off before continuing in a lower, conspiratorial voice. There’s someone wishing to see you.

At hearing his tone, Gilliam imagined a horde of Magistrates waiting in the anteroom. Why was Nom smiling like an idiot then? Letting out a deep breath, Gilliam nodded and motioned to the door. By all means, we don’t want to keep our impending doom waiting, do we?

With a polite nod, the former mercenary and current General of Berek’s Harbor’s militia and guards turned and walked toward the door. For the life of him, Gilliam couldn’t figure out what the man wasn’t telling him. It couldn’t be anything of dire consequence, unless it was his ousting as Mayor. The thought caused him to shake his head. No, he didn’t see any reason to be concerned about such a thing. Still, despite the years working together, Nom was still a mercenary at heart and old prejudices die hard.

Nom opened the doors and stepped into the corridor. Not even a second passed before a loud squeak and a blur of brown hair entering the room surprised Gilliam. In the time it took for him to realize he was being assaulted, the individual leapt onto the desk and slammed into his chest, knocking them onto the floor in a heap.

Gilliam! It’s been so long, we missed you!

The knowledge of who his offending attacker was dawned on him at hearing her voice. The smile spreading across his face told of his joy at seeing his friend again as he returned her embrace. I missed you too, Janessa. He thought about pointing out to her how she could’ve been killed had he had his senses about him. Shaking off the thought, he remained holding her for another few seconds before they released one another. Who was he kidding? Better to accept the fact he was no longer in condition to react at a moment’s notice and move on.

Once free of the Halfling’s embrace, he set about righting himself. Janessa provided what help she could then turned her attention to picking up the chair he’d been sitting in. Once on his feet, Gilliam noticed there was another in the room with them and he turned to greet their visitor. Remembering Janessa said "we missed you", he scolded himself for growing old. It’s not your age, it’s your office. Pushing those thoughts aside, he smiled and nodded toward Viola. Welcome to Berek’s Harbor. It’s been too long since you last visited. The words came without his consent, as being a politician had taught him. True to his word, he hadn’t seen Viola or Janessa since their meeting following his appointment to office. Has it really been four years? Gods, how the time flew!

Over the years, the hard lines of being in the Dragon’s Graveyard had receded into little more than a memory of their previous existence on Viola’s face. For the first time since he met them, Gilliam noticed her beauty. Her dark hair framed her pale face, making her appear much younger than her real age. It took a moment for him to remember she was a mage and wondered if she cast some sort of spell on herself. The fact she wore the brown robes caused him some confusion.

Viola returned his smile, but with a hint of knowing in it. Over the last few years, she accepted her role in the world and returned to the magic school. Despite having mastered spells her classmates could only dream of, she found herself struggling to perform the most rudimentary of spells following her betrayal at the hands of Mern. It was during that time she learned humility. Without the dragon Fyrelynx’s magic augmenting her, she needed to relearn how to draw on her own ability. While she’d never be of great renown within the magical circles, she was content with her mastery over herbology and rudimentary spells. The fact she was once great continued to come to her mind when she was in the presence of the remaining comrades. In their own way, each of them had gone on to better things. All except her.

Thank you, Master Cleric. Viola nodded with her smile remaining steady.

The slight, if intended, was waved off by Gilliam. Please, call me Gilliam. I haven’t been a cleric for years.

Viola nodded. If you wish, although it’s been my experience that we are what we are. There’s no changing that.

Viola, be nice. Janessa stood with her hands on her hips while addressing her friend. The years since their adventure hadn’t been easy on either of them. While she still loved Viola, the young mage had covered her heart with a spiked wall even the Halfling found difficult to break through after their agreement at times.

The mage paused, letting out a relaxing breath. My apologies, Gilliam. I wasn’t able to form the same bond with you that Janessa did. I don’t mean to sound bitter. Slighted perhaps, but not bitter.

While still a man of faith, despite no longer being a cleric, Gilliam’s distrust of magic users continued to plaque him. Even when meeting with the white robes as they passed through his city he couldn’t help but be reminded of his previous experiences. Sunaron, Viola, and Mern all had a place of infamy in his thinking, despite them being willing or not.

No hard feelings, my friend. There are many things I wish to change from the past as well, including knowing you better. His words seemed to have an effect as Viola relaxed her stance and appeared comfortable. Feeling better about things, he motioned for them to join him outside on the verandah. Please, join me for lunch. It is too beautiful a day to remain inside.

Smiling, Janessa bounced from foot to foot. Oh, thank you, Gilliam. What are we having? Roast boar? Side of beef? While neither she nor Viola wanted for anything, there was something special about a feast that brought the Halflings’ legendary hunger to the forefront.

Both Viola and Gilliam smiled at their animated friend. I’m sorry, but I only eat fruit during the day. However, if you’d like to remain for dinner… He let his voice trail off at seeing the pleading look on the Halfling’s face.

Janessa’s eyes were locked on Viola in a manner mainly attributed to a puppy begging for scraps. We were thinking of staying for a few days.

Viola burst into laughter at her friend’s reaction. Perhaps Janessa was the reason she never fell into a pit of darkness through the years. The Halfling had a way about her anyone in her presence enjoyed.

Seeing the display before him, Gilliam joined Viola in her laugh. It amazed him at how so many things never seemed to grow old, but were forgotten despite the need to remember them.

I don’t see what’s so funny. Janessa crossed her arms and looked at both of them with a cross expression.

Wiping her eyes, Viola tried to stifle another bout of laughter as she spoke. Jenny… it’s just… Despite her efforts, she couldn’t bring herself to explain for fear of another round of laughter. After a moment, she regained enough of her composure to nod while gasping for air. Since we’ve been invited… I don’t see why not.

Viola was rewarded with a shrill squeak of joy from Janessa and having hers and Gilliam’s hand grabbed and ushered to the verandah. "Come on then, I’m starving!"

Once seated in the shade the thin canvas covering provided, the three of them began talking about the events of the previous four years. While never one for gossip, Gilliam found himself drawn into the conversation with more interest and gusto than he thought possible. It wasn’t until an hour later that he noticed he and Viola hadn’t touched their bowls of fresh fruit. Not wanting anything to go to waste, Janessa took care of it all for them while never missing a step in their conversation.

Chapter 2

With all of the changes over the last few years, the port city of Berek’s Harbor had yet to fully shed itself of the legend of being home to the Thieves’ Guild. Due to its history, most people passing through kept their free hand on their change purse without fail. Whether they were there to partake in the ample business transactions or on holiday didn’t matter. Most claimed they could feel the eyes of pickpockets and Halflings watching their every movement. The stories were often laughed off by the merchants and people living in the city, but there was one place no one wished to tread.

The southern portion of the city remained empty aside from a select few brave or ignorant enough to ignore the stories of the Deathlord. In the weeks following the destruction of the Deathlord and his army, the people wished to show their appreciation to the one responsible. In short order, the people handed a request to Gilliam to change the name of the city from Locksworth to Berek’s Harbor. The young man that served briefly as their mayor did everything he could to keep them safe, something Nom never went an hour without informing one of the citizens about. In the end, Gilliam was happy to accept the people’s choice.

As most legends begin, whisperings soon started among the people about the various feats of the young man they came to know simply as Berek. On the few occasions one of the citizenry was able to ask him, Gilliam would only smile and say he was a great man. Once again, Nom carried the torch for his old friend by not allowing anyone to forget their mayor was Berek’s uncle. His efforts proved invaluable in Gilliam being reelected the previous spring. Such a feat wasn’t one worthy of mentioning to most, until people began returning to the city and Berek’s Harbor took its previous place as a prosperous port city.

On the first anniversary of the Deathlord’s fall, the people of Berek’s Harbor set about to continue the celebration in their own way. Perhaps it was meant as a direct insult to the former Thieves’ Guild and its leader, but the Festival of Open Hands quickly became something the people looked forward to. It was the one time when money was put away and the merchants and people shared their goods with their neighbors. Anyone entering the city during the two-day festival would be allowed to take part if they desired.

Accomplishing something so grand filled Gilliam with a joy and pride he didn’t know existed before. In time, he learned to enjoy his position and the people he served. Such a thing was difficult to remain modest about, but Gilliam had proven himself worthy of such a burden. It was for that reason, and not the gold he was offered, that brought Nom to the southern section of the city.

Nom could hear the people’s voices little more than a stone’s throw from where he stood in the open doorway of an empty home. Despite his declarations to the contrary, he still didn’t feel comfortable there. Unlike his fellow citizens, his feeling was more of unrest than anything else. He could remember his conversation with Berek about the reason for that portion of the city being empty. A bugbear. The idea would’ve been laughable had he not believed such a thing himself. Since the moment he saw his friend return from battling the Deathlord, he knew the only reason for his own survival was due to Ragnar’s wishes. He supposed he did know what was happening, but what could one man do?

Scoffing at his cowardice, he spit into the street. One man with the courage needed could do more than one without a backbone. Maybe that was the reason he agreed to the meeting, to prove to himself he was worthy of being called a man and not a coward.

Despite his best efforts, Nom knew little about the individual he was to meet. When the first message arrived, he took it from the rider with a great deal of confusion. Written in a rough form of common, the words looked as though they were carved into stone by an untrained hand instead of being scribed. The writer wished a meeting for the benefit of Berek’s Harbor and wished to meet on a particular date. Thinking it was a jest from one of the guards under his command; Nom crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the fireplace.

With the message gone, his mind had turned back to the dealings with his station and the safety of those within the port city. Life had returned to normal until another message arrived written in the same script informing him of the need for a meeting. Fear took hold of Nom then, but it quickly passed as such feelings do and he chose to write back asking what would concern one to write the letter and sent it by rider to the town the letter originated from named Kemperpore. Within two weeks another arrived for him, that time naming a time and place for their meeting.

Throughout his life, few things unnerved the warrior as much as seeing those commands in halted and jagged script. With nothing more to gain from sending a response, he decided to wait. That was three months previous and the memory of the exchange remained fresh in his mind as he waited.

The day the first letter arrived surprised him. He never received a letter before then and their communication was brief and to the point. Since the letter originated in a town in the Wilderness, he picked their meeting place to frighten the person off as much as to remain out of sight of the populace. Reading the response stating the meeting place was sufficient nearly caused his heart to fail. So much for avoiding the strange call. Two months later, he found himself waiting for Gods only knew what.

Not sure who or what he was meeting, Nom brought a crossbow no larger than six inches with poison tipped arrows. While not deadly, the poison would paralyze his foe until he brought him to see Gilliam. While he didn’t like the idea of being singled out in such a way, he had to assume it was due to his past as a mercenary. Ideas ranging from it being a former comrade to a family member of one he killed, to thoughts of a jealous husband coming to take a pound of flesh in return for an unexpected babe. Whatever their reasoning was, he needed to find out what this was about and bring it to Gilliam’s attention without the fuss of an armed