Chronicles of the Dragonoid: Resurrection

By Brian Rankin

Chronicles of the Dragonoid by Brian Rankin

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781682136973

Book preview

Prologue

A Warming Past

The world was not always this way. There was a time where Valat had once expanded farther north in which now is known as the Forbidden Lands, but over time, civil war had left those parts bleak and lifeless. It is forbidden because of the pain it would bring to those who have fought and killed their own people. Or so they say.

Bloodshed was spilled not for the typical land or riches, but rather for the power that had coursed through their very veins. Elementalists as they were called. Men and women who had the capability of being able to summon searing flames as hot as the embers of a crucible, gales that could level buildings and fracture bones, crushing surfs of water; and ice colder than the most bitter of lands—they became praised like gods. Moreover, for that they fought. For dominance. They killed to show whose element was stronger, better.

Alliances had been forged like ingots into swords. Those who could control and bend the very air to their will had made a truce with Elementalists of Fire. Together they were able to rise up against the Elementalists of Water and of Ice, pushing their forces back into secluded areas of Valat, nearly eradicating them. It didn‘t take long before cities were governed by those certain elements. Over the strange course of time, four nations were chiseled into the soil. Each nation was named after the element that embodied its citizens. To the north lay the withered desert of the Firelands. To the east neighboring those born of fire was an immense green forest. Tens of thousands of emerald talons raked across the great expanse of azure sky covering the area known as the Woodlands. Farther to the south rose massive mountains with tips that could not be seen by the naked eye. This area was known as the Icelands. The fourth nation was separated by a stretch of undulating plains known as the Great Savannah—the only place in all of Valat that had remained unclaimed by any of the four nations. It was the smaller forest of the west, strewn with hundreds of lakes and marshes known as the Wetlands.

Yet even with the formations of the four nations there was still no order. Chaos spread like wildfire. Leaders endeavored to rise up, but soon they were betrayed by their own. One day the wise Plenipotentiaries devised a plan. The plan was simple. They sent out messengers to each Elementalist and announced that there would be a tournament where the winner of each element would become the lord over their own element and nation.

Many were eager to drink the goblet of power. Thousands of Elementalists crossed over the land to an island—smaller in comparison to Valat, but large enough that it could hold tens of thousands. There the tournament was held. The tournament waged on for two full days before the final rounds were held. Four victors rose from the accumulated victories: Lord Simous of the Firelands, Lord Eragous of the Wetlands, Lord Ontarious of the Woodlands, and Lord Daramious of the Icelands.

Peace and uniformity rained down upon the country of Valat as the four lords began to set their laws. Treaties, signed by the blood of those who had been in authority, had finally brought the order that was needed and brought an end to the senseless bloodshed.

Then came the Selsic Empire, the brutes of the east. Magic in any form was despised by the Selsians. It had become their sworn duty to expunge the world of what they had considered thieves who stole powers meant for no one other than the gods. They selected Valat to begin their campaign.

The Selsians used technology beyond comprehension and beyond our time to crumble our great walls. The walls fell as if they were made of pebbles and scattered about by a giant’s fist. But for what was coming next, we could only raise our shields and pray that we might live. Like a river, the Selsic Empire poured in by the thousands. We did not stand a chance. Weapons with the capability of dispatching handfuls of targets at once exploded throughout the streets and buildings, sending shards of clay through exposed flesh. It was a massacre.

Elementalists were the only hope Valat had. They fought till they could breathe no more. Expels of elements defended the cities within each nation, but even then it was not enough. As time had passed on, even the most powerful of Valat’s warriors were being dropped like insignificant, inadequate insects before the hand of the giants.

It wasn’t until the four lords of Valat assembled together for the first time in recorded history that our hope rekindled. To them, the only way to stand even the slightest of chances was to unite their forces into one. Singularly they would only continue to be crushed into nothing more than dust, waiting to be carried away by bitter, malign winds, but as a whole, the four nations would stand a chance. However, cold as their embodied elements, Lord Daramious and his commanding Elementalists were defiant to work beside those born of fire. They cursed the three other lords and left.

Months had passed before any sense had penetrated the egotistical, mental walls of Lord Daramious. Nearly half of his forces had fallen into pools of crimson that was fed by the liquid seeping through gorges in flesh. He at long last relented to the other lords of Valat. What remained of his forces was added to the army that had been accumulating in those months of battle.

With the aid of Lord Daramious and his Elementalists, a united force pushed back against the empire. Victory in one of many battles finally belonged to the Valatians, but it was far from over. Before the Selsic forces could regroup and pull their senses together, the lords had retreated into the precarious mountains. There they rebuilt and revitalized the army. It was the only safe haven that Valat had, for only with the help of an Elementalist of Ice could they enter the frosty realm.

For the next three years the war waged on. Blood grew so thick that even the water from the wells had been contaminated throughout the land. Back and forth the two forces clashed. More and more Valatian blood was spilt. Very few Elementalists were still alive. Hope dwindled, and all seemed to have been lost.

It was then when hope had vanished like a flickering tongue of fire being blown to oblivion that a light gleamed at the far reaches of the tunnel. An Elementalist rose with a mighty power. No one knew who he was and never had they seen him until that very day. It was as though he had been born of the lost hope, born from the ashes and bodies that had littered the land in every corner. The warrior approached the lords and like a true leader took control of the Valatian forces. No one objected.

Lord Eragous pulled the young warrior aside and demanded the warrior to identify himself. And he did. His name was Alcadias. Donning an armor of ethereal pure white that seemed to shimmer like the silver rays of the moon passing through a sheet of haze, Alcadias again took charge of the army. Pointing a mythical and godlike blade to the sky, he marched forward fearlessly. He had named the sword Llachar.

Single-handedly, Alcadias pushed back the empire with powers and skills that far exceeded that of any Elementalist known to mankind. Driving them back to the open waters from which they had come, the Selsic Empire finally retreated in fear of Alcadias. And after much bloodshed, the war had ended. Arms were thrown up in celebration, and the celebrations spread to every corner of the land. They had done it. As a united force and with the help of a stranger, they were able to drive back the seemingly unbeatable Selsic Empire. For that, Valat rejoiced.

Lord Simous, Lord Eragous, Lord Ontarious, and Lord Daramious once again pulled the stranger, Alcadias, aside. They thanked him, and they praised him. Without him, they would have surely have fallen and become like fossils buried in the deep confines of the Earth’s crust. Alcadias was given titles in recognition of his powers. He was likened unto dragons. And for that, the Valatian lords gave this young god the title of a Dragonoid. It became an honor greater than even that of the lords’.

Alcadias ruled over even the lords for years to come. During that time he met a young woman whose beauty was even greater than the angels. He kept her identity a secret, for Alcadias did not want her life to be ruined with the eminence as his own had. Together they moved to a village hidden somewhere deep within Valat. There they started a family, bearing one beautiful child in addition to Alcadias’s first child, the uncanny child called Aris. Eventually the power overwhelmed Alcadias as well as his eldest offspring who had inherited his powers. They waxed strong in animosity and abhorrence. In fear of his own power and in the mystical powers of Llachar, he poured his entity into the sword itself and separated those powers into three individual powers. These powers were sent to various locations in Valat never to be seen again. Then inexplicably, Alcadias and Aris both vanished in a mist of golden light.

A small leather-bound book closed with a distinct thud, spraying the expanse with dust that had turned rays of candlelight into visible shafts. Rising to his feet was a man in his middle years of his third decade. With a striking smile that would have swooned any woman he had chosen, he peered down at a young boy yet to reach his first decade. It was a young and delicate age that was filled with innocence.

And that, son, is the story of Alcadias, the first Dragonoid, said the man to his son.

A twinkle of anticipation gleamed in the boy’s rich, crimson eyes. Slowly, crawling from one corner of the bed to the other, a smile crossed his innocent features. Someday, Papa, he said in a voice spilling with even more innocence, I’ll save the world! The boy leaped to his feet and wrapped his tiny fingers around a carved stick made to resemble a sword. He weld it as if it were as tangible as the one dangling from his father’s belt. He cleaved through the air at an enemy only he could see.

The father chuckled softly as he watched his ever-growing child swing the stick around with surprising form for someone only six years of age. He would be a fine warrior in the years to come and go. Well, Atticus, he said with his lips slightly twisting upward, every hero needs a good-night’s rest, or he can’t save the world.

I don’t, rebelled Atticus with a grin as wide as his face. He began to run around the room illuminated by a hearth nuzzled in the breasts of a chimney, acting as though he were chasing after some unseen foe, wanting to duel them. Besides, Papa, I’m not even tired.

Again, the father loosened another adoring chuckle. Calculating the precise timing, he swooped down like a falcon and snatched his son by the armpits. Atticus laughed with pure bliss. Spinning the young lad, the father joined in with the euphoric laughter.

You know, the father said, gently setting his little boy back onto the down-feathered mattress, Alcadias even went to bed every night.

Atticus’s eyes widened incredulously. He did?

Every night, his father promised.

Atticus desperately scrambled underneath his beddings, rolling around till he was flat on his back and his tiny fingers hooking around the linen sheets. Snuggled tightly in his bed, he gawked up at his father.

Once he was securely tucked in, his father strolled to his side in four long strides. Ever so tenderly he leaned over and kissed the boy upon the brow. Good night, my little hero. His voice was genuine and filled with a love only a father could exhibit toward his son. With a breath, all but one candle was blown out. The extinguished flames summoned a sheet of darkness that gathered around the single flickering inferno. All felt safer to the boy with that one little flame. The father gyrated on his heels and stepped toward the cedar door.

Papa? called Atticus just before his father could close the door.

He popped his head back in the dim lit room and smiled. Yes, little one?

Do you think the Selsians will return? He struggled to announce the foreign word.

I sure hope not.

What if they do? he asked in complete innocence. It made the boy’s father smile yet again.

They won’t, he told his son. The Selsians are a poor, beaten people now. Their empire may be big, but they are in such a state where they can’t even take care of their own. They won’t come back.

And if they do, I will stop them like Alcadias did!

Atticus’s father smiled even brighter and wider. I’m sure you would. Now go to bed, son. Again, he made to close the door and leave his son to slumber.

Papa?

Once more, he paused just before departing from the room with a sigh. Yes, son?

I love you.

Warmth spread through the father’s veins, making him smile all the more at his son. I love you too. Don’t you ever forget that. Do you understand?

Yes, Papa. Atticus gave a yawn as his energy began to deplete finally. Always and forever.

Yes, agreed his father, always and forever. Good night, son.

And finally, the father was able to leave his son and return to his own quarters for the night, but before he made for his own chambers, he halted in place and stared up at the ceiling shrouded in darkness. His smile had yet to fade. Just hearing his son tell him that he loved him had warmed him beyond recognition. He couldn’t help but think of how proud his beloved wife would have been to see how strong young Atticus had grown. It had been nearly five years since her passing. Rough these years may have been, but with Atticus they had been manageable.

A yawn escaped his lips. Snapping back into reality, he gave an exhausted stretch and resumed his trek back to his bedchambers.

1

World in Ruins

Eighteen years later

Sweat slowly crawled and crawled across thick black ropes of hair, desperate to reach the edge of its long-awaited journey. Finally, the end was within reach. Then releasing its clinging grip upon the eternal darkness of his hair, it fell to the sandy ground below. Grains of the golden red sand coated the droplet till it was completely concealed.

Atticus stood upon his hands, demanding discipline from his already lean and muscular body. Waves of the scorching desert sun—dry and utterly merciless—pressed against the bare skin of his upper torso, which had been bronzed and tanned as rich as caramel. With one last strained effort, his arms bent outward, and his head dipped to the sandy desert floor. Then he exuded all of his strength into rising back to full extent. One hundred straight. A held breath escaped ever so slowly, and he gracefully wheeled himself to his bare feet. Hot sand bit and gnawed at the bareness of his exposed flesh.

He bent forward, resting his hands on his knees, and utilized that momentary hiatus to catch what breath he had lost. In and out, nice and slowly. After months of continual practice he was finally able to control his diaphragm from convulsing, the results of not being able to breathe properly or efficiently. It was a technique that he found necessary, especially if he was going to be competing in the annual tournament.

Barely even in his second decade of life, Atticus was still young. If he were to stand even the slightest of chances, he would have to dedicate years to disciplining and honing his prowess with both swordsmanship and his elemental capabilities. And that was what he had done.

Taking a seat underneath the canvas cast shade, he allowed himself and his muscles to relax. It was tremendously hot that day and even though the heat didn’t bother him in the slightest; he always found a little bit of comfort in the cooling shade. Soon his throbbing heart and inflating lungs slowed into a steady cadence with one another. Reaching over to his side, he retrieved a reptilian-leather canister that emanated with an even cooler aura. Streams of water poured out from the iron-cast lip and down into his rough, dry throat.

A few brief moments had passed before Atticus stood once again. Each muscle was given a brief stretch. Despite the protests from his screaming muscles and limbs, he finished his stretches without pause. Nothing was going to bring him down to his knees, not even pulsating aches as sharp as these. This was something he simply could not allow to occur. For grandiloquence, he gave his limbs one last stretch, wanting this time around to hear those pleading protests of aches and pains. No, he would not quit because of an ache or bruise.

Immediately upon finishing his stretches, he faced south and took off in a steady jog. Like splashes of water, sand sprayed in heavy mists as his feet pounded the ground. Every heated stride made him feel more alive, making him move in a consistent speed. Due to the rough topography of the land, his dexterity was well honed, allowing him to glide over jutting stones and angled slopes and leap over fallen logs and other obstacles while maintaining his balance. His body absorbed the immense dryness, caramelizing his skin even further.

Within the next mile, a pillar of naturally shaped sandstone erected from the center of a steep dune. The incline taxed his body even more, making him yearn to yield and take rest. However, Atticus was tenacious and pressed on till he reached the landmark. Slapping the stone formations with his palm, he gyrated around it and resumed the rest of his cardio exercise back to the start.

Moments later as he veered around the corner of a mountainous pile of rocks, the familiarity of his home city came back into view. A conflagration of various colors beyond what the desert itself bore identified the Fireland capital. A massive congregation of houses made from both timber and stone circled an immense obsidian hued citadel. The timber had been shipped in from the Woodland Nation. Just outside the city’s sixty-foot wall was his small canvassed shelter he used for his daily exercise. He came to a steady halt and sat back down in the cool embrace of the shade.

His chest rose and fell faster than he could count. Each dry breath that he took felt as if he were trying to inhale a handful of needles, sharp and painful. Squeezing his eyelids tightly shut, he found and focused upon the rhythm and worked his way toward calming the contracting diaphragm. Once he was sure that he could hold any liquid, he retrieved the reptilian-leather canister. The water was smooth and refreshing to the famished regions of his throat. If he could, he would have drunk the entire canister in a single gulp, but alas, his limited breath betrayed him, and he was forced to withdraw from the cool iron lips of the canister.

Tomorrow, he muttered to himself in the Fireland’s native tongue between each breath.

This time, Atticus allowed himself an extended period of rest. Each of his pleading muscles abated in their aching burns of fatigue and exhaustion to the point where Atticus could comfortably flex. For a moment he studied his own physique, seeking out any tale-tell sign of potential improvement. Disappointed, he saw none. At last his body had finally hit his plateau, and no matter how hard he continued to drive himself, he would still remain the same.

Just then, the faint sound of hooves clopping against cobblestone reached his ears, snapping him back into the real world and commanding his attention. Farther ahead upon the nearby cobbled road emerging from the opened gates of the capital came a rather small pony trotting with a young boy no older than ten years of age. It was none other than the lord’s house pager.

Master Atticus! he eagerly called out. Once he had caught up, he slowed the gait from a trot to a walk and eventually a full stop. Master Atticus, he called again in Firelandic.

Reaching over to a slightly damp cloth, Atticus retrieved it and swept away a stream of sweat that gleamed as brightly as any polished floorboard. For a split second he debated whether to stand and greet the page as a proper Firelander should. With a sigh, he stuck to tradition as all Firelanders did and rose. A fist pressed against his bare left breast, and Atticus gave the page a stiff bow as if his hips were upon hinges.

Being addressed the traditional way by a master of the nation sent a rush of excitement through the boy. Almost maladroitly, the young new page dropped from his pony and returned the ancient traditional greeting. After both had said, Greetings, in their language, the page said, I’m sorry for the intrusion, Master Atticus.

Tradition now over, Atticus returned to the comfort of his seat, took a long swig from his leather canister, then said after a contented sigh, There’s nothing to be sorry for. Now, what can I do for you?

Lord Cedric would like to speak with you.

Of course he would. Setting aside the canister and suppressing a longing to smile, he said, Tell our lord that I will be with him shortly.

Yes, Master Atticus, said the novelty page. In a brisk motion, the page pressed that small fist of his to his breast and dipped forward in the traditional bow meant not only for greetings, but for farewells as well.

Forgive me if I do not return such farewell. I’m exhausted.

Yes, master. I understand, sir.

Carry on, boy.

The page pivoted on the balls of his feet and scurried back onto his lightly saddled pony that was nearly as tall as he was. He situated himself and, with a tug of the reins, steered the young pony and trotted back onto the cobbled road. Soon he vanished out of sight behind the gates of the capital. Atticus watched after him unable to suppress a smile. The boy reminded Atticus of his own childhood so many years ago before he had received his lashings of truth, stripping away his own innocence. He was forced to see that soon he had to grow up and move out on his own.

With a shake of his head, Atticus held the cold iron lips to his own and swallowed another long gulp. Lord Cedric, the Lord of the Fireland Nation, had summoned him. It had been a while since his last visit with the lord, he realized. Upon a jutting, stone beneath the canvas draped the remainder of his clothing. He snatched up a thin linen shirt and pulled it over his head. It was so soft as well as light and airy. When a breeze passed him by, the shade cooled it down several degrees, and the breeze wafted through the fibers as easily as they would have a field of grass and wheat. Once he tucked the long-sleeved linen shirt into his sandy-brown trousers, he donned a tunic of silky crimson, the same hue as his very own eyes. Upon the breast was stitched the Fireland’s insignia: a flaming scorpion. Only a master such as himself and those of the citadel were given the badge to stitch to their clothing. Lastly, a belt as black as his hair with a long, curved cutlass was wrapped around his waist and tightened. All that was needed now were his black leather boots and black satin scarf to prevent the sun from burning the back of his neck.

When fully dressed, he gawked down at his sword and patted the pommel fondly. Another perk, he guessed, of being a master was that he could carry a bladed weapon. Since the start of the Age of the Lords, to prevent civil bloodshed, the lords decreed that all four nations restrict such weapons beyond mere kitchen knives to only the nation’s guard, the noble houses, and whoever the lord personally granted the authority to. As much as Atticus didn’t like being a master, this was one thing he valued. With the privilege of steel, he was able to properly train himself outside the sword master’s chambers. Ultimately, he was able to better prepare himself for the tournament.

Atticus gathered what belongings he had brought out with him, stuffed them into his spacious satchel, and swung it over his head and shoulders. With that, and a quick comb of his sweaty hair with his fingers, he made his way back to the mighty Fireland capital. As usual around this time of the day, the streets were bustling with activity. Markets were brimful with both men and women alike, each seeking to replenish their provisions. Children scuffled about playfully with one another, suffusing the expanse with their laughter. Games were being played at street corners. Couples sat beneath the umbrellas of particular outdoor taverns. Every so often there would be the flash of fire that took to the sky. Elementalists. The Elementalists were demonstrating their skills and strengths for a small crowd.

Atticus ambled down the cobblestone street looking around at his home. And to think that this was the poorer side of the capital. Here, buildings averaged two stories, but when it came to houses, most were only single storied with three rooms, maybe four if you were lucky. Windows were either left open without glass or closed permanently with shutters. Glass panes were expensive. Doors barely fit into the portals, leaving gaps wide enough for rodents to speed in to escape the sweltering heat. Most of the lower-class citizens garbed themselves in old and worn clothing passed down by the generations. Such a sight had always caused Atticus’s heart to sink. Lord Cedric had done all that he could to help, but that didn’t ever seem to be enough.

Despite the poverty here in the outer parts of the illustrious capital, the citizens were always the happier, more blissful ones, having come to appreciate things more than what those of middle and upper class had. Their spirits were always beaming.

To the right, as Atticus passed by, a group of young women began to giggle like little girls all over again. Curious, Atticus glimpsed over to them. The young women bobbed their fingers in a bashful wave of hello, and the bravest of the group squeaked out, Good day, Master Atticus. Such blithe and euphoria. He loved the outskirts.

Atticus dipped his chin to the young women, their diffidence obvious. Even so, just a mere acknowledging nod was enough to send flushes of bright red across all their faces. They giggled again and turned shyly away, only to peer over their shoulders and follow Atticus with their beaming eyes.

Several others greeted him as well, though not with nearly as much adulation as those young women. He wound himself through the streets of the vast, familiar city. Guardsmen patrolling on duty dipped their chins as he passed, and he likewise did the same to them. All within the city knew Atticus, and they knew him quite well. After all, he was a master, a noble, and a respected one at that.

He took a right through a shaded alley between a column of older buildings in the outskirts, exiting on another street, and took several strides ahead. Before him a simple single-leveled house soon came into view. Two set of shutters covered the glass panes and each window flanked an arching dark oak door. An iron-cast lever protruded from the well-crafted door. Glimmering dully in the hot desert sun dangled a wind chime. It was there where Atticus drew to a halt, gave a twist of the lever, and propped open the door. Shadows played and mantled the various corners of the room. Shafts of light seeped through in visible beams through the cracks of the shutters and drifting dust particles. Yet through the shadows, he was able to identify the various objects in the room with ease.

Upon the wall just out of reach by the shafts of light was an oiled lantern, hanging upon the iron claws nailed to the planked walls of cedar. He took a long breath. Home sweet home. With a flick of his wrist, a tongue of fire as brilliant as that of the sun materialized over the palm of his extended hand. He gave another little twitch of his wrist, and the molten sphere of elemental fire no bigger than a large apple hissed through the air. The element splashed within the opened lantern, igniting the oiled wick within. Steadily, the shadows cast by the thick walls and ceiling melted away as the light grew.

The room was sparsely furnished with only two chairs separated by a short rectangular table angled toward a brick fireplace. The fireplace was built against the wall to the far left of the door. On either side of the fireplace were small bookshelves lined with leather-bound books. From months of constant wear, the floorboards had become polished nearly to the point of being able to see your own reflection. In the opposite corner of the room, parallel to the entrance portal, was another portal. It held no door to conceal the inner contents and was framed rectangular rather than arced at the top. What light that poured through to that room was from the lantern Atticus had just ignited with his element. Beyond that room there was another, but Atticus did not reveal what lay in that room. Instead, he stopped to the wooden pegs upon the wall and hung his satchel from the leather straps.

He withdrew his canister, padded to the short two-foot table, took a long swig, and placed it upon the surface. Again he ran his fingers through his long black hair, pulling it back and behind his ears. He felt suddenly anxious. This was it. This would be only the second time in a year that he had seen the Valatian Lord of Fire. It was a good anxiety, the excited sort. Rarely was a commoner summoned, lest they be felons. It was even more rare that nobles like himself were summoned. The Lord of Fire was a busy man.

This summons ought not to take very long, he thought. Then with another breath he blew out the flame and stepped back onto the lively streets. With a thud he closed the door behind him, turning to the direction of the lord’s citadel. Atticus began his saunter through the masses. Over and over again as he wound his way through, he was greeted with the highest of regard and respect. Here these folk loved and adored him. After all, he was the only high upper-class citizen to have gone out of his way to live with them, dine with them, work with them, and do things that only they did. Through that hard, diligent work he built the house he had just left with his own hands, sweat, and hard-earned bronze, silver, and gold. The truth as to why he didn’t like being who he was, was difficult to explain.

Master Atticus, called a women in common. A slim, beautiful woman sped to his side, bearing a reed-woven basket from the Wetland Nation. Her eyes shimmered with an eerie blue that was as beautiful as she was. That alone told Atticus that she was Wetlandic.

Atticus responded in common a well, What could I do for you, woman? His voice was kind and polite.

My daughter and I came here for your generosity. We’re poor and are in need of money. Fireland coin is the same value as any other coin. I have some fruit from the Wetlands for you if you could be so kind as to help us and purchase some. From the reed basket, she revealed a good armful of various fruits unique to the woman’s nation.

Pausing, Atticus glimpsed in. His stomach rumbled lowly, and he realized that indeed he was actually quite hungry. Just by his deliberation alone, hope flickered in those eerie blue eyes of hers. Then he sighed, relenting to both his hunger and the Wetlander’s desperate hope. I’ll give you a gold piece for the whole basket.

His response gave her a look of pure incredulity. She had not expected such generosity. Tears brimmed those Wetlandic blue eyes. In her own tongue she spewed what Atticus could only have guessed was gratitude. When she realized that she was going off, she halted and blushed. Thank you, Master Atticus, she corrected herself in the common tongue.

With that, Atticus fished out a gold coin stamped with the blazing scorpion and resumed his trek for the citadel. High about the zenith of its arc, the sun scorched the deserts of the Firelands with its dry heat. Most outsiders or visitors who came to the Firelands would do just about anything to escape the heat, but Atticus almost welcomed it. Just another perk of being born with fire in your blood, he supposed.

As the streets wound about, Atticus was soon striding through the middle-class parts. More of these buildings were double storied if not three. Bases had been made of a black obsidian-like stone only less fragile, elevating those homes five feet where visitors would have need to scale a small set of stairs to the entering portal. Unlike the outskirts, most businesses here were built with walls and a rooftop rather than an umbrella resting upon a wagon or cart, though that was not to say there were no carts in the higher-classed regions.

Eventually Atticus was striding into the upper-classed regions where he, lawfully, ought to be living among the other nobles and wealthy. Most buildings were erected as high as six stories and were made mostly of black glossy stone ten times stronger than its cousin, obsidian. Those that preferred the quarters of timber built their houses with the most expensive timber, white cedar with fine grains and wrinkles faintly touched with a pinkish tone.

Every time he saw such grandiose, he felt a stab of animosity. How could they live this way when nearly half the capital’s population was living in such poverty? Moreover, that was not including the hundreds of smaller town and cities strewn throughout the nation’s boundaries.

Ahead, a familiar view came to sight. With no other buildings built within fifty yards rose the rampart boxing the grand citadel of the Firelands. Only four gates—north, east, west, and south—stood to grant access. Upon the parapets and portcullises patrolled armed guardsmen with stern features. But they were not ordinary guardsmen. These were palace guards, better trained and skilled in both swordsmanship and in elements than any other guard. They were distinguished by their armor. It was a shade or two darker than the standard guardsmen’s gray. The armor was form-fitted to them personally, and the citadel’s insignia of the scorpion set aflame stitched and filled with actual gold lacings in the center of their breastplates.

Both palace and wall were made of the same glossy black stone as hard as diamonds. The palace itself was enormous, stretching for the sky with four-pointed spires. Just looking at it filled Atticus with awe despite how many times he had seen the citadel. It exuded both beauty and raw authority.

Painted gold cedar gates cranked open upon his approach, revealing to him the stretch of black and charcoal-gray cobblestoned pathway leading straight across the spacious courtyard and to the elevated oak doors. Along that pathway stood dozens of granite pillars, chiseled into embellished copies of the thirtyfold-sized spires at each corner of the palace.

Upon the adjacent ground patrolled numerous members of the palace guard. Their darker charcoal-gray, form-fitted armor drank the light of the blazing desert sun yet at the same time was able to reflect with the faint polish. Swords swung at their hips, sheathed in black-dyed scabbards studded with iron rivets for embellishments. Each of them had also a quiver of thirty across their backs one way and a long bow of yew over the other. They patrolled with long halberds, edges honed sharp with whetstones.

Each of the palace guardsmen held a fierce visage, but in truth, Atticus knew each of them personally. None were as hard nor as chiseled as they had appeared. Only a few held to that reputation.

Atticus scurried up the steps and onto the elevated pathway. Guardsmen titled their heads to him as he strode on by, but as was protocol, they spoke not a word unless it was the standard greeting of Master Atticus and maintained stern expressions although some had wanted to grin at some inside joke they shared with Atticus. More guardsmen stood at the flanks of the great arched doors. As he approached, they gave Atticus a steep bow, saying, Master Atticus, and then prying the gates open. With a nod of appreciation, Atticus stepped on in. Doors closed behind him with a shuddering thud.

The immediate hall was lonely of life. None but Atticus stood within. Torches lined the hall alongside polished firestone pillars that stretched up to the high-vaulted ceilings of the entrance hall. Beautifully done mosaics decorated the walls between each pillar, each one depicting some scene from the Fable of Alcadias. Upon each pillar a few feet above the flames of the torches draped the banners of the Firelands with the flaming insignia of a scorpion. Despite how many times Atticus strolled this hall, it had never ceased to captivate him.

Turning down the center of the long hall, a soft, velvety red carpet paved the way. Threads of gold rimmed the edges. From where he entered, it stretched all the way down to the second set of tall cedar doors.

Flanking the doors at the end were two more palace guardsmen. With steep bows, they pushed in the doors, revealing the most comely, picturesque chamber. Just in this room, he could fit more than a dozen of his own houses within. Dangling from the high-vaulted ceiling gripped fabulously encased candles like small undulated personages raising above their heads flickering infernos. Adding to the illumination were a series of braziers lining the walls on either side, their larger tongues licked the air calmly at first, but when the doors were opened, they flickered angrily, taken out of cadence with their serene capering. Doors closed, and the flames soon relaxed.

The room was nearly empty of all life. Only five figures were present and moved about. Three of them were young maids who scrubbed the marble tiles fiercely as if they were attempting to erase evidence that only they could see. The other two were both well-known to Atticus and all those in the dry desert of the Firelands as well as throughout Valat. Standing next to the throne was a tall rugged man garbed in a plain tunic. His head was shaved bald, catching the light of the countless flames just right. He wore two long, curved blades across his back with three daggers sheathed at angles on each thigh and another two across his chest.

The last man sitting upon the throne abruptly rose to his feet and raised his arms out wide. A smile cut its way across hard, wizened features. Lord Cedric, the Lord of the Fireland Nation.

As custom, Atticus dropped to a knee shortly before the throne. My Lord, he said humbly. What is it I can do for you?

Still smiling widely, the lord said in a loud, powerful voice, Is it too much to ask for to see my only son?

Atticus let out a brief chuckle then rose back up. Of course not, Father.

Come, the lord said, waving his hands.

With no protest, Atticus bolted forward, and the two collided into a tight embrace. It had been a long time since he had fallen into his father’s arms. He couldn’t help but smile and squeeze his father even tighter, until his aching muscles could constrict no more. Since his inauguration of manhood with his sixteenth year of life, moments like this became rare.

It’s been far too long, said Lord Cedric.

And you, Father.

They pulled away and cupped their hands over each other’s shoulders. For a moment longer, they stared into each other’s eyes. Both with startling crimson irises like small polished rubies. Then his father sized him up by examining his physique from head to toe and back up. My, my, he said, shaking his head in disbelief. You’re growing into a mighty young man. Oh, your mother and aunt would be so proud of you, son.

That’s all I want—Atticus smiled—to make my mother and you proud. I’ve been training for endless hours over the past year for the tournament.

And it appears that the training has been in your favor. Lord Cedric removed his hand and placed it at his side. However, what you do, you should do for yourself and not for others—some fatherly wisdom for you, son, take it or leave it. He paused then grinned. Come, walk with me.

Of course, Father. Atticus continued to smile and gave a nod.

Bacchus, Lord Cedric said to the man standing silently to the side, if any come requesting an audience for me, inform them that I am with my son.

Yes, my lord. The man Bacchus gave Lord Cedric a reassuring nod then flashed Atticus a wink.

Atticus returned the wink with a smile of his own. Bacchus, was all that he said. He turned to his father, and the two of them made way to one of the two staircases in the room’s far corners behind the throne. Taking the one to the right, he and his father climbed the stairs at a luxurious pace. Neither were in any hurry. Business for the citadel would be taken care of. Bacchus would perform well with any task assigned to him. Nearly halfway up, Atticus said, Looking older with all that gray hair in your beard, old man.

Cedric chuckled, his voice echoing across the narrow case. Aye, I am older, but remember, so are you. He gently nudged his son on the arm. Your friend, he then said, Ryder, I hear is entering the tournament as well.

You’re kidding me? Atticus called out in excitement and slight incredulity. Where did you hear that?

Lord Cedric raised a brow and peered over to his son. I’m a lord, Atticus. He grinned again, saying no more. Atticus suppressed a laugh at the dry humor exhibited by his father. Word is, he eventually said, that he and a few other Woodland competitors will be stopping by here in the Firelands to travel with our competitors.

And he hasn’t told me, said Atticus, shaking his head, incredulous.

Have you told him you were competing?

Of course!

Cedric shrugged and let loose another brief guffaw. They reached the end of the winding stairs that ended with a short hall illuminated by the soft glow of a blazing torch. At the end was a single-rounded door. Cedric reached out and pushed open the door. Iron hinges groaned with protest as they gyrated in place.

Scorching light broke through the ever-widening crack. For a brief second the two had to shield their eyes till they were adjusted accordingly. Beyond the sharp rays of light, Atticus was able to identify where they were. They were standing upon the rooftop of the citadel, overlooking the rough yet beautiful Firelands. Each corner was shaded with a large canopy where alternating patrolmen carrying finely crafted bows rested. Barrels dispensed water into the mugs of those who were taking temporary reprieve.

The soldiers noticed their lord and master appear and snapped into attention. My lord, they said briskly and with a sharp salute. After addressing the lord first, they turned to Atticus and returned the greetings to him.

Cedric waved them off and continued to lead Atticus to the edge of the rooftop where a small three-foot wall protected any from falling over the edge. It was there they stopped. Several minutes of admiring the beauty that was their homeland had passed before either spoke. It was Lord Cedric who broke that silence, saying, The tournament is different than from a spectator’s perspective. In the arena, people get hurt. I—

Father, interrupted Atticus, placing a hand on his father’s shoulder, thank you for your concern and all, but I can handle this. I’m not a child anymore.

A sympathetic smile crossed Cedric’s face. Well then, he breathed, turning his gaze back to the beautiful desert scenery. Make me proud. Not many lords even allow their only heirs to participate in such dangerous games. But, son, I will give you my blessing in this.

Warmth spread through Atticus like a fire. He smiled in adoration. His father had spoken truly. As an only heir to the throne of lordship, it was generally looked down upon to have that heir participate in such an event. There have been deaths in the tournament in years past. Peering over to his father, he said, Thank you, Father. I won’t let you down. I promise.

Again, silence had over taken the two. In the far distance, Atticus spotted a massive cyclone of sand ripping across some dune before vanishing in the midst of barren mountains of stone. Moments more another whipped up. From the distance each one held a particular splendor that only a Firelander could appreciate.

Once more Lord Cedric was responsible for breaking the silence that had fallen. It has been a while, he said, and you’re growing older by the seasons.

Atticus’s expression darkened. He knew where his father was going with the conversation. At least once every time they would meet, they would speak of this. And every time the topic would digress into bubbling resentment and dispute. However, Atticus had expected this; he was only waiting for the when of it.

I know, continued Cedric, that this is a sensitive subject to you, but you need to find yourself a woman—a wife.

Father—

Before you get too— Lord Cedric continued not hearing his son.

Atticus spoke again though a little louder this time. Father, I—

—old, son, Cedric went on as if uninterrupted.

Father! shouted Atticus. Heavy silence fell over the two like a thick, wet wool canvas. Tension was so tight that the slightest twang could snap it. Atticus took a few deep breaths and dared to peer over to his father who looked as though a knife had been thrust into his side. He sighed and leaned against the short wall with his elbows. Studying the intricate weaving hues of the stone’s grains, he looked for the right words to say. With another deep, controlled breath, he said softly, I am tired that every time we meet we must have this conversation, and I’m tired that it always ends in such a dispute. I’m not yet ready, and when I am, I will seek out a spouse. I have not forsaken that, Father. So please, stop bringing it up. For once I want to have a good conversation with my father.

Cedric was quiet for a long span. He gazed into the shimmering heat that obscured the true identity of what the shapes were. Then, he said, I understand. I only look to see that you find happiness.

I know, and I thank you for that, said Atticus without hesitation, but this is my life, and I can’t have you controlling it. Let me get these things done on my own time.

You are my only child. If you grow any older, you may not be able to find a fruitful wife capable of producing a child to take lordship when you pass away, which is inevitable, son.

Is that all this is about? retorted Atticus with a quick glare. So not about me but you and in keeping the throne of the lords in our lineage?

Our family has held onto it since Lord Simous. And because of that, we have prospered. I only trust our family in leading this nation.

Has it ever occurred to you that I never wanted to rule over anyone?

You are heir, and therefore you must.

Says you. What about what I say?

Yes, says me, your father! Lord Cedric snapped irritably. And your grandfathers before you and so on. Learn to respect that, boy. You are still young and have much to learn in that regard. So when I pass, you will take the throne and lead this country like those before us. And you will do so with dignity and pride, for no other house of lords has kept the throne for so long as we.

The deep resentment and vexation within Atticus morphed into a sudden sadness as vehement as the deepest gorge in the valleys. He was tired of the constant bickering between his father and himself. But this time topics and words had crossed the threshold into hostility. And now, regret swelled around his heart for the first time. What has become of us, Father? he sighed. Didn’t we used to live, laugh, and love?

Lord Cedric remained silent.

Worry pulsed through Atticus. Father?

I, said Cedric in a dark tone, obviously filled with hurt and pain, think it’s best that you leave, Atticus. Go and finish your training. I’m sorry to have intruded upon it. If I have need of you again, I’ll summon you. He let loose another sigh. That is, if you ever have time…

Now it was his turn to feel the cold blade thrust in his side. However much he wanted to stay with his father, he didn’t argue. Instead, he gave a silent nod, turned on his heels, and slowly walked away. His moves were lethargic as though his father’s words had sucked the life straight from him.

Atticus.

He stopped and peered over his shoulder.

I love you and always will. Don’t forget that. Nothing can change that.

Atticus crooked his gaze to the stones at his feet, finding it all the more interesting than the disparity. He sighed and with a barely audible tone replied likewise, I love you too, Father. And with that, he entered back into the cool shade of the citadel and left his father upon the rooftops.

Within a few moments he emerged in the throne room. Ignoring the concerned expressions given by the maids still scrubbing away, he stormed right pass them. Without any invitation, Bacchus moved from his last known position and walked beside him.

Atticus didn’t argue and allowed the man to walk with him. Bacchus didn’t say anything. It was a mutual bond that the two had shared with each other. Atticus continued forward, exiting the throne room and soon the citadel. As soon as the doors closed shut behind, a curse fell from his tongue. Why must it always end this way? he asked Bacchus.

Perhaps, said Bacchus, his voice as calm as his demeanor, it is you who drags down your relationship with your father.

A leer shot over in Bacchus’s direction. It is not I who brings up the topic.

But it is you who allows it to affect you so negatively.

I— He stopped himself, realizing he could not refute the given statement. There was truth embedded in every grain in Bacchus’s words. He sighed. Perhaps…

Atticus made his way down the steps with Bacchus still at his side. They were silent for a while not wanting to break the serenity that cloaked them. After a few minutes, he asked, You seem to be quieter than usual. Are you not happy with your new position as sword master?

Bacchus snorted in dry humor. Sword master is only a title, not a source of happiness. He paused for a moment to take a deep breath. Soon, I fear there will be a storm coming our way—a storm of the likes we have never seen before.

Then we prepare. Atticus looked to the azure sky, cloudless in all that the eyes could see. We prepare like we have always done with every storm that has come our way.

Your ignorance, chuckled Bacchus, brings a smile to my face. I hope you should know.

Puzzlement caused Atticus to raise a brow.

Before he could ask, Bacchus further elaborated. The storms you are accustomed to compare nothing to the storm that I fear. But I have said too much and have taken too much of your time. You have training to do. Let us depart here. He left no room for Atticus to further inquire. Coming to a complete halt and patting him on the shoulder, Bacchus added, I hope you are prepared for what is to come. He curved on his heels and trudged away.

Bacchus, wait! Atticus called out. What do you mean?

The sword master continued onward till he vanished back within the large citadel.

Blasted old men, cursed Atticus. Pivoting, he returned to his course toward the large painted gold gates. Before moving toward, it he again viewed the cloudless sky. There wasn’t even the slightest sign of a storm as far as he could see. All he could see was the slashes of orange, red, pink, and all the colors of a setting sun. What did he mean?

Realizing that by the time he returned home it would be nightfall, he snapped back into reality and made his way through the streets. Ever so slowly they emptied, making Atticus’s journey quicker. Elementalists flicked their wrists, summoning orbs of blazing infernos in a blink of an eye. The spheres were sent flying through the air with skilled accuracy, splashing against the streetlight braziers. Flames erupted. Light that was not yet too noticeable came to life. Their tiny flames danced in cadence with one another.

Conflagrations of purple, orange, blue, and green weaved in exquisite patterns. People began to close their doors and shutters. Markets were shut down, all except for the few taverns and pubs strewn about and across the massive capital. As the city emptied and the beauty of the sunset dimmed, the temperatures began to take a sharp turn in the other direction. Without proper clothing, the cold of the night could be detrimental.

Atticus wound through the emptying streets. Then a rather peculiar conversation wafted into his ears. He came to a stop and opened his ears to hear better.

Is almost here, said a disembodied voice in a nearing whisper.

You’re not bluffing this time, are you? came a second voice.

Their voices were distant and barely audible. For reasons that could not be identified, there was something drawing Atticus toward the conversation. Perhaps it was the discreteness of whomever it was speaking. Atticus shook his head, rendering his curiosity and suspicion as pointless. It was caused by Bacchus’s little game he played earlier.

He took another step away.

Aye, came out of his mouth this time, said the first voice. Master Atticus was given his warning. He is a good man, you know. I just hope that he takes the warning to heart and leaves!

Atticus froze. His heart skipped a beat. Warning? He was never given a warning. Not once. Now he was fully engrossed into the topic. Instead of stepping away, he moved toward the voices. In seconds he emerged at the mouth of an alleyway shrouded in darkness. Not a touch of light graced the alley. However dark it was, Atticus was able to identify two figures cloaked and hidden.

So that means the time has come?

Aye. The time has…shh! Do you hear that? We’re being watched. Let’s go!

The two figures scurried to the street opposite of Atticus. Then they vanished behind the buildings. For a brief span, Atticus stood there in deep thought, wondering what had just transpired. What warning was given to him and when? Not only that, but who gave it? As far back as his memory would allow, he still could not recall any recent warnings except his father’s concern for the tournament.

Shaking his head, he pulled himself back into reality.

Master Atticus?

Alarmed by the sudden voice, Atticus nearly fell to his back. Standing there, across the dim-lit street was a young woman a full head shorter than he. Atticus cleared his throat and regained composure. Sariah, he said, recalling this particular woman’s name. What brings you out after hours?

The attractive young lady gave him a bashful smile for remembering her name from their last encounter. A lot on my mind. She pulled her dark-brown hair like flexible branches behind her ears, revealing her startling bloodred eyes. Walk with me?

Of course. Stepping over to her side, Atticus arched his arm out for Sariah to take hold of. Once she did, they began their stroll. For quite some time neither spoke, but rather enjoyed the silence and each other’s company. He had become acquainted with Sariah only a few months ago when he had saved her from a wrong execution of justice in the market. Since then they had become quite close.

At last Atticus broke the silence by asking, What is it that troubles you?

My father, she said it with a slight chuckle and sigh mixed together. He has been hounding me since I have flowered and became a woman to find a suitable man. He says if I wait too long, I will likely be too old for any man to set eyes upon and that I’ll become nothing more than an old woman in the future. I needed to get away for a while. So here I am. She peered over to him and smiled gently and magnificently. What about you? What troubles you to be out this late in the evening?

Would it be insane if I said the same?

Sariah giggled. Perhaps. Is that so?

Aye. My father just had a similar talk with me a half hour ago. I’m just heading home now from all that. He gestured back to the citadel.

Really?

Atticus suppressed his smile. Aye. Really. They shared a moment of laughter as they ambled down the streets. At long last they approached a two-tiered house with two lanterns perched upon iron hands on each flank of the door. Rough desert flowers as black as the night sat in clay pots upon the windowsills. Well, here you are, Sariah.

Releasing her hold on his arm, Sariah stepped toward the door and turned around to face Atticus. She gave him a small yet graceful curtsey. Thank you, Atticus, for the walk and for the conversation. It’s always good to have someone to talk to.

Couldn’t agree more. He smiled back, causing her to blush in the light of the lanterns. Before she could vanish safely into her home, Atticus stopped her and said, Good night, Sariah.

They exchanged looks and smiles. Then with a dull thud he was left alone in the darkened streets of his home city. For a brief span of time he stood there amid the silence of the evening. With a sigh, he pivoted and made his way back to his own home on the other end of the city.

Within the next hour, Atticus had