The Dark That Ignites: The Light of Darkness

By Steve Pantazis

Miko craves power and he believes the only way to get it is to become a mage. But his decision will set him on a dark path, one he may not be able to come back from.

 

Miko is determined to become a mage, to one day be a leader among men, and a true warrior. To do that, however, he will have to face off against Deven, a fellow student, and rival. Vying for the attention of the same girl, their once friendly competition quickly turns into a fierce rivalry.

 

But there can only be one master of the dark arts and young Miko won't give up easily. Pushed to his limits, he is forced to use his newfound ability to defend himself, with devastating consequences.

 

His fate seemingly sealed, will Miko be punished for his crimes? Or has destiny got other plans for him?

 

THE DARK THAT IGNITES is the prequel to THE LIGHT OF DARKNESS series. The powers of light and dark battle for domination, and war will decide the fate of the world and the gods themselves. Find out who will reign supreme in this unforgettable series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SP Books
• Release date: Aug 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957921198

Steve Pantazis

STEVE PANTAZIS is an award-winning author of fantasy and science fiction. He won the prestigious Writers of the Future award in 2015, and has gone on to publish a number of short stories in leading SF&F magazines, including Nature, IGMS andGalaxy's Edge. He is the author of the sci-fi novels GODNET and BLACKOUT and the fantasy novel THE DARK THAT BINDS. When not writing (a rare occasion!), Steve creates extraordinary cuisine, exercises with vigor, and shares marvelous adventures with the love of his life. Originally from the Big Apple, he now calls Southern California home.

Book preview

Chapter One

When Miko was fourteen, he saw a man burned alive. It happened on his brother Makesh’s sixteenth birthday.

The morning had started out uneventful—warm, without a single cloud above the capital city of Elmar and the nearby exclusive Electrum District where Miko lived. Miko and his family had taken a horse-drawn coach to the premier clothier in town to fit his brother, Makesh, for a new tunic. The old tailor had served Miko’s family for three generations. Miko breathed in the familiar crispness of linen and the fine sheep’s wool that was treated, dyed, and spun into bolts of fabric stacked upon the shelves or stuffed into wicker baskets. At least he could hide in the shadows of the shop while the tailor and his assistant attended to Makesh.

But there was another scent in the air: that of the river.

Miko followed it to the shop’s window. He gazed through the thick panes of glass toward the harbor that lay at the bottom of the hill. Several ships were at port. From his lessons at school, he recognized their different types: two barges, four dhows, five feluccas, and a trio of galleys. The galleys piqued his interest. Two were warships, characterized by their slender hulls, low freeboards, and shallow drafts. But the third was different—greater in beam and height, with a double bank of oars. The flag atop the mainmast had a field of gray with a pair of crisscrossed black arrows, which meant it belonged to the Black Arrow party. A slave galley, most likely from Kanmar where the Black Arrow ruled.

Miko watched the frenetic activity aboard the ship. Men were fighting. The crewmembers garbed in gray and black struggled against a mob in motley dress, some shirtless, who emerged from the bowels of the ship like rats. The ragged lot overwhelmed the crew, forcing some over the rail and into the harbor, then poured over the gangplank onto the dock. Miko pressed his fingers against the glass, drawn to the action. A throng of slaves—dingy, half-naked, skinny, and wild, dressed in filthy rags—had escaped the ship, at least fifty of them. They were now armed with weapons: swords, clubs, even the whips of the slavers, whose bodies lay scattered, some bloodied and crawling, others unmoving.

Miko sucked in a breath.

Had the slaves lost their minds? There was no escape for them in Elmar, not in a city with such a heavy military presence as the capital.

Miko checked on his father, who stood with a glazed look and a hand on his stiff jaw as Miko’s mother fussed over Makesh. His brother was perfectly content to be the center of attention. The tailor measured his torso while his assistant measured his right arm.

By the time Miko turned back to the melee, the slaves had overrun the dock workers and guardsmen and raced out into the market district.

A guard tower’s bell tolled in alarm.

Shouts echoed up the hill toward Miko, followed by urgent cries of confusion and concern from patrons.

The tailor’s assistant passed Miko, his lips pursed in annoyance. When he stuck his head out the door, a flood of noise entered the shop. He pulled back, an ashen look on his narrow face. He slammed the door. Hide! He rushed over to the tailor, pulling Miko’s father with him by the sleeve of his robe. The sleeve tore. We have to hide!

Outside, people streamed by the window, clutching packages and parasols and dragging children.

In the back! the tailor said. Hurry!

The assistant yanked aside a curtain that concealed the rear wall and unlatched the door to a windowless storeroom. He ushered Miko’s parents and brother inside. They disappeared into the darkness of the room, and the tailor and his assistant followed. The door shut.

Miko remained by the window. Did his parents forget about him? How like them to see first to Makesh . . . only to Makesh.

He turned and again looked through the window. Many of its panes, warbled by age, gave a distorted, macabre vision of the chaos ensuing outside. Citizens ran as if chased by a demon horde.

I should join my parents, he thought. I should share their fear. But—

But he was curious.

The bedlam drew his attention. He thought he heard his mother call his name, muffled by the shut storeroom door. He ignored it.

Miko cracked open the shop’s door and peered outside.

The blistering heat of midday met him with a hot wash of air across his cheeks that carried the sumptuous aroma of meat pies from an abandoned vendor cart. Patrons scattered for safety, their cries adding to the cacophony.

With the ringing of mail and thumping of boots, a dozen soldiers ran past Miko, armed with swords and sickled arraks, the polished armor over their chests, shins, forearms, and the conical helms upon their heads glinting in the sunlight.

The typically dull market street, now as frenzied as a kicked-over anthill, drew Miko past the door’s threshold. Before Miko rationalized his action, he was standing on the cobbles outside the shop.

The sun was brutal. The cobblestones and the sandstone buildings shimmered in the heat of midday, but the shop’s awning shielded him from the harsh rays of the sun. From here, he had a pristine view down the sloping street to where the soldiers stopped to draw weapons. Their commander yelled orders, and they took up hasty positions.

Miko ventured a closer look, disregarding his safety.

To him, the haze of heat above the cobblestones obscured their feet as if they waded in a river, a river about to flood. Miko stepped out from beneath the awning for a closer look, a feeling of anticipation overriding concern for his own safety.

He sidled beneath the overhang of the hooper’s shop next door and leaned against a well-worn barrel. His fingernails dug into the rough wood. The small hairs on the back of his neck tightened as he watched and waited.

His wait lasted but seconds.

Like a savage swarm of angry bees, the slaves rounded the corner.

Whatever their training in organized defense, the dozen soldiers were ill-prepared against the chaotic onslaught of the far greater number of raging, wide-eyed slaves.

The slaves had gaunt faces, dirty skin, and thin bodies—a sorry lot who Miko thought would have fallen like wheat scythed at harvest, but they crashed against the line of soldiers like a burst dam, their motion frantic and reckless, their strength uncanny as if imbued by San, the God of Shadows. The soldiers were overwhelmed, disappearing beneath the floor of scabrous flesh even as their swords raised and fell and slave blood fountained.

Miko was entranced. Why did the slaves, most with nothing but their bare fists, throw themselves upon soldiers wielding swords and arraks? Was it because they had nothing to lose? Was dying by the blade better than living under the whip? What furnace of rage had seized hold of them to make them so careless, so willing to give up their lives?

Was it an act of rebellion or an act of retribution?

Their tide of vengeance overtook the defenders, felling the soldiers with vicious slashes, stabs, and hacks of their stolen swords and clubs while suffering few losses. The old man with the one eye seemed to be their leader—an unrestrained barbarian whose violent spirit made up for the skin hanging from his malnourished frame.

Miko observed the battle, the furor of it, noting how one mistake, one slip-up could end a life so easily. It was unlike anything he had ever seen.

What was it about disorder that was so beautiful?

Was it the turmoil?

The fervent clash of steel?

The struggle between life and death?

He watched as another soldier died. The commander who’d shouted orders fell beneath the press of bodies as slaves surged up the hill. A chill twisted in Miko’s gut and sweat broke upon his brow.

In seconds, the tide of slaves would be upon him.

In seconds, they would cut him to pieces.

Miko’s fingertips were numb from grasping the barrel outside the hooper’s shop. His breath caught in his throat, held like a prisoner, as if to let it out was to miss everything.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t flee or hide.

Nothing mattered more than this moment, the gorgeous unraveling of this tale. Nothing compared to the story unfolding before him. Not even his life. He released the barrel and stepped into the street.

What would the one-eyed man do?

Or, behind him, the woman with the bad limp and missing front teeth?

Or, rising from a slain soldier, the boy Miko’s age holding a small hatchet, his hands and cheeks stained red, his grin broad and savage?

Miko wanted to know.

It was like the fables he’d read, where the hero and villain would battle until only one remained alive.

Were the slaves the heroes or the villains?

Their unfettered madness was beautiful.

They are beautiful.

Miko’s mother could never understand his obsession with conflict, nor his coddled brother, but his father knew. He’d told Miko so and encouraged him. Conflict is how power manifests. Power is how conflict is resolved. Don’t listen to your mother or your brother or your teachers. Not even to your heart, for it might betray you. Listen to your soul. The soul knows the truth of truths. It will guide you to discover who you want to be.

Miko’s soul knew the truth as he stood at the edge of this anarchy. It whispered, and he listened even as his mind, his sense of self-preservation urged him to disappear inside the tailor’s shop and hide.

The slave boy, who was Miko’s age, the boy with the furious grin, locked eyes with Miko. Blood dripped from his hatchet.

Miko’s skin tingled, not from fear but from the rush of heat brought on by his excitement.

Come to me. Come and face me, you scourge.

He issued the challenge with his soul, with every part of his being.

The boy’s grin widened, and he took off toward Miko. The boy was a barefoot and scrawny thing dressed only in a soiled loincloth, his ribs glistening with sweat and protruding from malnutrition. Blood spatter speckled his face, red against the black smudges of grime. His feet slapped against the cobbles.

The boy drew back his arm to swing at Miko.

He never did.

As if struck by a gale of desert wind, the boy was flung sideways several feet, landing hard on the ground head first. The hatchet clattered against the cobbles.

The woman with the bad limp advancing behind the boy shot back into the ragtag mob, impaling on a slave’s blade, and taking him down too.

The one-eyed barbarian leader screamed in incoherent anger and lifted a javelin above his head. He shook it at the sky, rallying the slaves, and ran forward.

They surged forth behind him.

The slave leader veered, just missing an attack that threw back the group of three slaves behind him. The one-eyed man raced toward the side of the street, toward the shops and their awnings—

—toward Miko, and the one-eyed man’s tempest followed him.

Miko backed against the barrel. He felt the wood grain and slickness from his fingertips. His bravado disappeared.

He would be trampled.

He would be killed.

He was trapped by the barrel, by his macabre fascination, by his inability to move, and by the wild beating of his heart.

Time slowed.

When Miko blinked, the old man staggered. When he blinked again, the man’s clothes burst into flames. Another blink, and the fire engulfed him. The heat was palpable, the sickly odor of burning skin and hair smothering, enough to make Miko’s eyes water.

The old man wailed and danced, smacking his hands against the inferno, fanning the flames rather than putting them out. Miko watched, his lips parting, his heart racing as the man’s skin bubbled and blackened.

Miko couldn’t look away.

The man dropped to the ground and flailed. He thrashed and screamed. And then—

Stopped.

An atrocious char filled the air.

The mob of escaped slaves gave a plaintive wail and shrank back as reinforcements from the city garrison arrived in force. The soldiers ordered the slaves to drop their weapons and fall to their knees.

Most obeyed.

Those who didn’t were speared, gutted, or hacked. Gruesome yowls rent the air.

A long-haired man in a black robe trimmed in green that denoted him as a magus strode past Miko, his dark eyes set to his purpose, his face calm as a blue sky on a windless day. He held his hands out in front of him, relaxed but rigid, fingers bent like the legs of a spider.

The wind died down.

In the quiet that followed, Miko’s soul whispered.

He knew who he wanted to be.

image-placeholder

Ayear later, at age fifteen, he got his opportunity.

It was early on San’s Day at Miko’s house, and the long shadows of dawn stretched over the polished marble floors through arched windows. Miko and his family would go to Elmar for the day and attend Temple for the evening service. Heading into the city was the last thing Miko desired on his day off from school. Perhaps if he kept to himself, his parents would ignore him and head into Elmar without him.

You’re supposed to be dressed, Makesh said, stepping into the courtyard where Miko sat with their dog, Chet. Miko gave Chet a good scratch behind the ear. Chet was ugly as far as dogs went—half blind and with growths along his mottled brown fur like burls on a tree ravaged by fungus—but Chet kept the mice away, and he was fiercely protective of Miko and his family. Makesh liked to say Chet belonged to him, but as Makesh reached out a hand to pet him, Chet gave a low growl. Makesh quickly withdrew it. He’s in a mood.

Miko smirked. Only around you.

Frowning, Makesh pointed at Miko’s bare feet. Where are your sandals? We’re leaving. Or do you prefer to join the beggars on the streets while Papa, Mama, and I comport ourselves as civilized folk?

Makesh enjoyed asserting his place as the firstborn son. He was taller than Miko, but Miko possessed their father’s strong build, good hair, and defined jawline—three traits Miko proudly reminded Makesh of whenever his brother thought to tower over him like a twisted tree branch. Makesh had inherited their grandfather’s unfortunately high widow’s peak and weak chin, and their mother’s drooping, round eyes.

That didn’t stop Makesh from getting what he wanted.

A new tunic, new sandals, the best parchment and ink for his studies, a felucca to take on the South Kesel River with friends, money jingling in his hand.

Mama doted over him, and Papa overlooked his laziness.

But Miko?

Mama tutted at Miko’s apparent selfishness while Papa always tried to make a man of him. Did they not think these things of Makesh?

Apparently not.

I think I’d rather stay here with Chet, Miko said. Elmar is overcrowded, teeming with filth and noise—even on San’s Day. There’s hardly any semblance of calm.

The masses head to Temple service. It’s calm enough.

If you could call dodging vulturous hawkers tugging on your tunic and shoving religious trinkets in your face as ‘calm.’ No, you go on. I’ll stay here, thank you very much.

Makesh scowled and left. Miko gave Chet another rub behind the ear. See? He just needed a little encouragement.

But when his mother showed up, she wouldn’t take any excuses. She placed her hands on her wide hips and pulled in her ample belly. I won’t leave you alone so you can laze about all day. Or were you planning on sneaking out to see your friends like last time? She regarded Miko with round eyes that were narrowed, not drooping.

Miko stood, quick to say, But I have my studies. Besides, Yandro will be here to watch over me. His mind raced, searching to find something, anything to shift the conversation—and her ire—to his brother, the tattler, but his mother’s eyes only narrowed further.

Yandro is a slave. We all know you’ve got him twisted around your wicked little finger. He’ll do whatever you order him to do. Don’t tell me otherwise.

She was right, but Miko remained silent. Their family came from privilege. Their home in the well-to-do Electrum District included a household staff with a butler and two live-in slaves. Miko attended the all-boys school, Sammad—For the Gifted in Old Jurmehan—that only the very elite of the country were permitted to attend. Sammad taught the finer aspects of politics, philosophy, theology, linguistics, and law to the next generation of Terjurmeh’s leaders.

Murion, Miko’s father, was a high-ranking member of the Fist party, and one of the three Codex Keepers of Terjurmeh—officials charged with maintaining the Codex, the Law—one of the most prestigious positions in government. Miko knew little about