Fractures, page 5
part #1 of Ledgers of a Dark Mage Series
From the madness emerged the presence he had felt on the raider ship. So strange, frightening and wonderful at the same time, it rose alongside the heightening of his emotions until it turned into a bloodthirsty storm clamoring for release.
“Thaleon?” came Cedrik’s voice, concerned. A steadying hand gripped his shoulder.
The nobleman’s face filled his vision and the horrifying memories blurred with reality, leaving him blinking wildly in confusion. Black wisps stormed the air, swirling upwards ravenously—Thaleon watched frozen as they struck.
Cedrik’s entire body stiffened, every single muscle contracting and twisting to pull grotesquely taut. His face contorted into a horrible mask of agony and his mouth fell open in a silent scream.
The chair clattered to the floor as Thaleon shot up in alarm.
He whirled at the sound of the door bursting open to see a young man—the same youth he had seen standing next to Cedrik during the battle—run into the room.
An expression of horror marred the face more beautiful than handsome and the startled expression magnified the subtle boyishness typical to young men on the cusp of manhood. The pale ash brown locks fell in disheveled waves about his slim jawline as if he had run the entire way to the cabin.
Thaleon’s attention on Cedrik broke at the newcomer’s arrival and the black wisps released the nobleman—he slid off the chair and fell heavily to the floor where he lay immobile.
The young man’s gaze took in Cedrik’s limp form then narrowed up at Thaleon.
Thaleon recoiled physically at the fury in the striking blue eyes.
White shadows appeared about the youth, their shimmering threads coiling ominously. Although similar in appearance to the wisps lifting off Thaleon, their pale color contrasted sharply to his black storm.
Suddenly, the white smoke-like tendrils bore down on the gathering black threads, savagely shredding them apart. Thaleon gasped at the jarring sensation as they tore and faded into the air.
He watched, rooted, as the pale threads turned on him.
Twisting and turning, they settled over his limbs and constricted, leaving him barely able to breathe. At the same time, a wall placed itself between him and the raging power, effectively sealing it off.
Panic shot through him at the discovery he could not move or make a sound.
“Cedrik,” the young man gasped as he fell to his knees beside the older man’s still form. Faint tremors shook the fingers turning Cedrik over.
Blue veins peeked through the thin skin of Cedrik’s closed eyelids. Pale as a corpse, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest indicated he still lived.
The youth froze, eyes widening, then burst into motion. Slender fingers made quick work of unbuttoning Cedrik’s shirt and parting the fabric to reveal freshly dealt bruises blooming all over his torso. The young man let out a low curse as an expression of absolute fear came over him. It made him look several years younger—like a frightened young boy.
He pressed a hand firmly against Cedrik’s chest and glowing white threads flowed out of him and entered the nobleman’s battered body. Thaleon watched, amazed, as bruises faded and color returned to the older man’s cheeks.
Cedrik’s eyes opened a few seconds later. He stared dazedly up at the young man above him who now slumped slightly with face pale, supporting himself up with a hand on the floor beside him.
“Laurits,” said Cedrik, expression growing alarmed. “That’s enough, Laurits. I am all right.” He took the young man’s hand in his own and firmly removed it from his chest.
Laurits’ lips parted as if he wanted to protest but he nodded wearily in acquiescence before rising to his feet. He swayed slightly, face drained of color not unlike Cedrik’s moments ago. The nobleman rose with him and returned to the chair with some effort. Laurits took the chair next to him.
Cedrik studied Thaleon standing motionless with a quizzical expression until a thought seemed to occur to him.
“Release him, Laurits.”
“He needs to be restrained. He’s dangerous,” said Laurits, sounding winded. He slumped in his seat, expression strained.
“He doesn’t need to be restrained physically and you’ve already exhausted yourself healing me. I don’t want you using more magic than is necessary.”
Laurits gave Cedrik a sideway glance—looking very much like a vexed cat—then sighed.
Thaleon’s body lurched forward as the restraining force disappeared. Cedrik reached out a hand to catch him then guided him to a chair.
“You have a lot of magic, Thaleon. And it will only grow with time. Magic, although a wonderful gift, is dangerous in untrained hands,” said Cedrik.
“I-I don’t understand. I can’t do any magic,” Thaleon stammered out, eyes darting wildly between the two men.
“Controlling magic and having magic are two different things,” said Laurits, fixing Thaleon with a withering glare. “And without control, you are as dangerous as a rabid dog. You nearly killed him.”
“I-I didn’t mean to—” Thaleon, shaken so badly by this point, found it difficult to form the words.
Cedrik gave Laurits a disapproving glance before returning his attention to Thaleon. “There is no need to apologize. You had no control over what happened. It is not uncommon for young mages to lose control of their magic.”
Thaleon stared back at the nobleman, mouth open. He had done that? He had nearly killed someone.
“This is why we need you to come with us,” said Cedrik.
Thaleon recoiled at the terrifying words. “Go with you? Go where?” The words came out too loud in his rising hysteria.
The Crown had banned dark magic from Itothia after the end of Darius’ Rebellion. Dark mages—or valekyns as Cedrik had called them—were regularly executed at the capital.
Terrifying images of kneeling before a crowd waiting for the executioner’s axe flashed before him and Thaleon burst into tears. Cedrik and Laurits exchanged a look of confusion.
“I am not a dark mage! Please just let me go!” Thaleon wailed.
Understanding crossed their faces and Cedrik leaned forward to place a hand upon his shaking shoulder. The gesture meant to comfort did nothing as Thaleon’s panic surged.
“Please don’t have me executed!”
“Shh—no one is going to hurt you.” Cedrik squeezed his shoulder gently.
Thaleon could find little comfort in the soothing words. He had heard the stories—peddlers and bards passing through Alfhum loved to recite the tales of executions in Varle with all the grisly details. The fear for his life and the trauma of the past several days crashed over him and Thaleon began to sob uncontrollably.
Laurits’ watched, arms crossed over his chest, as Cedrik wrapped an arm about Thaleon’s shoulder and drew him against his chest.
“It’s all right. I promise nothing is going to happen to you. You are safe,” said Cedrik, hands rubbing small circles into Thaleon’s back.
The door creaked open in the middle of Thaleon’s wailing.
The young soldier paused at the scene before him—Cedrik holding the hysterically crying Thaleon and Laurits watching with ill-concealed irritation. He cleared his throat.
“There is no boy named Dawyn onboard, my lord.”
The soldier shifted his feet when his words caused Thaleon to break out into another fit of sobs.
Cedrik dismissed him with a wave of a hand and the man left quickly, closing the door behind himself.
“The second naval ship went after the raiders. Your brother may be with them,” said Cedrik. “I’ll have one of my soldiers wait in Pimal to inquire the other ship of your brother when they return, I promise.”
A small part of Thaleon wanted to believe him but he knew it was just childish hope. Dawyn had been in the bowels when the ship sunk. He had seen enough corpses of the captive children littering the water to know they had been the first to drown.
Cedrik held him until his sobs quietened then produced a silk handkerchief from his pocket. “We would like for you to come with us to Allesdale. Have you heard of it?”
Laurits stiffened—his lips parted, incredulous, before pursing into a tight line. Thaleon shook his head.
“Allesdale is a training facility for young mages sponsored by King Danre. We have excellent teachers who will help you gain mastery over your magic.” Cedrik smiled down at him as he dabbed away the tears with his handkerchief.
Millions of thoughts ran through Thaleon’s head as he stared back at the smiling face. Did he truly have a choice?
The alternative was to return to Alfhum—assuming a refusal didn’t result in being shipped off to Varle for execution—and he couldn’t bear the thought of returning without his family to the people who had treated him as an outsider his entire life.
He recalled the malicious whispers, the outright hostility from his peers and the countless times he had cried alone, unable to confide in his parents or Dawyn for the fear of making things worse. With his entire family gone, there was nothing for him in Alfhum.
He never wanted to go back.
“Will you come with us?” Cedrik asked.
Thaleon suddenly felt sick. He nodded.
“I am glad.” Cedrik’s eyes flooded with an emotion Thaleon recognized as relief.
He wondered numbly what would have happened had he refused. Would they have forced him to go anyway? Would he have been executed?
His eyes landed on Laurits sitting stiffly with a troubled expression. Although Cedrik seemed to be oblivious to his companion’s dark mood, the sight sent a heavy sense of unease through Thaleon.
The ship reached Pimal several days later.
Thaleon watched the coastal Itothian town grow closer from his table by the window while making a half-hearted effort to eat the plate of breakfast. The sight of the groups of people moving busily about the docks reminded him once again of how utterly alone he was. His vision blurred as tears streaked down his cheeks.
He startled and wiped at his face hastily when the door creaked open and an older soldier peered into the room. The man frowned—no doubt noticing the red rimming his eyes and the blotchiness of his face—and motioned for him to get up.
“Lord Bayn wants you on deck. We are leaving.”
He followed the soldier out to the main deck to see Cedrik and Laurits standing against the railings. Glowing veil surrounded them, rendering their rapidly moving lips silent although it was obvious they were engaged in a heated discussion. The veil shimmered and dropped when they noticed Thaleon.
Cedrik gave him a warm smile. “How are you feeling?” The nobleman wrapped an affectionate arm about his shoulder as they crossed the deck to disembark the vessel.
“Fine, my lord,” Thaleon said, voice small.
Laurits hardly spared him a glance, brows furrowed and lips drawn into a thin line. His eyes simmered with unmistakable anger.
A woman dressed in the blue and gold captain’s uniform joined them and fell into a deep bow.
“Thank you again for coming along. You made our jobs much easier.” She smiled at Laurits who gave her a small nod.
“The least we can do.” Cedrik smiled.
“Safe travels, Lord Bayn.” The captain bowed again deeply.
A carriage waited just beyond the docks. Its doors stood open with a soldier to each side dressed in liveries of blue, white and gray. Thaleon had seen nobles ride similar carriages, but had never seen one up close.
Lovely blue painted its exterior and gold gilded the edges of the large windows. The gorgeous six white horses tethered to its front tossed their heads, impatient to set out.
In the past, Thaleon would have been ecstatic to ride in such a carriage but now it only served as a reminder of how fast things were changing. He hung his head to hide the tears welling in his eyes.
“After you.” Cedrik gestured to the door. He ushered Thaleon forward with a hand on his back.
Thaleon entered the carriage with Cedrik following closely behind. Laurits paused to speak briefly to the soldiers in a low voice then climbed in after. One of the men shut the door behind him.
They set off immediately. It was a small party—comprised of Cedrik, Laurits, Thaleon and the three soldiers. One man held the reins while another sat beside him keeping a lookout. The third followed behind on a horse keeping a watch to the back.
Most of the ride passed in silence. After a long while of watching the countryside pass, Thaleon began drifting in and out of sleep. The comfort of the plush cushions and the gentle rocking of the carriage combined with the bone-deep fatigue left him unable to fight the heaviness coming over his eyes.
Cedrik and Laurits resumed their conversation as he drifted in and out of sleep. The veil returned and their furious words were lost to Thaleon whose eyes continued to close of their own accord.
He woke sometime later when the carriage hit a bump in the road and saw the two men still engaged in their private conversation. Both men looked agitated and Laurits especially looked angry. Thaleon had a brief second to wonder what it meant but his eyes fell closed and he did not have the will to resist as sleep took him again.
6
“You need to eat,” a girl’s voice said.
Dawyn, curled up against the wall with knees drawn up and arms tightly wound about himself, said nothing.
“At least drink some water.” A hand tugged at his sleeve.
She waited for the response that never came—he heard a soft sigh and the rustle of clothes when she gave up.
Dawyn lifted his face from the crook of his arm to see a piece of hard bread and a small cup of water sitting to his right. Although he hadn’t eaten in several days—since Thaleon’s death—he pushed them both away.
A skinny boy who had been sitting a few feet away eyed him warily as he crawled forward and claimed the bread and water for himself.
Exhaustion must have forced him into uneasy sleep because he woke sometime later with his cheeks damp and breath coming ragged.
The nightmare refused to let him go and he sobbed helplessly in the dark as Thaleon’s screams continued to ring out in his head. He clenched his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands but could not block out the memory of his little brother being pulled into the ocean never to re-emerge again.
Days blurred together as Dawyn slumped against the wall and stared at nothing. Eventually, the raiders noticed him wasting away and took matters into their own hands—a dead body fetched no coins at the slave market.
He fought them at first but they held him down with little effort and forced food and water down his throat. If he retched from their rough administrations, they made him lick it up like a dog.
It wasn’t long before Dawyn resigned to mechanically eating and drinking when told to—anything to avoid another grueling session of being restrained and having thick fingers forced into his mouth.
The skinny boy with inky black hair and startling golden-brown eyes plagued his thoughts and dreams.
Sometimes, Thaleon stared back at him with eyes sad and lips drooping, face pale. Other times, he struggled in the water, begging for Dawyn to help him. He could never reach his brother no matter the version of the dream and woke every single time drenched in sweat and lashes damp.
Dawyn hated himself for being unable to simply die and join the rest of his family.
Dawyn woke to the feeling of wrongness.
He sat up, dazed and confused, as his recently woken mind sluggishly tried to figure out what was wrong. Nothing seemed to have changed about his predicament—he was still imprisoned in the bowels of the raider ship with his entire body aching from the hard floors.
Then the realization dawned—the ship no longer moved forward.
The absence of forward motion seemed bizarre after days at sea. Now, with the vessel rocking gently in place, it could only mean one thing—they had reached land.
Others noticed too and whispers rose as the captives excitedly discussed the possibility of finally getting off the ship. A tense silence fell when the door flung open with a thud. Heavy steps rang out as several men descended the stairs.
The raiders worked in pairs to bind the hands of the captives, going in order from front to back. Dawyn’s pulse quickened at the thought of sunlight and fresh air as he watched the other children taken to the upper deck one by one.
His turn couldn’t come soon enough. Dawyn, too excited at the idea of being on land, held his hands out obediently when a pair of raiders approached him. As one man bound his hands, the other stood close gripping the end of the thick wooden club they used to beat the troublesome captives. After, they hauled him up to his feet and shoved him towards the stairs. Uncomfortable prickling ensued as blood rushed to his legs.
The two men held him in a firm grip as they ushered him up the stairs and to the upper-deck. Dawyn stumbled out at a hard shove to his back and went momentarily blind as the too-bright scorching sun beat down on his exposed skin. Hot air forced its way in with each breath, stifling. His lungs burned.
Another set of hands took him, and they dragged him over to the side of the ship where many others taken up before him stood being washed.
Dawyn flinched when a raider stripped off his clothes—now mere rags—and threw a bucket of soapy water over him, drenching him from head to toe.
The man made him remove his boots, tossed them aside, and proceeded to scrub him down vigorously, beginning with the head to untangle and work the filth out of the matted mess. His hands worked with frightening efficiency as he worked his way downwards and Dawyn winced more than once under the rough fingers.
The man smacked him across the face for being difficult.
“Be still, you filth,” came the broken Itothian. The raider glowered while his hands continued their furious scrubbing.
Dawyn, prepared this time, closed his eyes when the man poured another bucket of water over his head to rinse him off. The water turned gray as it rolled off his body and splashed about their feet. Although thoroughly humiliated, he felt grateful to be somewhat clean again.
