Post by mcarmel on Jan 21, 2012 21:35:14 GMT -5
Hi, I have been working on this story for a long time and would really like to self publish it. Could I get some feedback as to whether it's up to snuff?
The Black Razor Chronicles - Book 1 - Cullen Aven
Chapter 1
Hot air rustled the trees, there was a flash of crimson light and Sharael Maldeen appeared from the ether. Dust cast from her feet in a ring and her hair blew about in the moment before all calmed.
Sharael staggered trying to regain senses lost in the teleport, and fell painfully on her knee. She cursed under her breath as she pushed back to her feet and adjusted the unfamiliar weight of a short sword on her hip. She took a deep breath as instinct drew her hand to the twelve-pointed star that hung from her neck.
Within four long breaths her mind cleared and memories of recent days flooded back. Her hand trembled as she grasped the amulet tighter feeling its twelve points dig into her palm. Her memories added to her weakened state, and she crouched to avoid stumbling once more. Her new dark leather boots creaked at the unfamiliar strain, and her pants tightened painfully over her skinned knee as she sat on her haunches in an attempt to regain her composure.
The amulet, still within her grasp began to wriggle in her palm. Her grip tightened on the talisman, and it warmed with energy of its own. After a long moment she stood still feeling vertigo’s waning touch, but it quickly passed.
The amulet still wriggled within her clenched palm, the silver chain dangling from her neck. Knowing what she would witness when her fingers parted, tears formed in her eyes and she opened her hand. The amulet, a large silver twelve-pointed star had a ruby the size of half a sparrows egg encrusted centrally which glowed eerily crimson with the essence of the abyss.
The amulet was a part of her life, and nothing it did now was unusual or unexpected. It’s twelve tines wriggling like baby snakes meant only one thing. She felt her heart thump as two of the tines reached for each other, and within moments had twisted themselves together, the two become one.
The amulet cast warmth to her hand that grew almost unbearable, but it was a transition she would endure. The points of the amulet shifted their position to spread out equally along the rim leaving no evidence that one of their own was gone. The amulet, now of eleven points, stilled and cooled. Tears dribbled down Sharael's face as the message was delivered: Arthessi of the White Circle, a dear old friend was dead; his sentence carried out.
The distant sound of steel jolted her from sorrow. Random beats, dull and sharp, they were the sounds of battle. With grave resolution she straightened, she released the amulet letting it drop to her chest to hang from its silver chain. Wiping tears on her sleeve she shakily started toward the sounds of clashing metal.
Closer, Sharael could see fragmented images through the trees, sunlit reflections off gleaming steel highlighted the movement of battle. Arriving at the clearings' edge, she saw two men locked in combat. In the hand of one was a long black sword, the object she sought.
The battle had ensued for some time, for both were weary and covered in sweat. Their movements strained and slowed. One, a warrior adorned in the best of modern armor polished to a golden glow, held the long black sword known as the Black Razor. He was a man of education and refinement, knowing his craft as taught in a schoolyard. His blows were powerful, well executed in textbook form, yet misplaced by inexperience. His attacks glazed off his opponent’s defense, finding him on the wrong side of the battle.
The other, a man not of stature, but of character, his face darkened by the sun, hair long from travel. His breastplate unpolished, dented and scraped, yet the leathers oiled and kept functional. His blade nothing more than a short sword of commonplace, serviceable and suitable.
Sharael watched on, this man of humble means held her interest, for even though the Razor was not in his possession, she knew battle, and knew whom fate would favor. His stances were well placed, his defense accurate, it was only a matter of time.
With the final blow delivered, the golden clad warrior staggered backward in surprise. A carmine rainbow blew forth as a gasp of disbelief escaped his windpipe. He flung off his shield to free a hand and he clutched his partially severed throat. But even in this, as blood spayed with every choking breath, his grip tightened on the sword of black.
Falling to his knees, the golden clad warrior bent forward on an arm. Still clutching his throat, his hand the color of life, he slowly lowered himself to the ground.
As Sharael watched on, the victor dropped his worn blade, its only evidence of recent service being nicks and a smudge across the tip like a great greasy fingerprint. With effort, he pried the Razor from the dead man's hand; for even now the fingers gripped with defiant resolve. The fallen relinquished their prize and the victor held his treasure with reverence and pride.
He ran his hand along the polished black blade and she knew his wonder, for even she did not know what it was made of. She watched him study the inscription, flipping the blade from one side to the other, he'd know from legend what it said, but would be unable to read the ancient language.
Then he looked up, “I’ve done it,” he said quietly as he began to swing the weapon. His face showed only the slightest sign of satisfaction; and Sharael knew what he was feeling now. The connection had begun, a bond between man and blade that only victory could bring, and the union would be rapture. He would feel invincible, and the blade would empower him. She knew she had to get out there, had to do it now, but her own mortality, her own fear, held her back.
The warrior, and she made no mistake in calling him this, for he was a man of pride, discipline and skill. The warrior moved about in the clearing with his new prize, swinging the blade, feeling the legend grow in his mind, but stopped with an all to familiar look in his eye.
She watched him scan the wood, and she knew he had seen something. Despite her concealment, shrouded in shadow, she knew he had seen her. Inexplicably, her mind sought explanation, perhaps he had seen the glow from the amulet? Yes, that was it, for his eyes fixated on it now.
Sharael rose and stepped from the shelter of the woods, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He towered over her, yet she knew he was scared. He would know who she was and why she had come, there would be no question.
The glowing amulet hanging from her neck said everything. Yes, he would know her, though not by face of course, but by position. She was White Circle, and she came for the Razor.
His eyes locked with hers as she raised her hand in the unspoken demand to return the Razor to her, his head shook slowly in defiance. She took another step forward and motioned again, the proud warrior, gripping his prize began to quake, and small pieces of armor began to chatter. How enraging it must be for him, she thought, for she knew the decision he was faced with, knew that under any circumstance he had to bow to her.
To her consternation, he made no move to bow, yet she never let her eye’s wander, her gaze kept locked to his. She knew the feeling of invincibility that had so empowered him only moments before was fading fast. It had occurred to her how angry he would be, after all, she was but a girl before him, but a girl from the White Circle nevertheless; the ultimate authority in the world of man.
She motioned once more and saw rage appear in his eyes. The warrior swept back with the Razor, his face showed his intent to kill, and her own fears surfaced.
She had been certain it would not come to this, that her authority was known among the hierarchy of the land, the amulet should be all she needed. Further, if her authority went unrecognized, the Razor itself would protect her, knew that in the moment he chose to defy her, the Razor should reject him. Yet, there he was, the Razor over head, his foot coming forward, both hands tight on its hilt, and the rage of battle contorting his face.
A pang of fear twisted her stomach, and for a moment her thoughts stumbled. She knew what to do, but the words seemed out of reach.
“Coss Mezza…” she began, but already she knew she had mispronounced it. “Coss Messa Duo!” she blurted, but it was too late, she had not the concentration, and she knew the spell would not come.
Sharael’s mind began to race; time seemed to slow like that of a living nightmare. She struggled against her clouded mind, her body not seeming to listen. She reached for her sword, grasped the unfamiliar hilt and swept it skyward to meet his powerful blow, but her strength was no match for his.
There was a droning clash of weapons, a burning pain as tendons in her wrist tore, and her weapon was bashed from her grip. The Razor's path remained unchanged, and the sword of black bit down into her shoulder with a force that shattered bone and drove her to her knees.
Then for a moment, there was silence. Sharael's head swayed as she tried to focus on her attacker. Her gaze trailed down the Razor's glistening edge to her impaled shoulder. Only vaguely seeing and not yet understanding the extent of what occurred, her head lulled back.
The warrior reluctantly met her unfocused gaze. Her blood dappled his chest plate, and his armor chattered in that fear.
“What have I done?” he said aloud as he shook his head with disbelief. “White Circle,” he gasped. To her surprise, tears appeared in his eyes as confusion rippled across his face. He looked down at his shaking grip on the Razor. His eyes followed the ebony blade to her flesh and the carmine life force that covered it. His confusion grew as the unnatural weight of the Razor's rejection became sudden and great, but the weapon, knowing his heart, had acted too late.
Becoming impossibly heavy, he had to let go of the blade. The hilt fell to the ground with a heavy thud, the blade pivoting in her flesh. His face in shock, the warrior stepped backward, tripping over the dead man behind him; the warriors weight fell upon the golden breastplate and the metal buckled with a loud pop.
Pain shot through Sharael's neck as she tried to lift her head. Her right hand shaking found the Razor's blade protruding from her breast, her left arm nearly severed, dangled. Her right hand grasped the eleven-pointed amulet as a shriek of agony escaped her lips. Desperately she searched her mind for words that eluded her. Paralyzed with pain she could do nothing as her body lost balance and fell forward. The Black Razor, the sword of power, pressed its pommel to the ground as she fell. Slowly, painfully, the blade slid through her as she mumbled words her heart knew were wrong.
“Coss Mobis,” she began, but that wasn’t right. “Coss Mobi Emergo!” she said with as much triumph as she could muster. Crimson light engulfed her in a flash and she was gone leaving a small whirl of wind where she had lain.
Sharael opened her eyes and peered deep into the crimson abyss. The pain was gone, and she realized she was between realms, but why? Droplets of blood floated about her like raindrops. There was no weight to them, no weight to her.
The abyss was the substance that filled the void between realms. Ordinarily the teleport would take her straight to Silandria, the isle of the White Circle, but something had gone very wrong. Sharael knew that in the event of unforeseen circumstances, the spell would divert her to another safe point. But why had it taken her here? No sooner had she wondered, she was whisked away once more.
In a clearing, only a few long strides from a small cabin, the air began to thicken as magic coalesced. There was a flash of crimson and Sharael appeared from the ether. Standing in someone’s pasture she looked about confused and dizzy. Something tugged at her, and then movement caught her eye. To her horror, the Black Razor slid from her body and dropped with a thud to the turf.
From the cabin, a clatter arose and a huskily built man bounded from the doorway. She recognized him, at least the amulet around his neck; he was an Oath Taken, a man sworn in service to the Razor... Sharael dropped to her knees, and in a brief moment of clarity, she knew she had done what she had intended.
Her eyes on the reddened blade in front of her, weakness consumed her as throbbing pulses of blood pumped from her body soaking into her clothes. As she fell to all fours, her left shoulder collapsed from the weight and she fell to her side retching in dry waves of nausea. Lork Aven, Oath Taken, approached her chanting a spell she knew she should recognize, but could not. She looked up to the sky, the bright sun shining, then everything fell out of focus and mercifully, her world went dark.
Chapter 2
Cullen Aven sat nervously on the front porch reviewing what had transpired that night. With hands grasping his face, and elbows digging into knees, he rocked periodically trying to soothe himself. The early morning mid-summer sun cast sunbeams across the hazy sky and warmed his boots. He shook his head in wonder, still finding it hard to believe what he had done. Shame relentlessly invaded his thoughts, for he knew what his father would say.
The sounds of movement in the house brought Cullen back from review. His mother, Kate, was beginning her early morning routine, always first to rise. He knew he should be gone before his betrayal was discovered. He had to finish what he had started before it had to be explained.
Cullen stood from the porch uneasily, though careful not to creak the boards, his legs trembled weakly and he rubbed them to chase away numbness. With hours of affirmation and the courage this had brought, Cullen walked to the back of the house and across the small field. He stopped once more as his fear resurfaced, but after a deep breath he was prepared to revisit the Aven family secret.
The secret in part, is an oath of guardianship; an oath bound by magic and sworn two hundred years before by Lork Aven. The other part, the secret, well... Cullen looked down the shadow-cast path with trepidation. He walked slowly along the route he could navigate in the dark. The path led to a tomb, a means that had helped the Aven's for generations to conceal their charge. to help guard the object of their oath.
The tomb, the Aven family tomb, displayed the final resting place for Lork Aven and his descendants. Though truth be told, Cullen knew that Lork himself was not buried here, his body never found. What happened to Lork, no Aven knew, yet the oath had been taken up by his son Trent, and passed on as required to his able-bodied descendants.
Within the tomb, situated centrally was a great stone box, long enough to be a coffin, and tall enough to meet Cullen's chest. This great box, was the source of Cullen's woes, for it was the focus of the oath. The box, simple gray, held the guise of a sarcophagus and bore the name Lork Aven, but this fallacy had been placed upon it by Lork's son Trent in order to complete the guise.
In truth, no Aven alive knew what this box contained. Generations of Aven’s had sworn and upheld the oath with nothing more than the single goal of guardianship known. If there had once been more to the oath as all Avens believed; it had been lost with Lork.
Cullen had been serving the oath since his sixth summer, and doubting his duties since his tenth. Now he was into his nineteenth summer, and his reservations had only strengthened. There were so many unanswered questions. What was it they guarded? Cullen didn't know; and when he asked, his father would say, “It's what my father does and his father did.” Or “It's our oath son, and our oath is our bond.” None of which gave Cullen comfort or answer.
Cullen had spent much of his childhood in doubt. He no longer wanted to devote, nay, sacrifice his life to something that by all appearances, was little more than a legend. He had always asked the obvious questions; 'what could be so important that I should spend my life hiding the truth of this box?' And more recently, 'who’s gonna stop me from opening it?' The answers always came to him in his father's voice.
But still, what could be so important? The oath had been sworn to the White Circle, and further, the Circle bound the oath by magic. Though the Circle had been dead all of these one hundred and eighty nine years, this oath still bound all Avens.
From its place of honor on the family mantel, Cullen had taken the amulet of the oath. The amulet, a round silver medallion, had a single spar protruding from its top. The spar only a single fingers width tall was also fastened to the sturdy silver chain he held in his hand. Encrusted upon the amulet was a large red ruby. This in and of itself had kept Cullen's belief in magic alive along with generations of Avens before him. For this amulet, this gem, had remained aglow these one hundred and eighty-nine years of the oath.
Magic was a hard sell these days in Parton and Van Isle, on most street corners it was little more than slight of hand and trickery. But the Avens knew there was more to it, knew that magic was not deception or myth, yet no Aven alive had seen any other save the amulet.
Every summer equinox, the master Aven, currently Cullen's father, would scratch a simple tiny mark into the back of the amulet. There were one hundred and eighty nine tiny marks now, and with the equinox soon approaching, it would be one mark too many for Cullen.
Cullen stood facing the ajar entrance to the tomb, the amulet in hand. The large stone box, once thought to be a sarcophagus was covered by a single stone slab which now lay broken on the floor, fallen when pried from its base. Last night was both fearful and wonderful giving affirmation to his belief in magic.
He stood still and took deep breaths as he stared into the tomb and replayed the events of last night. Once again summoning his courage, he walked timidly to the edge of the stone box and peered in. After a lifetime of wondering, the answers were upon him, though they had not been any of the answers he had imagined. It was not a box, nor a coffin; it was a door, a door concealing a stone staircase and a workshop beyond.
He took one last deep breath before climbing over the cold wall and placing his feet once again onto the ancient stone-carved stairs. Carefully, he took each step, the sound of his own footfalls giving him pause. At the base of the stairs was a short passage that led to a rotted wooden door still ajar from his first visit. A glint of light still emanated from the room; the lantern he had lit still glowing. With a jolt, his mind took him back in time to late that night when he had first stood in front of this door. The memories so vivid that sweat beaded on his forehead.
Cullen had stood quietly in front of the door; the heat from the lantern warmed his hand as he quietly placed the pry bar against the wall. He had used it to pry open the stone box, but had no need of it now. Cullen held up the lantern; ready to spread light on what lay beyond the door. He grasped the coarse rusted doorknob and contemplated one last time the meaning of his actions.
Cullen turned the knob and the warped door popped open a hand span. He pushed, and the door began to swing with squealing hinges all the way. The lantern threw a blanket of light across a workroom which had not been seen for nearly two hundred years.
The air was stale and the door had stirred centuries-old dust making it hard to breathe as his body adjusted to the environment. Cullen's gut lurched with shock as his eyes focused on a skeleton reclined in a large sitting chair at a desk against the far wall. He stood frozen, eyes locked on what was certain to be Lork Aven.
The workroom was just more than ten paces in either direction, and after some time gathering his nerve he stepped in. The desk was only one of several pieces of furniture that lay under a veil of dust, and a clutter of papers, vials, and small tools of alchemy seemed to sit on every fixture. There was a large floor standing cabinet against the right wall, the doors of which were open and blocked by an array of equipment. There were various small cabinets and tables lining the remaining available wall space. A great central table added to Cullen's anxiety, as it appeared also to contain a body, though covered by a sheet.
Cullen had walked past the table doing his best to ignore what lay beneath. Each footstep produced small rings of dust rolling across the floor like ripples when water accepted a stone. The air grew thicker with every step but his lungs were adjusting now and the urge to sneeze and cough never came.
The skeleton reclined in the chair was clean of decay; the clothes (to his surprise) had not rotted, and were unmistakably those of commonplace. Cullen uneasily searched the remains but found nothing in his pockets, so he turned his attention to the desk.
Using a foot to push the heavy chair back from the desk allowed Cullen to get a better look at its contents. The parchments and fine papers were mainly intact and, though covered in dust, remained legible. He glanced about and found a hook on the wall, Lork's ancient lantern still hung there long exhausted of fuel.
Cullen switched the lanterns and placed Lork's under the desk to keep it out of the way. The light illuminated the workspace well and Cullen, longing for a chair knelt in front of the desk to read some of the documents it contained. Two documents contained Lork's signature and others still addressed him by name, there was no doubt that Cullen had solved the mystery of Lork Aven, but there was still one more important mystery to solve.
Cullen stood and examined the cabinet next. The two open doors had backpacks propped against them; in addition, there was a short sword and a long sword leaning in one of its corners. More interestingly, a pistol crossbow hung from a hook on the back panel. This was something Cullen wished to examine... but something nagged at him.
Ignoring for now the crossbow, he continued his search of the remaining tables and cabinets. After only a halfhearted attempt he stopped, for something continued to tug at him. He finally gave in and turned his attention to the central table.
His eyes scanned the figure that lay before him. The sheet, soft and clean, showed no signs of age, as did any of the contents within the room. He furrowed his brow as he walked slowly around the table noting the fine contours of the womanly form that seemed to lie beneath the sheet.
Surely, this too should have been a skeleton, jagged and clean of flesh. At the foot of the table, he bent nearer to look at the figure's feet. Though covered by the sheet he could see a multitude of bumps where toes were. He straightened, intent on finishing his circuit of the table, and paused standing opposite of where he had begun.
Gingerly, and almost involuntarily, he prodded the body with a finger, wincing in anticipation. A pang of fear lurched within as he expected the body beneath the sheet to crumble at his touch, but it was soft. His brow furrowed he placed his hand on the firm yet giving abdomen.
Cullen began to tremble. Compelled, he reached out and took the corner of the sheet in his fingers, then slowly began to lift. Strands of blonde hair fell from beneath the sheet and a blue light spilled out onto the table. “Magic,” he hissed and froze, the sound of his own voice frightening him. He still could see no flesh, for the sheet had not been drawn back enough, but for that moment he was too afraid to go further.
Cullen's breathing grew rapid and his hand began to shake. He only paused another moment before whipping the sheet away. He stepped back in surprise, not a mummified or rotting corpse, but a woman was there; lying as if asleep.
Cullen, regaining his composure, leaned forward. The pale blue light seemed to emanate from her skin. Though faint enough that it did not permeate the second sheet that lightly wrapped her body. Nor did it seem to affect her long blonde hair.
The second sheet had been used to hide her nakedness and had been drawn down to expose her left shoulder where a thick purple scar extended to her breast. He looked at her pale blue colored face; a tear lay frozen on her cheek.
A myriad of thoughts and questions tumbled through his mind as his heart continued pounding and his temperature rose. Trembling he reached out and touched her cold face with the back of his hand. There was a flash of light so bright that nothing was left in his vision, then as quick as it came, it cleared.
Cullen’s hand, still touching her cheek, hadn't moved and the blue tinge of her skin turned to blushed pink. The cold skin turned to warmth, and the tear ran down her face and broke on his finger.
Her eyes flashed open, and with a great gasp for air her chest heaved; Cullen stepped back stumbling over clutter on the floor and falling backwards against the wall. He scrambled to his feet and ran through the doorway, up the stairs and to the night above.
These events replayed in his mind as he peered through the crack in the doorway. Why he had run he still wasn't sure. The fear of a broken oath, the fear of his father, but surely the fear of the woman seemingly brought back from death. Now though, his oath had sense, the years of labor and training coming together, but to what purpose?
www.theblackrazor.com
The Black Razor Chronicles - Book 1 - Cullen Aven
Chapter 1
Hot air rustled the trees, there was a flash of crimson light and Sharael Maldeen appeared from the ether. Dust cast from her feet in a ring and her hair blew about in the moment before all calmed.
Sharael staggered trying to regain senses lost in the teleport, and fell painfully on her knee. She cursed under her breath as she pushed back to her feet and adjusted the unfamiliar weight of a short sword on her hip. She took a deep breath as instinct drew her hand to the twelve-pointed star that hung from her neck.
Within four long breaths her mind cleared and memories of recent days flooded back. Her hand trembled as she grasped the amulet tighter feeling its twelve points dig into her palm. Her memories added to her weakened state, and she crouched to avoid stumbling once more. Her new dark leather boots creaked at the unfamiliar strain, and her pants tightened painfully over her skinned knee as she sat on her haunches in an attempt to regain her composure.
The amulet, still within her grasp began to wriggle in her palm. Her grip tightened on the talisman, and it warmed with energy of its own. After a long moment she stood still feeling vertigo’s waning touch, but it quickly passed.
The amulet still wriggled within her clenched palm, the silver chain dangling from her neck. Knowing what she would witness when her fingers parted, tears formed in her eyes and she opened her hand. The amulet, a large silver twelve-pointed star had a ruby the size of half a sparrows egg encrusted centrally which glowed eerily crimson with the essence of the abyss.
The amulet was a part of her life, and nothing it did now was unusual or unexpected. It’s twelve tines wriggling like baby snakes meant only one thing. She felt her heart thump as two of the tines reached for each other, and within moments had twisted themselves together, the two become one.
The amulet cast warmth to her hand that grew almost unbearable, but it was a transition she would endure. The points of the amulet shifted their position to spread out equally along the rim leaving no evidence that one of their own was gone. The amulet, now of eleven points, stilled and cooled. Tears dribbled down Sharael's face as the message was delivered: Arthessi of the White Circle, a dear old friend was dead; his sentence carried out.
The distant sound of steel jolted her from sorrow. Random beats, dull and sharp, they were the sounds of battle. With grave resolution she straightened, she released the amulet letting it drop to her chest to hang from its silver chain. Wiping tears on her sleeve she shakily started toward the sounds of clashing metal.
Closer, Sharael could see fragmented images through the trees, sunlit reflections off gleaming steel highlighted the movement of battle. Arriving at the clearings' edge, she saw two men locked in combat. In the hand of one was a long black sword, the object she sought.
The battle had ensued for some time, for both were weary and covered in sweat. Their movements strained and slowed. One, a warrior adorned in the best of modern armor polished to a golden glow, held the long black sword known as the Black Razor. He was a man of education and refinement, knowing his craft as taught in a schoolyard. His blows were powerful, well executed in textbook form, yet misplaced by inexperience. His attacks glazed off his opponent’s defense, finding him on the wrong side of the battle.
The other, a man not of stature, but of character, his face darkened by the sun, hair long from travel. His breastplate unpolished, dented and scraped, yet the leathers oiled and kept functional. His blade nothing more than a short sword of commonplace, serviceable and suitable.
Sharael watched on, this man of humble means held her interest, for even though the Razor was not in his possession, she knew battle, and knew whom fate would favor. His stances were well placed, his defense accurate, it was only a matter of time.
With the final blow delivered, the golden clad warrior staggered backward in surprise. A carmine rainbow blew forth as a gasp of disbelief escaped his windpipe. He flung off his shield to free a hand and he clutched his partially severed throat. But even in this, as blood spayed with every choking breath, his grip tightened on the sword of black.
Falling to his knees, the golden clad warrior bent forward on an arm. Still clutching his throat, his hand the color of life, he slowly lowered himself to the ground.
As Sharael watched on, the victor dropped his worn blade, its only evidence of recent service being nicks and a smudge across the tip like a great greasy fingerprint. With effort, he pried the Razor from the dead man's hand; for even now the fingers gripped with defiant resolve. The fallen relinquished their prize and the victor held his treasure with reverence and pride.
He ran his hand along the polished black blade and she knew his wonder, for even she did not know what it was made of. She watched him study the inscription, flipping the blade from one side to the other, he'd know from legend what it said, but would be unable to read the ancient language.
Then he looked up, “I’ve done it,” he said quietly as he began to swing the weapon. His face showed only the slightest sign of satisfaction; and Sharael knew what he was feeling now. The connection had begun, a bond between man and blade that only victory could bring, and the union would be rapture. He would feel invincible, and the blade would empower him. She knew she had to get out there, had to do it now, but her own mortality, her own fear, held her back.
The warrior, and she made no mistake in calling him this, for he was a man of pride, discipline and skill. The warrior moved about in the clearing with his new prize, swinging the blade, feeling the legend grow in his mind, but stopped with an all to familiar look in his eye.
She watched him scan the wood, and she knew he had seen something. Despite her concealment, shrouded in shadow, she knew he had seen her. Inexplicably, her mind sought explanation, perhaps he had seen the glow from the amulet? Yes, that was it, for his eyes fixated on it now.
Sharael rose and stepped from the shelter of the woods, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He towered over her, yet she knew he was scared. He would know who she was and why she had come, there would be no question.
The glowing amulet hanging from her neck said everything. Yes, he would know her, though not by face of course, but by position. She was White Circle, and she came for the Razor.
His eyes locked with hers as she raised her hand in the unspoken demand to return the Razor to her, his head shook slowly in defiance. She took another step forward and motioned again, the proud warrior, gripping his prize began to quake, and small pieces of armor began to chatter. How enraging it must be for him, she thought, for she knew the decision he was faced with, knew that under any circumstance he had to bow to her.
To her consternation, he made no move to bow, yet she never let her eye’s wander, her gaze kept locked to his. She knew the feeling of invincibility that had so empowered him only moments before was fading fast. It had occurred to her how angry he would be, after all, she was but a girl before him, but a girl from the White Circle nevertheless; the ultimate authority in the world of man.
She motioned once more and saw rage appear in his eyes. The warrior swept back with the Razor, his face showed his intent to kill, and her own fears surfaced.
She had been certain it would not come to this, that her authority was known among the hierarchy of the land, the amulet should be all she needed. Further, if her authority went unrecognized, the Razor itself would protect her, knew that in the moment he chose to defy her, the Razor should reject him. Yet, there he was, the Razor over head, his foot coming forward, both hands tight on its hilt, and the rage of battle contorting his face.
A pang of fear twisted her stomach, and for a moment her thoughts stumbled. She knew what to do, but the words seemed out of reach.
“Coss Mezza…” she began, but already she knew she had mispronounced it. “Coss Messa Duo!” she blurted, but it was too late, she had not the concentration, and she knew the spell would not come.
Sharael’s mind began to race; time seemed to slow like that of a living nightmare. She struggled against her clouded mind, her body not seeming to listen. She reached for her sword, grasped the unfamiliar hilt and swept it skyward to meet his powerful blow, but her strength was no match for his.
There was a droning clash of weapons, a burning pain as tendons in her wrist tore, and her weapon was bashed from her grip. The Razor's path remained unchanged, and the sword of black bit down into her shoulder with a force that shattered bone and drove her to her knees.
Then for a moment, there was silence. Sharael's head swayed as she tried to focus on her attacker. Her gaze trailed down the Razor's glistening edge to her impaled shoulder. Only vaguely seeing and not yet understanding the extent of what occurred, her head lulled back.
The warrior reluctantly met her unfocused gaze. Her blood dappled his chest plate, and his armor chattered in that fear.
“What have I done?” he said aloud as he shook his head with disbelief. “White Circle,” he gasped. To her surprise, tears appeared in his eyes as confusion rippled across his face. He looked down at his shaking grip on the Razor. His eyes followed the ebony blade to her flesh and the carmine life force that covered it. His confusion grew as the unnatural weight of the Razor's rejection became sudden and great, but the weapon, knowing his heart, had acted too late.
Becoming impossibly heavy, he had to let go of the blade. The hilt fell to the ground with a heavy thud, the blade pivoting in her flesh. His face in shock, the warrior stepped backward, tripping over the dead man behind him; the warriors weight fell upon the golden breastplate and the metal buckled with a loud pop.
Pain shot through Sharael's neck as she tried to lift her head. Her right hand shaking found the Razor's blade protruding from her breast, her left arm nearly severed, dangled. Her right hand grasped the eleven-pointed amulet as a shriek of agony escaped her lips. Desperately she searched her mind for words that eluded her. Paralyzed with pain she could do nothing as her body lost balance and fell forward. The Black Razor, the sword of power, pressed its pommel to the ground as she fell. Slowly, painfully, the blade slid through her as she mumbled words her heart knew were wrong.
“Coss Mobis,” she began, but that wasn’t right. “Coss Mobi Emergo!” she said with as much triumph as she could muster. Crimson light engulfed her in a flash and she was gone leaving a small whirl of wind where she had lain.
Sharael opened her eyes and peered deep into the crimson abyss. The pain was gone, and she realized she was between realms, but why? Droplets of blood floated about her like raindrops. There was no weight to them, no weight to her.
The abyss was the substance that filled the void between realms. Ordinarily the teleport would take her straight to Silandria, the isle of the White Circle, but something had gone very wrong. Sharael knew that in the event of unforeseen circumstances, the spell would divert her to another safe point. But why had it taken her here? No sooner had she wondered, she was whisked away once more.
In a clearing, only a few long strides from a small cabin, the air began to thicken as magic coalesced. There was a flash of crimson and Sharael appeared from the ether. Standing in someone’s pasture she looked about confused and dizzy. Something tugged at her, and then movement caught her eye. To her horror, the Black Razor slid from her body and dropped with a thud to the turf.
From the cabin, a clatter arose and a huskily built man bounded from the doorway. She recognized him, at least the amulet around his neck; he was an Oath Taken, a man sworn in service to the Razor... Sharael dropped to her knees, and in a brief moment of clarity, she knew she had done what she had intended.
Her eyes on the reddened blade in front of her, weakness consumed her as throbbing pulses of blood pumped from her body soaking into her clothes. As she fell to all fours, her left shoulder collapsed from the weight and she fell to her side retching in dry waves of nausea. Lork Aven, Oath Taken, approached her chanting a spell she knew she should recognize, but could not. She looked up to the sky, the bright sun shining, then everything fell out of focus and mercifully, her world went dark.
Chapter 2
Cullen Aven sat nervously on the front porch reviewing what had transpired that night. With hands grasping his face, and elbows digging into knees, he rocked periodically trying to soothe himself. The early morning mid-summer sun cast sunbeams across the hazy sky and warmed his boots. He shook his head in wonder, still finding it hard to believe what he had done. Shame relentlessly invaded his thoughts, for he knew what his father would say.
The sounds of movement in the house brought Cullen back from review. His mother, Kate, was beginning her early morning routine, always first to rise. He knew he should be gone before his betrayal was discovered. He had to finish what he had started before it had to be explained.
Cullen stood from the porch uneasily, though careful not to creak the boards, his legs trembled weakly and he rubbed them to chase away numbness. With hours of affirmation and the courage this had brought, Cullen walked to the back of the house and across the small field. He stopped once more as his fear resurfaced, but after a deep breath he was prepared to revisit the Aven family secret.
The secret in part, is an oath of guardianship; an oath bound by magic and sworn two hundred years before by Lork Aven. The other part, the secret, well... Cullen looked down the shadow-cast path with trepidation. He walked slowly along the route he could navigate in the dark. The path led to a tomb, a means that had helped the Aven's for generations to conceal their charge. to help guard the object of their oath.
The tomb, the Aven family tomb, displayed the final resting place for Lork Aven and his descendants. Though truth be told, Cullen knew that Lork himself was not buried here, his body never found. What happened to Lork, no Aven knew, yet the oath had been taken up by his son Trent, and passed on as required to his able-bodied descendants.
Within the tomb, situated centrally was a great stone box, long enough to be a coffin, and tall enough to meet Cullen's chest. This great box, was the source of Cullen's woes, for it was the focus of the oath. The box, simple gray, held the guise of a sarcophagus and bore the name Lork Aven, but this fallacy had been placed upon it by Lork's son Trent in order to complete the guise.
In truth, no Aven alive knew what this box contained. Generations of Aven’s had sworn and upheld the oath with nothing more than the single goal of guardianship known. If there had once been more to the oath as all Avens believed; it had been lost with Lork.
Cullen had been serving the oath since his sixth summer, and doubting his duties since his tenth. Now he was into his nineteenth summer, and his reservations had only strengthened. There were so many unanswered questions. What was it they guarded? Cullen didn't know; and when he asked, his father would say, “It's what my father does and his father did.” Or “It's our oath son, and our oath is our bond.” None of which gave Cullen comfort or answer.
Cullen had spent much of his childhood in doubt. He no longer wanted to devote, nay, sacrifice his life to something that by all appearances, was little more than a legend. He had always asked the obvious questions; 'what could be so important that I should spend my life hiding the truth of this box?' And more recently, 'who’s gonna stop me from opening it?' The answers always came to him in his father's voice.
But still, what could be so important? The oath had been sworn to the White Circle, and further, the Circle bound the oath by magic. Though the Circle had been dead all of these one hundred and eighty nine years, this oath still bound all Avens.
From its place of honor on the family mantel, Cullen had taken the amulet of the oath. The amulet, a round silver medallion, had a single spar protruding from its top. The spar only a single fingers width tall was also fastened to the sturdy silver chain he held in his hand. Encrusted upon the amulet was a large red ruby. This in and of itself had kept Cullen's belief in magic alive along with generations of Avens before him. For this amulet, this gem, had remained aglow these one hundred and eighty-nine years of the oath.
Magic was a hard sell these days in Parton and Van Isle, on most street corners it was little more than slight of hand and trickery. But the Avens knew there was more to it, knew that magic was not deception or myth, yet no Aven alive had seen any other save the amulet.
Every summer equinox, the master Aven, currently Cullen's father, would scratch a simple tiny mark into the back of the amulet. There were one hundred and eighty nine tiny marks now, and with the equinox soon approaching, it would be one mark too many for Cullen.
Cullen stood facing the ajar entrance to the tomb, the amulet in hand. The large stone box, once thought to be a sarcophagus was covered by a single stone slab which now lay broken on the floor, fallen when pried from its base. Last night was both fearful and wonderful giving affirmation to his belief in magic.
He stood still and took deep breaths as he stared into the tomb and replayed the events of last night. Once again summoning his courage, he walked timidly to the edge of the stone box and peered in. After a lifetime of wondering, the answers were upon him, though they had not been any of the answers he had imagined. It was not a box, nor a coffin; it was a door, a door concealing a stone staircase and a workshop beyond.
He took one last deep breath before climbing over the cold wall and placing his feet once again onto the ancient stone-carved stairs. Carefully, he took each step, the sound of his own footfalls giving him pause. At the base of the stairs was a short passage that led to a rotted wooden door still ajar from his first visit. A glint of light still emanated from the room; the lantern he had lit still glowing. With a jolt, his mind took him back in time to late that night when he had first stood in front of this door. The memories so vivid that sweat beaded on his forehead.
Cullen had stood quietly in front of the door; the heat from the lantern warmed his hand as he quietly placed the pry bar against the wall. He had used it to pry open the stone box, but had no need of it now. Cullen held up the lantern; ready to spread light on what lay beyond the door. He grasped the coarse rusted doorknob and contemplated one last time the meaning of his actions.
Cullen turned the knob and the warped door popped open a hand span. He pushed, and the door began to swing with squealing hinges all the way. The lantern threw a blanket of light across a workroom which had not been seen for nearly two hundred years.
The air was stale and the door had stirred centuries-old dust making it hard to breathe as his body adjusted to the environment. Cullen's gut lurched with shock as his eyes focused on a skeleton reclined in a large sitting chair at a desk against the far wall. He stood frozen, eyes locked on what was certain to be Lork Aven.
The workroom was just more than ten paces in either direction, and after some time gathering his nerve he stepped in. The desk was only one of several pieces of furniture that lay under a veil of dust, and a clutter of papers, vials, and small tools of alchemy seemed to sit on every fixture. There was a large floor standing cabinet against the right wall, the doors of which were open and blocked by an array of equipment. There were various small cabinets and tables lining the remaining available wall space. A great central table added to Cullen's anxiety, as it appeared also to contain a body, though covered by a sheet.
Cullen had walked past the table doing his best to ignore what lay beneath. Each footstep produced small rings of dust rolling across the floor like ripples when water accepted a stone. The air grew thicker with every step but his lungs were adjusting now and the urge to sneeze and cough never came.
The skeleton reclined in the chair was clean of decay; the clothes (to his surprise) had not rotted, and were unmistakably those of commonplace. Cullen uneasily searched the remains but found nothing in his pockets, so he turned his attention to the desk.
Using a foot to push the heavy chair back from the desk allowed Cullen to get a better look at its contents. The parchments and fine papers were mainly intact and, though covered in dust, remained legible. He glanced about and found a hook on the wall, Lork's ancient lantern still hung there long exhausted of fuel.
Cullen switched the lanterns and placed Lork's under the desk to keep it out of the way. The light illuminated the workspace well and Cullen, longing for a chair knelt in front of the desk to read some of the documents it contained. Two documents contained Lork's signature and others still addressed him by name, there was no doubt that Cullen had solved the mystery of Lork Aven, but there was still one more important mystery to solve.
Cullen stood and examined the cabinet next. The two open doors had backpacks propped against them; in addition, there was a short sword and a long sword leaning in one of its corners. More interestingly, a pistol crossbow hung from a hook on the back panel. This was something Cullen wished to examine... but something nagged at him.
Ignoring for now the crossbow, he continued his search of the remaining tables and cabinets. After only a halfhearted attempt he stopped, for something continued to tug at him. He finally gave in and turned his attention to the central table.
His eyes scanned the figure that lay before him. The sheet, soft and clean, showed no signs of age, as did any of the contents within the room. He furrowed his brow as he walked slowly around the table noting the fine contours of the womanly form that seemed to lie beneath the sheet.
Surely, this too should have been a skeleton, jagged and clean of flesh. At the foot of the table, he bent nearer to look at the figure's feet. Though covered by the sheet he could see a multitude of bumps where toes were. He straightened, intent on finishing his circuit of the table, and paused standing opposite of where he had begun.
Gingerly, and almost involuntarily, he prodded the body with a finger, wincing in anticipation. A pang of fear lurched within as he expected the body beneath the sheet to crumble at his touch, but it was soft. His brow furrowed he placed his hand on the firm yet giving abdomen.
Cullen began to tremble. Compelled, he reached out and took the corner of the sheet in his fingers, then slowly began to lift. Strands of blonde hair fell from beneath the sheet and a blue light spilled out onto the table. “Magic,” he hissed and froze, the sound of his own voice frightening him. He still could see no flesh, for the sheet had not been drawn back enough, but for that moment he was too afraid to go further.
Cullen's breathing grew rapid and his hand began to shake. He only paused another moment before whipping the sheet away. He stepped back in surprise, not a mummified or rotting corpse, but a woman was there; lying as if asleep.
Cullen, regaining his composure, leaned forward. The pale blue light seemed to emanate from her skin. Though faint enough that it did not permeate the second sheet that lightly wrapped her body. Nor did it seem to affect her long blonde hair.
The second sheet had been used to hide her nakedness and had been drawn down to expose her left shoulder where a thick purple scar extended to her breast. He looked at her pale blue colored face; a tear lay frozen on her cheek.
A myriad of thoughts and questions tumbled through his mind as his heart continued pounding and his temperature rose. Trembling he reached out and touched her cold face with the back of his hand. There was a flash of light so bright that nothing was left in his vision, then as quick as it came, it cleared.
Cullen’s hand, still touching her cheek, hadn't moved and the blue tinge of her skin turned to blushed pink. The cold skin turned to warmth, and the tear ran down her face and broke on his finger.
Her eyes flashed open, and with a great gasp for air her chest heaved; Cullen stepped back stumbling over clutter on the floor and falling backwards against the wall. He scrambled to his feet and ran through the doorway, up the stairs and to the night above.
These events replayed in his mind as he peered through the crack in the doorway. Why he had run he still wasn't sure. The fear of a broken oath, the fear of his father, but surely the fear of the woman seemingly brought back from death. Now though, his oath had sense, the years of labor and training coming together, but to what purpose?
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