Assassin's Blade

By Ben Hale

Text Copyright © 2013 Ben
Hale

All Rights Reserved

To my family and friends,

who believed

And to my wife,

who is perfect

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: The Elusive Target

Chapter 2: Enraged

Chapter 3: Kulldye Dreg

Chapter 4: The Icy Lair

Chapter 5: The Swordsman's Wrath

Chapter 6: Caged

Chapter 7: Oracle

Excerpt from The Last Oracle

The Chronicles of Lumineia

Author Bio

Chapter 1: The
Elusive Target

The Swordsman waited.

He preferred to stalk his targets
in their own haunts, but this one had proved elusive. The Swordsman had been
forced to choose a less elegant method of assassination—a trap. Steeped in
shadow, the warehouse suited his purposes well. Resting on the outskirts of New
York City, it appeared identical to the others on the block.

Rusted cranes sat on equally
rusted rails against the roof. Large machinery dotted the floor, coated in
dust. A handful of homeless had taken up residence over the years, but each had
moved on. They had left a scattering of trash, a mark of their disdain. Even
they had found it inhospitable.

Grimy windows allowed a trickle
of light to illuminate the cavernous space. Some had been broken by vandals,
and the holes revealed a slim moon in a cloudless night. The resulting darkness
filled the warehouse like smoke.

As he waited he fell to pondering
the group that had issued this contract. As a rule he cared little for his
contract benefactors, but a tremor of doubt had seeped into him. The Harbingers
paid well and often, yet he'd gained an odd distaste for them.

He'd met an abundance of unsavory
characters in his profession, yet the Harbingers stood out. Over the last year the
Swordsman had eliminated a handful of targets for them. As always he'd verified
that the soon-to-be-dead qualified for his singular rule.

He did not kill innocents.

It was not a rule shared by the
others in the guild, but one that he adhered to with absolute regard. The
principle stemmed from a deep seated hatred for those who acted with evil
intent. He considered the removal of their kind a service, regardless of who
paid the contract.

But why did the Harbingers bother
him? Of the six they had contracted him to kill, none had appeared innocent.
His current target was no exception. The Harbingers had shared a memory orb of the
man killing one of their own with a blast of fire.

The Swordsman had accepted the
contract and sought to verify his quarry. For the past three weeks he had
tracked him across the globe, yet had failed to catch so much as a glimpse of
him. Throughout the hunt the Swordsman had found surprisingly little beyond his
name, Hawk.

The man was a mage, that much was
clear, and yet the Swordsman could find no record of him anywhere. Tryton's
Academy of Magic, the principal school for training young mages, had never
heard of him, neither had the other magical schools. Eventually he'd discovered
that his target led another secret organization, the Guild of Light.

He'd sought their halls to no
avail, forcing him to resort to other tactics. After painstaking effort he
managed to get a message to his target through a string of contacts. He'd kept
it brief, and vague. Then he'd retreated to the warehouse to wait. After four days
the target appeared.

The target entered the warehouse
through the side door. He paused and then strode to the center of the
warehouse. Muffled footfalls rebounded off the steel walls and echoed back.
They faded to silence as the man came to a halt where the Swordsman had
planned.

Every space contained an unseen
heart. Unnoticed by the ignorant, it compelled those who entered to stand
there. His target was no exception. Intent on meeting his "friend," Hawk
had strode almost to the inch where the Swordsman waited.

The Swordsman eased out of his
hide in the steel railings above. The metal did not betray his movement. Drawn
into the orange band on his wrist, the groans and creaks of the machinery
failed to give utterance. Gathering himself, he cast a strength spell and then
slipped free.

Forty feet passed in the span of
a heartbeat. He landed hard, but his magically enhanced muscles caught him
easily. Drawing his sword, he rose in a fluid motion and whipped the sword
toward his target's back—but
Hawk was quicker.

As if he'd anticipated the blow,
the man stepped away and whirled to face him. The Swordsman pressed the attack,
but his target's own magic exploded between them. Fire poured from his hands,
igniting the air and driving the Swordsman back. He retreated and evaporated
into the shadows between the machinery.

As he sought a new point of
attack he realized what had occurred. Hawk was a fire mage, a talented one, by
all accounts. He would have felt the heat in his attacker’s approaching form
and reacted accordingly. Irritated, the Swordsman frowned at the oversight.

"Who has sent you,
assassin?" Hawk called.

The Swordsman paused, and saw
that his target had not moved. Fire coiled and compressed on his arms like
shimmering gauntlets, but he had not sought to retreat. His voice radiated
calm.

Using the machinery to block his
heat, the Swordsman glided behind his target and sheathed his sword. Drawing a
short stock from under his arm, he activated the ethereal crossbow. Gray smoke
poured out of the wooden nose and coalesced into a stubby weapon. The string
solidified behind a bolt already notched—and
he fired.

The bolt streaked toward the
target’s back, but struck an unseen barrier and disintegrated into sparks and
fire. The Swordsman again shifted position as he elevated his opinion of the
target. A heat shield of such magnitude indicated he was more powerful than
rumored.

"Your precision and weapon
mark you," Hawk called. "You are the Swordsman."

The Swordsman did not respond. He
glided around the perimeter of the warehouse, searching for a weakness in his
target.

"I admit you have done
well," Hawk continued. "This structure is made of steel and concrete—materials difficult for a
fire mage to impact. But I think you know not who you have come to kill."

The Swordsman snatched his hand
back as the metal underneath began to glow. He retreated, but the conveyer belt
next to him had also grown warm. Heat washed over him as the machines
brightened, forcing him to retreat into the shadows. A glance back revealed
that every chunk of machinery had begun to melt.

The Swordsman issued a grunt of
annoyance and activated his shadow hook. Catching the fading darkness on the
wall, he scaled to the rails above. From there he caught a hold behind a crane.
Then he dropped his strength spell and cast an agility charm.

His flesh tingled with perfect
balance, and he weaved across the labyrinthine supports as if on flat ground. One
of the machines below collapsed into a puddle of liquid steel. It continued to
melt as another fell. By the time the Swordsman had reached a spot above his
target every shred of cover in the warehouse had dissolved.

Steam rose from a dozen puddles,
and the blistering liquid illuminated the building. Hawk bent and placed a hand
in the liquid next to him. Rather than melt his flesh, it cooled as he drew the
heat out. Then he withdrew a glowing sword of solid fire. He flicked the sword,
sending sparks and sizzling drops of liquid scattering across the ground.

For the first time the Swordsman
felt a doubt. His target was demonstrating a skill with fire unlike any he'd
ever seen. The magic he performed suggested a supreme, innate ability.
Suppressing his doubt, the Swordsman released his agility spell and added
strength again. For the second time, he dropped toward his target.

This time, Hawk met him with his
blade. Sparks exploded as the two weapons came in contact. The Swordsman
whirled, driving for his target's heart. Hawk parried and struck back. Bits of
fire cascaded like driving rain as they fought for an edge.

The Swordsman found one, and
uncoiled his body like a whip. His boot struck Hawk in the chest, sending him
rolling into one of the liquid puddles. He rose to his feet in fluid hot enough
to sear flesh from bone. He flashed a smile.

"You certainly have earned
your name."

The Swordsman switched to an
agility charm. Taking two steps in a rush, he leapt into a high flip. His sword
flicked out and nearly cleaved his target's head in two. Hawk managed to block
it, and the Swordsman landed easily on the other side.

Hawk placed his sword tip down
into the melted steel. In an instant he sucked all the heat from it—and every other puddle. The
rush of superheated air whipped the Swordsman's clothing but it did not harm
him. Instead it augmented Hawk's sword.

The glowing red blade brightened
to white, and then the supreme blue. The thousand degree heat of such fire
could slice through a car engine like it was cottage cheese. The Swordsman
hesitated. His weapon was enchanted, but could it withstand such a temperature?

He released his agility spell and
cast a speed charm. The magic drove him to action, and he darted in. Instead of
a full assault he used his sword to sow confusion. Whipping it high and low—reversing
it and spinning a full circle, he attacked from all sides.

Hawk fought to withstand the
onslaught. Sparks and pieces of the Swordsman's blade ignited every time they
grazed. The Swordsman did not relent, and drove his opponent back. Hawk's skill
with a sword was undeniable, but did not compare to the Swordsman's blinding
assault. Sensing the impending victory, the Swordsman forced an opening.

His arm arced forward—but slowed just before
impact. The tip of his sword touched Hawk's neck but could not advance any
further. He looked down at his arm in shock, and saw frost coating his skin and
clothing. His speed magic had burned in his muscles, causing him not to feel the
heat being drawn from his limbs.

It was the second lesson in a
matter of minutes, and the Swordsman felt a flash of anger. He released the
speed charm and cast strength once more. Then he strained to get out. He knew
the effort was futile. At any moment Hawk could strike him down.

But the blow did not come.

The ice over his body shattered
and the Swordsman stumbled free. He found Hawk a dozen steps away, his
expression curious. Uncertainty caused the Swordsman to hesitate, but one
glance at his own sword told the truth. Marred and chipped from the contact,
his blade would never be the same. On impulse he sheathed it.

"Who are you?"

Hawk flicked his blue sword into
the air, and it disintegrated into a thousand tiny flames, illuminating the
warehouse. Rather than answer the Swordsman’s question, he asked his own.

"Do you kill
innocents?"

The words were like a slap in the
face, causing the Swordsman to growl. "Are you saying you are?"

"No more than the next
man," Hawk replied. "But I don't have a penchant for inflicting pain.
I cannot say the same for those who sent you."

"How do you know who sent
me?" The Swordsman folded his arms.

Hawk sighed. "The Harbingers
have been my enemy for a long time, and I am not the first they have sought to
kill." The Swordsman remained silent, but Hawk's gaze did not deviate.
"I am aware of your rule, assassin. I suggest you look deeper into the
others you have slain."

"You are still my
contract," the Swordsman said.

"Then I look forward to our
next encounter," Hawk replied, and then turned to leave.

The Swordsman considered another
attempt, but stayed his hand. Hawk's words had struck a chord, his actions even
more so. The Swordsman had sought to kill—quickly and without mercy—yet Hawk had passed over
opportunities to do the same. At every turn his target had displayed another
goal.

To enlighten.

Chapter 2: Enraged

The Swordsman climbed to the roof
and pulled his tiny air board from a pocket. He touched the rune and it swelled
to full size. Tossing it off the edge, he leapt onto its surface and glided
away. Its gravity and wind charms lifted him into the dark night. Catching a
current of wind, he headed south.

Hawk's words gnawed at him,
refusing to fade. Was he right? Had the Harbingers manipulated him? A burst of
anger clenched his hands. The miles passed, but the rage did not abate.

Cities glided beneath him, their
lights dotting the curving landscape. Non-mages bustled through the streets,
ignorant of the existence of magic or the true history of Earth. For six
thousand years the mages had lived apart from the main populace of aurens,
relegating magic to myth and legend.

As he flew above them his
thoughts turned to his recent Harbinger contracts. He'd tracked each with
precision and skill, and had learned their movements and habits. One in
particular stood out to him, Aaron Jenkins, a lieutenant colonel in the US Army.
The information given to him by the Harbingers had indicated Jenkins was a
traitor.

The Swordsman had verified it, of
course, but his new perspective seemed to draw forth a glaring omission. The
Swordsman had witnessed Jenkins receiving a cash payment from a person of Asian
descent. Aaron had given the person something in turn, but the Swordsman had
not been able to identify what. Could The Swordsman have been tricked into
witnessing the exchange?

On impulse he banked his board
west, and accelerated toward the city lights in the distance. The skyscrapers
of Washington DC forced him higher into the night. His board was highly
illegal, and it would wreak havoc among the aurens if he was spotted.

He circled the city until he
found the right neighborhood, then he tipped the board down and dropped from
the sky. Reaching his former target's roof, he slowed into a curving stop and
stepped off his board. Shrinking it to the size of his hand, he pocketed it and
strode to the edge. Then he leaned down and activated his shadow hook.

The hook carried him down and
along the wall until he reached a second story window. The room was dark and quiet,
so he eased the window open and slipped inside. In the six months since he'd
been in the room it had transformed. Gone were the infant clothes and crib. In
their place a bunk bed had been set up with matching dressers.

A creak of a door handle was his
only warning.

Casting an agility charm, he
rebounded off a toy car, caught the top edge of the bunk bed and leapt up onto
the railing. The wooden bed issued a tiny creak as he balanced at the top end,
causing the boy beside him to twitch.

The door eased open, and his
target's wife slipped inside with a tiny girl in tow. The Swordsman pressed the
darkring on his small finger, but his caution proved unnecessary. She did not
turn on the light. Instead she crouched by the lower bunk and helped her
daughter back under the covers.

"I miss Daddy," the
little girl whimpered.

"I know, sweetheart,"
the mother murmured, her voice tired. "You tell me every night."

Her voice was strained, weary
with more than just fatigue. The Swordsman frowned as a twinge of guilt flared
inside his chest. He'd killed family men before and had never felt a hint of
regret. If anything he'd been doing their children a favor.

The little girl began to cry.
"I can't find my daddy bear."

"It's right here," the
mother responded. "Remember what he said. When you squeeze it, he can feel
you hugging him."

"Even now?"

The mother's voice caught.
"Even now."

"Okay."

Without seeing it, the Swordsman
knew she was squeezing the bear. The mother kissed her on the forehead.
"Good night, sweetheart."

"Good night, Mommy."

The mother rose and returned to
the door. She lingered on the threshold, blocking the light from the hall. The
seconds ticked by as she gazed upon her daughter. Then she passed a hand over
her face before departing. The Swordsman waited, and then followed.

The mother trudged halfway down
the stairs, but came to a halt next to a picture of her husband. Just out of
sight, the Swordsman watched as she reverently touched the corner of the frame.

"I miss him too, Lily,"
she whispered.

Her voice cracked as she spoke.
Then she lifted the picture from the wall and sank onto the step. Clasping it
to her chest, she began to talk.

"Hey."

The Swordsman froze, but it had
not been directed at him.

"I'm sorry I didn’t get to
talk to you earlier," she said. "Work has been busy. I miss being
home with the kids. So far I've managed to keep up with the bills, but the money
from the Army is running out. I think . . . I'm going to have to sell the
house. I know how much you put into building it for us, and I'm sorry I can't
keep it.

"I know I need a better job,
but I'm having a hard time finding one. Who knew that homemaker didn't look
good on a resume?"  She released a humorless laugh. "Your sister is
trying to get me a secretary position at the college, but I'm not getting my
hopes up. Maybe I'll get an apartment closer to her."

She paused, and then continued in
a quieter tone. "Lily lost a tooth today," she said. "It came
out at pre-school and her teacher sent it home in a bag. You should have seen
her face. She was so excited to show me . . . and you. She still asks every day
when you will get back."

She fell silent, and when she
resumed talking her voice had gained a hitch. "Billy does his homework
every day, and says he wants to be just like you. I think he knows you aren't
coming home because he stopped asking. Sometimes I catch him staring at your
picture."

Riveted and overcome by what he
was hearing, the Swordsman eased closer.

"I miss you, Aaron. I don't
know if I can do this without you. You were always the strong one . . ."

Her words tapered off as she
began to cry, quietly and restrained, as if she didn't want to wake her
children. Her shoulders quivered as she held the picture of her dead husband,
the man the Swordsman had slain.

Never had he seen such depth of
emotion. Like falling in arctic water, it shocked him to the core. He'd
witnessed the impact of his work before—but
never like this. In their hearts, families knew when they lived with someone
evil. As much as they mourned the dead, there had always been a note of relief.
Aaron's wife displayed no such emotion. Even after four months, she grieved with
an omnipresent agony.

The sight pierced the Swordsman's
soul. He made to withdraw but another picture on the wall caught his eye.
Risking the light, he stepped into the hall and peered at the image. It was of
a wedding. His target stood smiling with his family and had an arm around the
groom—a man the Swordsman recognized.

He was the one from the park, the
same man that had exchanged cash for a package with his target. Their relaxed
demeanor in such a setting suggested a familiarity that went beyond the norm.
If that wasn't enough, the note on the picture revealed the truth.

I couldn't have surprised her
without you. Thanks Aaron, for always being a true friend.

The Swordsman retreated to the
children's bedroom. For a long moment he watched the little girl sleep. His tumultuous
emotions raged inside of him—but
with each passing second the guilt hardened into cold fury. The Harbingers had
led him to see the exchange, and used it to prove he was a traitor. The
Swordsman may have carried out the contract, but he was merely the weapon. The
Harbingers had wielded it.

He strode to the window and
departed to the roof. Activating his board, he leapt into the air and sped away.
Wind snapped at his clothing as he reached top speed. Then he withdrew a large
gold coin and traced the rune on its back. The coin morphed into a skull, and
of its own accord turned to face south. As he curved his board in that
direction it changed back to its former shape.

He flew until the first rays of
dawn graced the horizon, then he dipped his board to the water. Fueled by a
tornado charm, the air board had reached the southern tip of Florida in less
than three hours. He activated the skull once more to locate his destination,
and soon after passed through an invisible barrier. A tiny island burst into view.

The aurens called the area the
Bermuda Triangle, and told stories of the strange things that had occurred here.
In truth the unexplainable events could all be traced to the floating village
of Kulldye Dreg.

Infamous among the mages for its
disreputable merchants, it had once been a part of Europe. Now it floated
around the world in order to avoid the mage government. Only those with a token
could find it, especially when it hid among the many islands of the Bahamas.

Sunlight failed to penetrate the
protective barrier, causing the grimy town to fall perpetually into shadow.
Thieves and assassins found it hospitable, or more likely, profitable. Illegal
artifacts, animals, and enchantments could be found aplenty in the winding
streets. If the underbelly of the mage world had a home, this was it.

The Swordsman landed next to one
of the newer gateways and activated the condensing charm on his board. It
shrank down to the size of key chain, allowing him to pocket it. Then he
flashed the token to the gatekeeper. It morphed into a skull again, preventing
the statue of an armored battlemage from tearing him to shreds.

At one time he'd found the statue
humorous. The battlemage corps would give anything to find the Dreg. To have a
statue of one of their own guarding it mocked the mage government for their
inability to find it. This time the Swordsman didn't spare it a glance. He
stalked into the winding streets with a single thought on his mind.

Revenge.

Chapter 3: Kulldye
Dreg

Shops lined the throughway, their
banned wares on prominent display. An animary displayed a collection of exotic
creatures. A foxvine curled its limbs around the bars and lifted its innocent
wooden face to the Swordsman. Known for the poisonous barbs on its vines and its
brutal, carnivorous nature, it nevertheless was prized for its bark.

Beside it, a tiyanak cried in its
cell. Similar to the foxvine, its initial appearance did not match its true
nature. It could have passed for an auren baby, but once picked up it would
revert to a savage beast and devour its prey.

An encantado swam in its tank,
and shifted to human form when she caught the Swordsman's eye. Beside her, an
enormous silver reaver slept in a reinforced cage, the original having been
flattened into an unrecognizable heap next to him. A pair of fury cats stared
at the Swordsman without blinking, their manes spitting fire.

Across from the animary stood Quill
to Kill. Ancient scrolls of forgotten spells were available for a price,
but the Swordsman didn't care for the proprietor. It was rumored that he occasionally
sold spells that killed the wielder. The obese figure peered down at a scroll
and did not look up as the Swordsman passed.

The next structure could have
been mistaken for abandoned. Shuttered windows and a darkened interior welcomed
those who dared to enter. The dark apothecary contained everything from
powdered dragonbone to distilled aconite. The only mark that it was open was a
tattered sign out front.

Flesh
eating cockroaches, two for one.

Accidental
deaths on the premises forfeit their corpse.

Winding alleys twisted away into
darkness, inviting only to those comfortable with danger. Corpses commonly appeared
in the streets of the Kulldye Dreg and were routinely disposed of by a trained
manticore. Whenever a drought of murders occurred, citizens tended to disappear
to its hunger.

Rusted signs hung from bent
glowlamps, their inscriptions long since worn away. Cobblestone paths extended
into blacktrunk oak trees, an ideal place for quiet exchanges. By nightfall a
handful of buyers would take to the streets in search of enchanted items. Their
thirst to rob, cheat, or kill was matched by the merchants’.

The Swordsman came to Wessel's
Flyers and shouldered his way inside.  The locked hatch snapped off, unable
to withstand his enhanced strength. The subsequent gravity well hex would have
flattened an elephant, but he gritted his way through.

The shop contained several banned
air boards, each with unique enchantments. He strode past them and leapt the
counter to the rear door. Leaning into the kick, he sent the wooden frame
shattering into splinters, revealing a small office. Wessel's head snapped up.
A known early riser, he had been sitting at a desk reading a thick tomb.

"Swordsman!" His tone rose
with anger. "What do you think—"

The Swordsman closed the gap in a
single step. Grabbing Wessel’s throat, he threw him across the room. The man
cried out as he slammed into a bookshelf. Papers and floating objects scattered
when it fell with crash. Wessel staggered to his feet and launched a blast of
gravity.

The Swordsman drew his sword and
sunk it into the floor. Clenching the handle, he used it as leverage and leapt
free of the hex. Rebounding off a wall, he crushed his fist into Wessel's
cheek, knocking him brutally to the floor. The man wobbled as he rose to his
knees, but the Swordsman caught the side of his head and smashed it down. Then
he put a knee into his neck.

"Look at my sword,
Weasel," the Swordsman growled.

Wessel spit blood. "Don't
call me that—"

The Swordsman lifted Wessel’s
head and again slammed it into the floor. "Look at my sword, Weasel."
All the fury he'd felt at seeing Jenkins’ wife poured into his words.

The scrawny man seemed to finally
understand his predicament. His eyes widened and flicked to the chipped blade.

"Who did that?"

"My target," the
Swordsman seethed. "The one you claimed was a blight on mankind."

"He is—"

"Then why didn't he kill
me?" the Swordsman hissed into his ear. "Why not strike me down for
my impudent attempt on his life? Do you even know who he is?"

"It was a Harbinger
contract," Wessel said through bloody teeth. "They told me he was a traitor."

"I know," the Swordsman
said. The sudden calm in his voice seemed to frighten Wessel more than his
anger. "Fortunately for you, I know you're just a miserable pawn. I want
to know where I can find them."

"You can't stop them,"
Wessel insisted. "No one can stop them."

"I don't mean to stop
them," the Swordsman said. "I mean to kill them."

—a
creak of wood sounded behind the Swordsman. Casting speed on himself, he
whipped his crossbow free and pointed it down the dark hallway. As it coalesced
into shape he fired, and the bolt streaked away. There was a squeak of pain,
and then quiet. The anti-magic spell the assailant had been crafting
evaporated. The darkness lessened, revealing a woman groaning on the floor.

"What did you do to my
wife?" Wessel shouted.

The Swordsman dismissed the
crossbow and sheathed the stock. Then he drew a tiny dagger. Slapping it flat
on the ground, he said, "She'll die in two minutes without help. This
knife will pierce your eye in one."

The tip of the knife lifted off
the ground and aimed for Wessel's eye. Then it slid forward. The grinding of
its hilt across the floor sounded harsh over Wessel’s desperate breathing.

"I can't." Wessel's
voice had gone up an octave. "They'll kill me, and my wife. You can't
imagine how much power they have gathered."

"Fifty seconds," the
Swordsman said coldly.

"They will know I told
you," he pleaded. "They will come for me."

"Not if you are dead."

Wessel began to curse and
struggle, but the Swordsman cast strength and kept him pinned. Blood from
several shallow cuts trickled down Wessel's cheeks, but he continued to strain.
The entire desk lifted off the ground and flew toward the Swordsman. The
Swordsman released Wessel, caught the desk, and then redirected it down the
hall. It shattered over the struggling form of Wessel’s wife. He caught Wessel
by his hair and smashed him back down. Throughout it all the knife continued to
slide toward his eye.

"Please," Wessel fell
to begging. "My wife is dying."

"She's as sleazy as you are.
I'd be doing you a favor."

"I can't."

"Then you will die."

Wessel’s face began to purple
with rage and fear, but the Swordsman did not relent. The knife rasped closer,
until less than a finger separated it from his iris. Tears of anger seeped from
Wessel's eyes, and he snarled against his helplessness.

"Alright!" he bellowed.
"Sometimes they come in dressed in winter clothing. I think they have a
base in the Arctic!"

"Where?"

Panicked now, Wessel shouted,
"Due north of Moscow!"

The knife stopped a hairsbreadth
from piercing his eye. The Swordsman leaned down, and spoke in a deathly growl.
"What happens if you are lying?"

With the dagger’s tip filling his
vision, Wessel had no trouble with the answer. "You come back for
me."

"And your witch of a
wife," the Swordsman finished.

Snatching the knife up, he
retrieved his sword and stood. Wessel scrambled to a still-intact shelf and
pulled a pink vial. Then he rushed down the hall. The Swordsman turned to
leave, but came to a stop when he saw a pair of sleek, manticore hide boots.
The tag identified them as containing an air board in the soles. He shrugged
and pulled his own board from its pouch. Dropping it onto the same shelf, he
picked up the boots.

"Any problem if I trade
boards." The Swordsman made it sound like a statement.

Wessel muttered an epitaph but
didn't argue. Taking that as assent, the Swordsman departed. Stepping over the
broken door, he strode from the shop and exited into the street. He rounded the
corner and then donned the new boots. Discarding his own, he activated the new
magic. The board burst from the soles and lifted him into the air, causing him
to flash a smile.

"Thanks Weasel."

The Swordsman flew to an exit and
left Kulldye Dreg behind. As he soared away he considered what he'd learned. Wessel's
resistance in telling the truth demonstrated an abnormal fear of the
Harbingers. That alone was sufficient for the Swordsman to be cautious—but for once his patience
crumbled.

His habits called for him to
stalk his new prey, to visit their haunts and learn their habits. This time was
different. The image of Aaron's wife and children was too fresh. Ignoring the
impulse to wait, he accelerated toward Russia. He had been manipulated into
killing a good man—possibly more than one. Nothing would remove that stain.

Except the death of those
responsible.

Chapter 4: The Icy
Lair

The Swordsman flew through the
day and into the night. His new board was not as fast as his old, but it flew
like a dream. That and its inherent secrecy would be an asset. He ate distilled
food while in the sky, unwilling to pause and use magic to create a hot meal.

The Atlantic Ocean eventually
gave way to Europe. Risking being spotted, he stuck to the edge of clouds but
pressed on. He flew until his legs ached and his eyes began to droop. Even
buoyed by his magic he could not continue forever.

He reached Russia as dawn broke, and
finally his fatigue got the best of him. Sinking into the city, he glided to a
rooftop stash he'd placed years ago. The faded concrete wall opened at his
touch, revealing a tiny room. Closing the secret door behind him, he collapsed
onto the bed and was out in seconds.

Nine hours later his eyes snapped
open, his first thought one of vengeance. The sleep had done nothing to
diminish his rage, and it drove him outside. Stretching his sore muscles, he
breathed in the frigid winter air. Sunset had fallen, spilling waning light
across the city of Moscow.

Much of the architecture in this
neighborhood could be described in two words—faded concrete. The buildings, the
sidewalks, even the roads conveyed a sense of drab emptiness. Gritty slush
lined the roads, while ice and snow clung to any horizontal surface. Old
vehicles spit forth clouds of exhaust as they maneuvered their way home.

The Swordsman returned to his
hide and changed into warmer clothing. Then he ate a quick meal from his stash.
Last he reached for a spare sword, but hesitated. Drawing his marred blade, he
checked it for signs of weakness.

Chips and gouges scarred the
sleek, black weapon. He'd used the blade on dozens of missions, and never once
scratched its surface. A single encounter with Hawk had left it scarred. But in
spite of its appearance, the material remained sound.

Satisfied, he sheathed the sword
and left his hide. Gliding into the night, he turned due north and picked up
the pace. Soon the lights and sounds of the city faded. Silent, snow-covered
tundra took their place. Stunted trees somehow found purchase in the frozen
soil, their clawed hands bending in the icy wind.

One hour became two, and then
three. The Swordsman wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders and pressed
on, annoyed that one elbow refused to warm. He reached the Arctic Circle and
passed it. Without his cloak he would have frozen to death hours ago, but even
with the enchanted cloth he felt the chill. It seeped into his skin, muscles,
and tendons, reaching for his bones.

Then he saw it.

Angled beams of ice rose from the
tundra and fused, forming a squat A-frame structure. Clouded and opaque, the
ice glistened like a giant diamond in the snow. Wisps of snow fluttered off the
summit as the wind gusted, curving into complicated patterns before
dissipating.

Snow blanketed the ground around
it, pristine white for miles. Unbroken by footprint or track, the snow
glittered in the moonlight. Six conspicuous boulders lined the exterior at
strategic intervals. Drifts of snow had piled against them, but the Swordsman
knew what they were.

Sentries.

Caution surpassed anger, causing
him to circle the Harbinger base. Soaring high in the night, he glided around
the building and shifted to his magesight. Countless hexes undoubtedly protected
the exterior, but the Swordsman could only see the types of energy he had a
talent for. He saw no sign of human form, but he doubted his vision could
penetrate the ice. Then he scanned with his secondary ability.

Blots of purple light dotted the
summit and surrounding area, indicating techno charms or hexes. Most would be
monitoring motes, dots of magic that acted like auren security cameras. Not for
the first time the Swordsman felt a spark of gratitude that his techno ability
was only a secondary.

As a rule, techno mages behaved
like agitated squirrels, or catatonic sloths. The ability to see every live
signal in the air proved a constant distraction. Auren television, internet,
radio, and satellite signals bombarded them constantly. Mage communication
tended to be even more compelling. In the Swordsman's case, he could only see
where techno magic had been used, not what it was. It was an ability that he
had never spoken of to anyone, making it a tremendous asset.

The Swordsman slid to a halt
where he'd first spotted the structure. The overlapping nature of the
monitoring motes betrayed either a paranoid or thorough caster. Given time he
might have been able to find a point of egress, but he didn't care to wait.

He dipped his board and dropped
from the sky. Reaching the snow, he banked toward the fortress. Flurries of
white filled his wake as he sped toward the first sentry. When he'd closed to fifty
feet it began to change.

Rising and straightening, the
water entity reached its full stature of ten feet. Shedding snow and ice, it
spread its arms and released a throaty growl through lion-like jaws. Then its legs
powered into a sprint.

The Swordsman jinked to the side
and dismissed the board, dropping under the swing of the frost arm and sliding
past its legs. Drawing his sword, he activated its enchantment and sliced
through its ankle. The chipped edge glowed red, sheering the foot clean off.
The entity emitted a shriek and tumbled into a drift, sending a puff of snow
into the air.

The Swordsman reactivated his
board and arced back to the rising giant. Water flowed through its form,
re-growing the lost limb at the expense of the snow around it. The Swordsman
flew across its flank, his sword slicing across its midsection. Steam erupted
from the gaping wound and the entity collapsed again. Stomping on the rear of
the board, the Swordsman swung back and removed its head.

The charm disintegrated,
releasing a plume of steam as it washed into the snow. The Swordsman flicked
his sword out and turned to the next threat. While he'd been busy with the
first, the other five had gathered for an assault. Their arms extended toward
him, releasing jets of super concentrated water.

With the temperature well below
freezing, the water would freeze on contact, chilling limbs to the point of
frostbite. A blow to the head would be fatal. The Swordsman swerved and ducked,
feeling the chill as the water passed inches from his form. Collected in a knot,
the entities prevented his getting close, so he chose a different tactic.

Rolling around a jet of water, he
curved skyward. Accelerating beyond their reach, he cast a strength charm. Then
he braked to a stop and used the momentum to launch his sword spinning
earthward. Faster than the pull of gravity, the blade streaked into the
gathered entities. They saw it coming but had no chance of avoiding the blow.

The sword entered the center one
at the shoulder and seared a line through his foot. Mortally wounded, the
entity disintegrated. The others righted themselves just as the Swordsman
slammed into the ground between them.

The moment the hilt had left his
hand the Swordsman had released his board. Dropping from the sky, he followed
his sword down. Snow and lingering water scattered outward from his landing—but he was already on the
move. Snatching his sword from where it had embedded into the soil, he dropped
his strength and cast speed.

Faster than thought, he weaved
between the entities on the right flank, downing them in a flurry of blazing
strikes. The entities struggled to retaliate but he was too close, and they
were too slow. Two more died in seconds. Dodging the retaliating streams from
the remainder, he flew out of range. Then he began to circle.

As if they sensed their
predicament, the two stood shoulder to shoulder. The snow around them melted as
it was drawn up through their legs and sent blasting toward him. Suddenly angry
at the delay, the Swordsman swerved back to the two of them and drew out his
crossbow. One handed, he sent three bolts at the pair. Just as they impacted he
touched a rune on the side of the stock.

The bolts exploded in a white hot
inferno, briefly lighting the region. Trails of steam rose from the injured
forms as they struggled to re-engage the Swordsman—but he was no longer in front of them.

Using the attack as a
distraction, the Swordsman rocketed straight at the water entities. The fire
faded as he closed to five feet. Then he leapt off the board at the same moment
he dismissed it. The black air board flowed into the boots as he sailed in a
high, arching flip that brought him down behind the entities.

Whipping his sword out, he
cleaved from the shoulder of one to the waist of the other. He landed hard and
turned toward the entrance. The last of the sentries crumbled into pools of
slowly freezing water. Intent on his destination, the Swordsman hoped his victory
had been witnessed.

His prey deserved to fear.

Chapter 5: The
Swordsman's Wrath

He reached the icy doors and kicked
them in. The ice shattered from the magic enhanced blow, its broken shards
tumbling down a hallway. Light spilled out onto the Swordsman. He caught a
glimpse of the cloaked Harbingers—and
darted to the side.

Blasts of fire and gravity passed
him by, shredding the sides of the opening. With his strength still active, the
Swordsman leapt up and used his shadow hook to swing to the opposite side. Just
as he landed a quartet of Harbinger mages stepped out and blasted his former
position. Ice cracked, snow burst into steam, and chunks of tundra were sent
tumbling away. The crackling fires made it impossible for them to hear the
Swordsman.

His jagged blade cut them down
before they knew what hit them. The last bore an expression of confusion as his
life faded from his eyes. Leaving the bodies behind, the Swordsman stalked down
the bright corridor. A moment later he reached the main hall.

Over sixty feet tall, the center
of the structure lay open to the base. Circular balconies ringed the space at
each floor, allowing the numerous corridors access to the main shaft.
Interlaced beams of magically reinforced ice formed the ceiling, their height
suggesting the roof to be over twenty feet thick.

Dozens of Harbingers were en
route to his position, their black cloaks billowing behind them as they sought
the main entrance. Dropping his strength charm, he activated agility and went
into motion.

He leapt to the wall and took two
steps along its surface. Then he rotated into a sideways flip. The move carried
him past the crackling blasts of power. Landing on the balcony railing, he
caught a vertical support beam with his free hand and whipped his form closer
to the advancing foes.

He brought his sword up, gutting
the first and casting him aside. Ducking and spinning, he rotated beneath a
reverb curse that would have shattered concrete. Ice exploded behind him at the
same time the caster lost his life. Leaving him to fall, the Swordsman closed
with the last two. One cast a disease curse, the other attempted to blind him.

The Swordsman counteracted the
first with a healing spell of his own. It wasn't as good as a healer mage’s
spell, but it would keep him alive. The second he blocked with his sword. The
beam of light reflected off his weapon and burned a sizzling hole in the
railing. Then the Swordsman was in their midst.

The Swordsman grabbed a fistful of
clothing and tossed the first man over the railing. He screamed as he fell five
stories. A moment later another followed him down. Chunks of the broken railing
rained down in the main shaft, dusting their crumpled forms.

The Swordsman darted to the next
group, leading with his sword. The fire of betrayal burned within him, driving
him to punish those who had used him. None survived his wrath. Leaving a dozen
slain on the top floor, he skipped the stairs and swung to a lower level. His
sudden appearance surprised a trio, who never even landed a blow.

Spotting a dark haired man giving
orders at the base of the structure, the Swordsman leapt the balcony and
dropped. He activated his air board on the way down, and banked toward his
unfortunate target. The man's eyes flicked to him
too late. The Swordsman caught him by the throat and redirected his hasty
attack with his free hand. Dismissing the board, the Swordsman strode to the icy
wall and slammed him into it.

"Why?" The
Swordsman’s voice carried such venom that the man flinched.

"I will kill you for this."
He strained to speak through the Swordsman's grip.

The Swordsman pulled him away
from the wall and threw him into the floor so hard that ice and rib cracked in
unison. The man cried out and tried to roll away, but the Swordsman drew his
sword and sank it into his shoulder. He screamed as the blade pinned him to the
icy floor.

—a
tornado hex appeared in the Swordsman's peripheral vision. Powerful and
accurate, it struck the Swordsman and threw him at the wall. He twisted and
managed to get his feet under him. Rebounding off the frozen surface, he rolled
to his feet and drew his crossbow. A pair of bolts streaked into the offender,
and he dropped without a sound.

"Call them off," the
Swordsman barked, and aimed the bow at the pinned leader.

"Do as he says!" the
man screamed.

"But Roker—"

"You know what to do!"

The collection of mages that had
regrouped reluctantly retreated from view, allowing the Swordsman to return to
their leader.

"I have one rule," he
said, enunciating every word, "just one. Why contract me for such targets
when you could have used any of the other assassins?"

Roker's eyes glowed with hatred,
but his voice betrayed his pain. "You are the one known for subtlety."

"Who ordered the contracts?"
the Swordsman demanded.

Roker's eyes flicked up the shaft,
but the Swordsman put a knee on his chest. The movement caused Roker's body to
shift against the blade. He sucked in his breath.

"The Master controls
everything," he hissed.

"Who is the Master?"

Roker’s eyes widened, but not in
fear. "The Master will punish you for what you have done, Swordsman."

The Swordsman reached down and
wrenched the sword free. Jagged as it was, it elicited a scream of agony from
Roker. The Swordsman flicked the blood free and then activated the searing hex.
The edge glowed once more, and he placed the tip on Roker's neck.

"The Master will be
dead."

Roker began to laugh as he
clutched the seeping wound. The mocking sound did not precede a threat, and
instead Roker lurched to his feet.  The ice beneath them shattered, forcing the
Swordsman back as a giant earth entity climbed out of the floor. Still
laughing, Roker leapt into the air as the golem reached for the Swordsman.

The Swordsman swung at its
outstretched fingers. His arm shuddered from the blow but the attack sheared
its fingers off. The golem groaned and recoiled, giving the Swordsman a chance
to dive out of the way. He rolled to his feet and made to leap—but a coil of earth had
reached up and wrapped around his foot.

The golem took one step and
tilted forward, intent on crushing the Swordsman into oblivion. Out of options,
the Swordsman spiked his strength with all his power—and caught the golem. The weight slammed him
down to one knee, cracking his kneecap. Gritting his teeth and trembling, the
Swordsman shifted the golem to the side.

Its stone arm clipped his skull
as it smashed into the floor. Dizzy from the impact, the Swordsman reached down
and smashed a gloved fist into the binding. It cracked, and he wasted no time
in leaping free. Collecting his sword from the ground, he jumped into the air
and summoned his air board. Flicking his sword out, the Swordsman streaked
toward his enemy.

His face twisted in a maniacal
grin, Roker floated above him, and cast an earth whip. Like a coiled snake, the
soil rose up and snapped at him. The Swordsman leaned down and caught the edge
of his board. Spiraling over the blow, he closed the gap and cut the Harbinger
down. Bound by his will, the earth enchantments crumbled as their caster died.

The Swordsman spun to face the
other Harbingers, but they had disappeared. Not one form remained in view. A
sense of dread seeped into him as he flew to the upper level. His fears were
confirmed when he found the entire entrance closed off. The Harbingers on the
other side grinned through the sheet of ice that continued to thicken. Then
they turned and rushed away.

A rumbling crack echoed
around the Swordsman, drawing his eyes to the walls. As if a stone had struck
glass, the cracks expanded around the circumference of the tower. Everywhere
they went the ice shifted. He raced around the fortress searching for a point
of egress, but there was none. Every corridor had collapsed. He was trapped.

And the interior defenses of the
fortress had been activated.

Chapter 6: Caged

The Swordsman searched for a
choke point he could retreat to, but there was none. Opting for space, he flew
to the center of the shaft on his board and came to a halt. On every level
frost wolves pressed out of walls. Clawing their way free, they dropped to the
balconies and issued a rising snarl.

Larger than lions, the frost
entities were imbued with a single purpose—kill the intruder. Light reflected
off their snowy skin, causing it to sparkle like thousands of tiny diamonds.
Their breath escaped in puffs of frozen air, and their teeth shined like clear
glass.

There were too many, even for
him. With no escape and no place to shield his back, they would eventually
strike him from behind as he faced the threats from the front. Anger at the
invisible Master exploded through him. The Harbinger leader had used him, and
he would never get the chance to slit his throat.

His sword in one hand, his
crossbow in the other, he waited for the pack to strike. Rotating in a slow
circle, he searched for the alpha, the one who would lunge first. He found him
on the third level. With his shoulder as tall as a man, the frost wolf had eyes
of crystal blue. Their gaze met, and the Swordsman saw the intent. Snapping its
jaws, it shredded the railing with a single snapping bite. Then it coiled for
the leap.

The Swordsman readied himself for
his final battle, his stance poised. His chipped sword glowed with heat, ready
to cleave the alpha in two. In the stillness the alpha released a chilling snarl
. . . and then lunged.

The Swordsman darted to the side
and whipped his sword out—but
another figure intercepted the wolf. Burning a steaming hole in the ceiling, a
man dropped into the shaft. Wreathed in white flames, the newcomer collided
with the alpha and carried him to the floor. The impact and subsequent
detonation shredded the giant entity into bits of ice and water. Then the man
rose to his feet and looked up at the Swordsman.

"I hope you don't
mind," Hawk said.

The Swordsman flashed a grin and
dropped to the ground beside him. By unspoken accord they shifted to guard each
other's backs. The loss of their leader had caused the remaining frost wolves
to hesitate, but now they were prowling again.

"How did you find me?"

Hawk tapped the Swordsman's elbow.
The Swordsman felt a pinch, like a needle had been removed, and the chill in
his arm evaporated.

"My apologies," Hawk
said. "I was curious as to what you would do after we parted."

"You tracked me by
heat?" The Swordsman raised an eyebrow. He'd never heard of such a spell.

"You could say that fire is
my specialty," Hawk said.

"I'll thank you if we
survive," the Swordsman said.

"We will," Hawk
replied. The timbre to his voice reverberated with defiance and a rising rage.

The Swordsman threw him a sharp
look, but didn't respond. The wolves' snarls had reached a breaking point.
Several dropped thirty feet to the floor, undeterred by the fall. Gathering
around the pair, they tightened the circle. Their clawed feet scraped the ice,
punctuating the snapping of their jaws.

—a
wolf darted in.

It streaked toward them, making
for the Swordsman's calf. His speed charm active, the Swordsman drifted to the
side and split the wolf's flank. Its snarl shifted to a whimper as it skidded
away. Then the whole pack attacked.

Wolves leapt from all sides, howling
for blood. The Swordsman dodged their attacks with magic infused speed, cutting
into their forms. He split the skull of one while targeting two others with his
crossbow. One of the bolts imbedded into a wolf's open maw, and it detonated in
a ball of fire. Hawk did no less damage.

Fire surged off his frame with
brutal force, catching the wolves and slamming them into the ice walls. Like
giant fists, the inferno crushed the entities into flurries of snow. One got
too close, and the proximity alone caused it to melt. Steam exploded off its
back as it limped away. Hawk took it down with a spear of liquid fire.

The Swordsman used all his
strength and skill, dropping speed for agility mid leap in order to avoid the
incoming jaws. Teeth the size of his thumb came inches from removing his hand.
Each time he managed to evade. His clothing cut and his skin flayed from close
calls, he poured his fury into combat.

He sidestepped a lunge, and
brought his sword across the entity's midsection. Both halves exploded into bursts
of snow and drops of water. As they speckled the ground the Swordsman raised
his crossbow to a wolf diving from an upper balcony. Three bolts found their
mark, and the form crashed into its companions.

Hawk and the Swordsman fought in
sync, moving to cover the blind side of each other. Several times Hawk made an
opening that the Swordsman took advantage of. A moment later the Swordsman
returned the gesture.

Out of the corner of his eye the
Swordsman watched Hawk. His sheer power went beyond any he had witnessed from a
fire mage, and his spells screamed an innate skill. The Swordsman found himself
wondering whether Hawk could have taken the entire fortress single handed. When
the last wolf went down under a combined assault from the two of them, the
Swordsman rose to face his companion.

His chest heaving from the
exertion, he asked, "Who are you?" Curiosity burned in his
voice.

"Someone seeking
allies," Hawk replied. The fire tracing across his skin sank into his
flesh. The room noticeably cooled.

"For what?"

"For the war that will
change the face of the Earth."

The Swordsman held his gaze.
"The Harbingers?"

Hawk gave a single nod.

The Swordsman blew out his breath
and sheathed his sword. "You expect to stop it?"

Hawk shook his head. "No,
but I will show you who will."

The Swordsman frowned.
"Where?"

Hawk lifted a hand and cast a
tiny firebird. It flapped into the air and alighted on the Swordsman's
shoulder. "It will show you the way. One week." Then he turned to
leave.

"What makes you think I'll
come?"

Hawk looked back. "Curiosity
compels men to action."

The Swordsman shrugged but didn't
argue. "I make no promise."

Hawk flashed a faint smile.
"It is enough. I'll see you there."

Chapter 7: Oracle

One week later the Swordsman
strode down a nondescript street in Richmond, Virginia. The morning light
spilled across the cultured lawns and sidewalks. Mothers were pushing strollers
and chatting while a man jogged with his dog. Whether it was the sword on his
back or something else, they gave the Swordsman a wide berth. Their eyes filled
with wariness as they hurried by. He barely noticed.

Spotting Hawk sitting on a park
bench, he pulled up short. Instinct drove him to check the surroundings, but
the man was alone. Releasing a sigh, the Swordsman moved forward and stopped
behind Hawk. The tiny firebird in his pocket darted back to its owner and faded
from view.

"I didn't expect to meet in
an auren city," the Swordsman said in annoyance.

"My apologies," Hawk
said. "I'm grateful you came. I wasn't certain you would."

"I had a debt to pay in the
neighborhood," the Swordsman replied, and his thoughts turned to Colonel
Allen's widow. He'd deposited the commission for her husband's contract into
her account. It couldn't erase what had been done, but at least they would not
want for anything.

The Swordsman reluctantly took a
seat beside him. "I'm here. Now, what's this all about?"

"What do you see?" Hawk
replied. He motioned to the school across the street. One child stood out over
the others.

"A girl playing on a swing
set. Looks like she doesn't have any friends."

"Why do you think that
is?"

The Swordsman shrugged. Then he
blinked and leaned in. Upon closer inspection he noticed an aura of strength
about her, unseen and yet abundantly obvious. He wasn't the only one to sense
it. Like prey in the presence of a supreme predator, the other students subconsciously
moved to avoid her.

"She's a mage?"

Hawk motioned to her. "What
type?"

The Swordsman blinked into his
magesight. Every child in the park manifested as a muted gray. He had no way of
knowing if they had magic or not, he could only see if someone had body magic
like him. Distinct from the others, the girl lit up with brown.

"Her parents didn't bind her
magic?" he turned to Hawk.

"That is bound."

The Swordsman didn't understand.
"That would make her one of the most powerful body mages ever."

"It's not her only ability .
. ."

The Swordsman blinked in
realization, and his head snapped back to look at her. "An oracle,"
the Swordsman breathed.

Hawk gave a solemn nod. "The
first in six thousand years. Every type of magic will be within her
ability."

The Swordsman turned to him.
"Why tell me all this?"

"I've watched you for a
while, Swordsman." Hawk said. "You are not like the other assassins.
As talented as you are in your profession, you despise people like the
Harbingers. Because of that I have decided to trust you. Four people now know
of her existence. Not even her adoptive parents have knowledge of the truth."
He released a breath. "I want you to help me protect her."

"I'm an assassin," he
replied, "not a babysitter."

"You'll get a chance to kill
Harbingers."

A grim smile spread on the
Swordsman's features. "You know I can't refuse that."

"I know," Hawk replied.

The Swordsman fell silent and
turned back to the school. After a while, he said, "They say she will
unite the mage and auren worlds. Our government will never allow that."

"They may not have a
choice."

The Swordsman shot him a look.
"How?"

"The anniversary of the
Second Draeken War approaches."

"You can't possibly believe
the prophecy," the Swordsman said.

Hawk's gaze did not waver as he
quoted, "In an age of suspicion and corruption the fiends will be released
once more. Marking the end of the oracle line a young woman will be born. At
her touch magic will be unbound, and known again as truth. She is the only one
who can ultimately defeat the darkness . . . and unify the world. She will be
The Last Oracle."

The Swordsman felt a chill, and he
slowly nodded. The bell rang, and the young girl jumped off the swing to join
her classmates. In seconds the playground emptied. The Swordsman watched her
go. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Aaron's wife. The image of her talking to
her husband had seared into his memory.

"Can you handle the
Harbingers if they come for her?" Hawk finally asked.

The Swordsman met his gaze. Hawk
had saved his life and he was loath to leave that debt unpaid.  If that wasn't
sufficient his hatred of the Harbingers probably would have—and yet neither drove his
answer. A twinge of foreboding rang within him, resonating like a dissonant
chord. Ultimately he gave a sharp nod.

"It's what I do."

Excerpt from The Last Oracle

For months Tess's dream had been
the same, and it always began with her standing in a field of grass. The green
strands swayed in the breeze, rippling to the horizon in every direction.
Several figures stood around and behind her, their faces bland and
featureless.  Like her, they were dressed in jeans and t-shirts. Each of them
stood as if waiting for someone to arrive.

Materializing in the wind, Sara
from Tess's biology class strode toward them. The girl's brown hair hung free
of restraint, moving in sync with the grass at her feet as she approached,
forceful and determined. The behavior was at odds with what Tess knew about
her, but she expected that. The person might vary from night to night, but the
dialogue and attitude did not. Once again, Tess had the sense that the person
was a stand-in for someone else.

At school Sara was shy and quiet.
Here she was brusque and to the point. “Welcome to flight school," Sara
said. "Safety is our primary concern, so the instant you don’t do as
instructed, you will be excused. You will have to wait until next term to
repeat the course.”

Her unflinching gaze carried the
threat well, and Tess had no doubt that many had regretted their choices in the
class.

Sara then went on to describe how
to manipulate gravity, warping it to form a bubble around you . . . until your
body began to lift off the ground. If any of them got that far she would help
them learn to curve gravity further. More than once Sara warned the class of
the inherent dangers of flying—and that injuries were common. She finished by
informing them that one in ten would pass her course.

No one around Tess blinked, and
she wondered if they were too excited to care.

Following the teacher's cue, Tess
looked at her feet, concentrating on the energy that bound them to the ground.
She felt oddly confident as the lines of energy became visible. The teacher’s
instructions lingered in her mind, and she willed gravity to bend.

At first it resisted, holding its
shape as if fashioned of steel. She focused harder, and felt a sense of triumph
as the lines stretched sideways. The force holding her down weakened, causing
her heart to stutter in her chest. Her power faltered at the wave of
nervousness, but she pushed it aside. Drawing a deep breath, she pressed on.

She fought to ignore the thrill
of anticipation as more bands moved away from her body . . . until the pressure
on her feet faded. The last thread of gravity moved—ever so slowly—until it
joined the crystal shape that had formed around her . . .

She rose into the air.

The panic surprised her—but
couldn't hold. Flying was the apex of freedom, the pinnacle of independence.
She left worry and fear behind, shed like a heavy cloak as her body climbed
skyward. Joy and hope took their place, surging forth with unprecedented might,
inspiring an unquenchable desire to go higher.

The earth had relinquished its
grasp on her body, bending to her willpower. She closed her eyes, basking as
the clouds touched her heart and soul. Without a thought, she swept her hands
wide and turned her face to the heavens, reveling in her newfound power. On a
whim she banked to the side, and felt the wind's embrace. Twisting and soaring,
she flew until she got tired and began to descend.

The dream always ended in regret.

Until she awoke in the air . . .

The Chronicles of Lumineia

By Ben Hale

—The White Mage Saga—

Assassin's Blade
(Short story prequel)

The Last Oracle

The Sword of Elseerian

Descent Unto Dark

Impact of the Fallen

The Forge of Light

—The Second Draeken War—

Elseerian FREE

The Gathering

Seven Days

The List Unseen

Author Bio

Originally from Utah, Ben has
grown up with a passion for learning almost everything. Driven particularly to
reading caused him to be caught reading by flashlight under the covers at an
early age. While still young, he practiced various sports, became an Eagle
Scout, and taught himself to play the piano. This thirst for knowledge gained
him excellent grades and helped him graduate college with honors, as well as
become fluent in three languages after doing volunteer work in Brazil. After
school, he started and ran several successful businesses that gave him time to
work on his numerous writing projects. His greatest support and inspiration
comes from his wonderful wife and three beautiful children. Currently he
resides in Florida while working on his latest writing and business endeavors.

To contact the author, discover
more about Lumineia, or find out about the upcoming sequels, check out his
website at Lumineia.com. You can also follow
the author on twitter @ BenHale8 or Facebook.