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A Sudden But Inevitable Betrayal

Avvadi's Winter, Prologue

By D.K SavagePublished 2 years ago 6 min read
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Prologue from Avvadi's Winter, Alteer Legends Book 2

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The mangled, half-slagged helmet dropped from the Arden’s hand.

The stench of burning hair and skin—his own—stung his nostrils. His left eye was welded shut, but he didn’t waste time on a healing incantation—his quarry was escaping. He couldn’t let that happen. Even mortally wounded and robbed of the ability to cast, the man was dangerous.

Longsword coated with blood leading the way, he left the unopened vault behind and climbed the stairs—taking pains to remain quiet and not slip on the slimy, moss-strewn steps. At the landing, a trail of red droplets led him through the abandoned castle’s dark, curving corridors, and ultimately to an expansive gallery bracketed by towering columns. The marble pillars, each covered by vines as thick as a fist, held up cathedral ceilings lost in shadow.

There, at the entrance, a crimson palm-print colored the moss clinging to the doorframe.

Wary of a trap, he paused and listened. The space smelled of mold and rotting vegetation. Leaves and creepers carpeted the floor. At the gallery’s far end, through a broad archway, the star-filled sky illuminated an open balcony. He blinked, letting his eyes enhanced with a night-vision spell adjust to the sudden wash of light—then edged forward.

In the center of the gallery, a black-haired man with a sheathed longsword on his back knelt, facing away, panting. He spoke without turning.

“Damn. Hoped—my firebolt had—melted your face.”

The Arden stopped and lowered his dripping blade. “It’s over, Arath.”

Arath’orn slumped and rolled to his side. Sweat glistened on his youthful, coppery cheeks and dripped from his dark beard. One shaking hand was pressed up under his brigandine cuirass, below a finger-length vertical gash in the chest armor’s steel plates. Under him, a rapidly spreading red pool. He laughed. “Nothing’s ever done, Sol.”

A hissing snarl came from the shadows.

Solan whirled, spell-fortified muscles reacting with supernatural speed and strength. Maldreth flashed—the impossibly sharp blade cutting the werewolf in half at the waist.

In the corner of his eye, Arath’orn scrambled for the balcony. He had to ignore him. Another lycan rushed from hiding.

He dove and slashed. Claws raked across his breastplate, then the arm attached to the claw slapped the floor stones. He came up swinging, finished the howling werewolf with a cut across the throat. His sword’s red runes pulsed, feeding him the shriveling monster’s siari—a rush he was accustomed to, that no longer made him giddy.

A cursed echoed through the gallery. Solan hurried to the archway and the sound of rushing water. Beyond the arch, a balcony jutted out from the castle walls—which were themselves carved into the cliff face far above the valley floor. There, Arath’orn sat on a crumbling balustrade, blood dripping down his leg filling the cracks beneath his boots.

“Damn stairs are gone. And the water looks a bit cold and rough for a swim, even if I survived the fall.”

Solan paused under the arch. He let Maldreth’s point rest on the ground, at a loss for what to say. He’d wanted the deed done quickly, for both their sakes.

His oldest friend—maybe his only friend—looked up at the stars. “I had an epiphany a moment ago. Sadly, a touch late. Want to hear it, Sol?”

He nodded.

“Everyone leaves me, or dies, or betrays me. You were the only exception—until five minutes ago. I should have seen this coming.”

He didn’t know how to respond, so he pretended to study the arch’s pitted stonework. He spun Maldreth’s pommel in his hand, drilling a divot at his feet.

“Why?”

The question forced him to meet those ocean-blue irises. Arath’orn’s hair began to lose luster—patches of black turned white. Wrinkles formed on his cheeks and brow.

Solan felt a trickle of siari. That surprised him—all the Spirit he’d taken thus far had come from fatal blows. Did even wounding someone with Maldreth consume their souls? He filed that notion away for future research. Arath’orn deserved his full attention, and an answer.

“It was inevitable.”

Arath snorted. “Because of Ana?”

“You think I’d do this out of jealously?” Solan frowned. “No, this isn’t about Ana. I told you what I experienced. The visions. The Faceless.”

“You believe killing me over hallucinations is a better excuse?”

“The future I saw was real.” He brandished Maldreth while glancing at the grip of Endreth peeking over Arath’orn’s shoulder—the nearly identical blades forged by Corven. “I witnessed the death of all life on Alteer, then we found the swords—and I picked up this one. The weapon that will let me stop what’s coming. That wasn’t coincidence. It was a providence.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This blade transfers siari permanently, Arath.”

Those blue eyes blinked. That was all. One blink.

Under different circumstances, Solan might have smiled. The man had been given world-changing information, and had processed the ramifications in an instant.

“You understand now?”

Arath’orn hunched, like his spine was being crushed by an invisible weight. His fingers curled and his hands wrinkled, silhouetting bones. He drew in a sucking, painful sounding breath.

“I do.”

“Was I wrong? Would you have accepted—”

“No.”

That was the anticipated answer. Arath was nothing if not a compulsive truth-teller, regardless of the cost. Solan realized he’d hoped for another response, however. Now he had no reason to drag this out further—and yet he hesitated.

Come on, you weakling. You swore to sacrifice whatever is necessary—what saves the most lives. Accomplish this, and you are capable of all else. You won’t turn back.

Arath’orn, as if reading his thoughts, smiled through a grimace. “Well brother? What are you waiting for? Begin the road to your bloody salvation.” He stood up straight—the effort making him quiver from head to toe—and spread his arms wide. “Become what you were always meant to be—humanity’s shepherd.”

Summoning the courage to do what he must, Solan’s hands tightened on his sword-grip. He could have ended things at once with a bolt of fire or lightning—blown him right off the balustrade. But that wouldn’t be fitting. And the blue-eyed lycan mutant was a damn cockroach. He had to be sure. That meant taking his head. Maldreth raised, he stepped onto the balcony.

Arath’orn grinned and said, “Lirtsen.”

The red gem on his middle finger flashed and disintegrated.

Solan cursed. He’d forgotten about that artifact—the magic gadget they’d always joked about using when surrounded on a battlefield with all hope lost—to go out in a final act of glorious defiance. The ring’s enchantment was quite useless for anything else, as its power was unpredictable—also because one had to be standing under an open sky for it to work.

That open sky rained death. A thunderclap like the end of time rang his ears. Lightning bolts burned down, striking randomly. Rock exploded from the surrounding cliff, ripping into his exposed flesh. He covered his face and belted out a spell while retreating.

His ward snapped into place—but the protective bubble only seemed to draw the bolts as to a lightning rod. They branched—mad glowing spiderwebs that encircled him, sapping his enormous, yet precious, pool of siari.

Some bolts deflected away. One hit the balcony floor—more than enough to break the aged-stonework’s tenuous grip on the cliff wall. The entire construct splintered and fell.

Solan couldn’t help it—some of his old-self remained. He reached out, in vain, for his brother’s hand. But Arath’orn only smiled and plummeted, a dozen stories or more, into the rushing black river.

Fantasy
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About the Creator

D.K Savage

Jack of all trades, adventurer, and wannabe novelist looking for "The Thing." Author of the Alteer Legends Epic Fantasy Series.

dksavage.com

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