The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1) Page 3

  The bulradoer, clearly not expecting such a bizarre maneuver, didn’t lower his shield far enough and it collided about shin-high. Tolvin hollered as his legs were ripped out from under him. The force of his already forward motion flung him through the air where he landed face-first in front of Nyalis. His axe slipped from his fingers and the ter’ak’s blade immediately disappeared.

  Nyalis sprang into action. He leaped to his feet and plunged his sword through Tolvin’s back, severing the man’s spinal column and pinning him to the ground. His body didn’t even jerk. The skin around the blade hissed as the flesh melted. As always, there was very little blood. The heat from the blade had cauterized the flesh. It had also set his robes aflame.

  There was a high-pitched squeal over his right shoulder. Without thinking, his reflexes rewove his shield and raised it just in time to deflect the lash from Lenara’s whip. The sound of it was like a crack of lightning. The tip ricocheted off the top and spun back around to strike her across the left side of her face, hissing upon contact.

  She screamed in fury and the fire brand momentarily vanished. There was a deep, enflamed gash that once again left very little blood. All reason fled from her raspberry eyes as she conjured the long strand of red fire and struck at him with everything she had.

  Tripping over his feet to get out of her way, Nyalis swung his shield left and then right, trying his best to keep her from splitting him in two. Lenara’s eyes shone hotter than her weapons as she swung from one direction and then another, searching for a way to break through his defensive barrier. He knew it wouldn’t take much. He was barely able to stand.

  Nyalis coughed. The smoke from the flames surrounding the small open area was suffocating. It took everything he had just to counter her advances. His arms were tiring. Sweat continued to pour down his face. Complete fatigue was setting in. Even as light as the ter’ak and shield were, keeping them up and moving was proving more of a challenge than he feared he was capable of meeting.

  “I’ve got the child!” a voice suddenly called out above the din of battle, bringing the two combatants to a premature halt. Both fighters seemed almost relieved at the forced break. Nyalis and Lenara struggled to catch what breath they could amidst the smoking ruins of their battleground.

  With all his attention focused on the frizzy-headed young woman and her whips, Nyalis had lost sight of Bellar. Keeping his shield up between him and Lenara, he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the child’s hiding spot beside the fallen tree. Nyalis watched as the tall bulradoer lifted the cloth-wrapped bundle into the air.

  Before he could react, Nyalis was forced to block another harsh barrage of lashes from Lenara’s whips. This time, she was looking to cut his legs out from under him. Dropping to his knees, he deflected the attack and then rolled backwards far enough to keep out of the way as they lit the ground around him. He was halfway to his feet, when Bellar’s unexpected screams brought the two fighters around once more.

  They separated momentarily to see what was going on.

  Bellar had managed to undo the babe’s swaddling and was attempting to hold him when he suddenly dropped the naked boy into the tall grass and held out his hands.

  Nyalis squinted to get a better view of the tall bulradoer through the smoke. The flesh around the dark wielder’s fingers and palms began to dissolve, falling off in clumps around the bone.

  Bellar hollered in pain as he ran for the river. He dove in, hands first, desperate to stop the deterioration. “What is happening to me?” he cried out.

  Lenara spun around, hatred pouring from her face. “What did you do to him, wizard?” she shouted, raising one of her whips as if to strike.

  Nyalis tried to catch his breath. “As much as I would like to claim credit,” he said, his words weak from exhaustion. “I did nothing.” He glanced at the bulradoer in the water and then at the unwrapped babe. “It was the child.”

  Lenara aimed a whip in his direction. “What are you talking about?” She kept her distance. She was apparently as winded as he was and more than willing to use the unexpected diversion as a way to regather strength.

  “The child is a faeling. He’s magic born.”

  “We know what he is, you old fool!” she spat as she slowly encroached on his position. “What did he do to Bellar?”

  “I suspect it was Bellar who did it.”

  “Quit talking in riddles, you old white beard, or I’m going to cut you in half and feed you to the corax!”

  The two continued to circle each other, just out of range for either of their weapons.

  “The child’s magic is pure,” Nyalis said, attempting to drag out the explanation as long as possible in order to catch his wind. “It hasn’t been twisted into a perversion of what it should be as you and your master have done. So when Bellar touched the child,” he said, pointing off in the direction of the river, “I suspect his own polluted form of magic could not coexist with magic in its purity and it tried correcting itself by peeling off the taint.” Nyalis took a deep breath and shuddered. It was all rather fascinating. “Removing pieces of him, I guess, is just a side effect.” He lifted his arms out to the side. “What can I say . . . Lucky me.”

  “Ahhh!” Lenara snapped her wrist and her whips flung into motion. Not bothering with his sword, Nyalis concentrated all his effort on holding back her violence with his shield. Back and forth he danced, ducked, spun, and rolled, giving every last ounce of strength his body possessed to hold her at bay. His arms were bruised and swollen from the beating they had taken by the strikes on his shield, and he was quickly losing blood from the gash on his forehead and the claw marks on his upper left shoulder.

  His magic was nearly depleted.

  Seeing a quick opening, he raised his ter’ak just in time for one of her whips to wrap completely around the blade and meld. Without waiting for what he had done to register with the young bulradoer, he snatched his arm back with all his might and jerked the whip from her hand. The fire immediately vanished as the silver rod hit the ground behind him. A look of shock crossed her face just before swinging out with her other arm and nearly taking off his head.

  Nyalis dove to the ground and rolled as the whip flew over and sliced clean through a thick mountain fir. The enormous tree toppled, crashing to the forest floor and forcing the two of them to dive in opposite directions to prevent getting hit.

  It was the distraction he needed.

  Nyalis scrambled to his feet and ran for the faeling. Scooping the babe up in his arms, along with the discarded blanket, he sprinted along the water’s edge with as much speed as his aged legs would carry him. His chest burned with every breath. Sparing a brief sidelong glance as he passed Bellar, Nyalis could hear the man’s sobs from where he sat neck-deep in the water, both hands still held under.

  “That’s what you get when you mess with a real wizard,” Nyalis hollered on his way by, just before tripping on a protruding bit of rock that sent him sprawling into the soft mud of the riverbank. “You old fool!” he berated himself as he climbed back to his feet, checking to make sure he hadn’t injured the child in the process. “Serves you right for opening your big mouth.”

  Up ahead, his boat was resting half on shore, water lapping against the stern.

  Behind him, Lenara’s curses broke from the tree line as she ran after him. If he could reach the boat with enough time to toss the child in and push off, he might in fact escape with his life, something he had honestly not expected to happen up until this point.

  Her younger, more stable legs were gaining on him. Continuing to half-hobble, half-run down the embankment, Nyalis could see he wasn’t going to make it in time. In a miserable sort of way, his mind briefly wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just let her end it. A quick snap of her wrist and his problems would be over. No more sleepless nights, no more trekking over mountains, no more tireless pursuit of protecting a world which cared nothing for its own protection. Why was he killing himself anyway? Then he felt a slig
ht tug on his blood-stained beard.

  He smiled inwardly.

  Reaching the boat, Nyalis placed the naked faeling on top of a stowed tarp and turned to face the young bulradoer. She was coming fast. What was he going to do? She was far too close for him to be able to make a safe push off without her whips cutting him in two. Frantically, he tried to think. His energy was too depleted to weave a shield, and too drained by far to conjure his ter’ak. The noise of the river’s flow pulled at his thoughts, sparking a slight possibility. It wouldn’t take much, he thought, just enough to slow her down.

  Without wasting precious time pondering the validity of his idea, Nyalis reached out and emptied himself of every last bit of magic he had left. He stretched his hands out to the already flowing river and gathered some of its natural force. Using its energy, he swiped his arms sideways from right to left and sent a wave of water slamming into the side of the oncoming bulradoer. The unexpected attack threw her into the embankment, dousing both whips in the process and pasting every last strand of her frizzy locks to her face.

  With a shove, Nyalis pushed the small skiff off the edge and into the fast moving current. He struggled over the side and collapsed into the bow. He didn’t have the energy left to even lift his head to see if the bulradoer had made it to her feet, or was giving chase, or if they were still close enough to the bank for her to reach them with her whips. At that moment, none of it mattered. He had expended everything he had and the rest he left in the capable hands of the Creator.

  Pulling the child down into the bottom of the boat with him, Nyalis closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the river as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Unaware of how long he had been out, Nyalis struggled to raise his head. Blinking against a late afternoon sun, he pushed himself into a sitting position. The sky was clear and the air warm as the current guided them along. His nap had resuscitated a little of his magic, and he could feel it struggling to build within him. He needed nourishment.

  He pulled out one of the last remaining costa roots from his robe and bit off the end. He squeezed what milk he could into the babe’s hungry mouth. He watched the naked child squint against the light of the setting sun, bubbles seeping from a toothless grin.

  The old wizard’s smile was loving and warm. “Well, that simply won’t do, now will it?” he said, staring at the boy’s head of white hair. The last thing Nyalis needed was to have gone to all this trouble to hide the child and then have something as mundane as the color of his hair give him away. “Hmm, let me see what I can do. I think I might have enough magic for this.” He placed two fingers on the soft part at the crown of the child’s head. Focusing his magic, he mumbled a few runic words and the boy’s hair shifted to a modest ash-blonde. “Yes,” he said, inspecting his work. “I believe that will do nicely. Once it starts to change back, it will be time for you to begin your journey.”

  After spending a considerable amount of time squeezing the last drops of the root’s milk into the child’s mouth and dunking the boy’s backside in the river to clean yet another one of his gruesome bowel excretions, Nyalis rewrapped the ratty swaddling to stave off the evening air. Releasing a weary sigh of relief, he sat back against the seat and pondered his next move. The boy had to be protected, and for that to happen, he would need to be kept hidden as long as possible.

  Nyalis knew the White Tower and its new Arch Chancellor would expect him to take the boy to Aramoor, the capital city of Elondria. It was, after all, the largest and most beautiful city in the five kingdoms and would no doubt make for easy hiding, but he couldn’t escape the fact that he would prefer the child not to be raised around all the politics and corruption that came with living in such a place.

  Instead, Nyalis knew the child would need to stay close to the magic which helped bring him into being—the forest. He needed to be taught humility, not the advancement of power. He needed to learn how to respect and love those around him, not how to best use others for his own advancement.

  Such values and behaviors were commonplace within the walls of a city like Aramoor, and he didn’t want this child corrupted by them. The boy’s destiny was far too great to risk losing him to the enticement of self-gratification. Aramoor was the most splendid of cities and its present High King was a just and fair man, as were many of its people, but the best way to keep out of trouble was to not be put in its path.

  There was a small wielder community in Easthaven he was familiar with, bordering the great Sidaran Forest. He could leave the boy with them. They would be able to keep him out of sight for as long as it was needed, but more importantly they could rear him at a distance from all possible corruption of power. And being raised near a life source such as the forest would only help to spur the magic within him.

  Raising someone as powerful and destined as this child would be difficult. Nyalis could only hope the boy’s new guardians would be up to the challenge. Glancing down at the now sleeping child, Nyalis was inundated with a wave of pity. He knew the enormous pressure that would one day be his to endure. The fate of Aldor rested on the tiny shoulders of this marked child. Gathering what small amount of energy he had garnered from his lapse of consciousness, Nyalis spun a funnel of air, pointed the boat east, and pushed ahead.

  “Rest, little one, while you still can.”

  For sixteen years, the old wizard watched and waited.

  Chapter 3 | Ty

  THE WOODS SURROUNDING the small clearing were silent, as if nature was holding its breath.

  At least, that’s how it felt to Ty as he watched his brother, Breen, raise the limbs of his large ash bow and sight down the slender shaft.

  A single bead of sweat slid toward the corner of his brother’s eye. Ignoring the salty sting, Breen kept his concentration locked on the target as he waited for the right opportunity to draw.

  Ty had to admit, for all of his older brother’s shortcomings, he was indeed a natural born hunter. But no matter the amount of skill his brother could bring to bear, Breen would never feel the elements as he did.

  Ty, who unlike the rest of his family had soft features and sandy blonde hair, always knew that he was different. He could see, hear, and feel things no one else could. Why this was so he didn’t care to speculate. He merely bottled it up inside and kept it hidden away as best he was able.

  Living in a world where magic was not only outlawed but its wielders were hunted down and taken to the White Tower for purging, Ty had learned very quickly to keep his mouth shut and his abilities hidden. Even from those he cared about most—especially from them. It was his way of keeping them protected.

  Closing his eyes, he reached out with his senses. His ability to communicate with the forest and the life it sheltered had grown over the years.

  Everything slowed as he worked to isolate the voices. The whistle of the wind, the song of the birds, even the ancient redwood—monoliths of the forest—appeared to call his name. Shutting them out, he struggled to find his center.

  One by one the chorus of life faded away, leaving only the rhythmic beating of his own heart. His pulse raced as his mind stretched across the wooded glen, searching for that lone voice. It was more feelings than words. And with years of practice, he found he could understand their communication . . . and return it.

  Caution—Thirsty—Unfamiliar smell—Caution!

  The stag’s head jolted upward as it sniffed the gentle breeze intertwining itself through the forest as gracefully as a single strand of thread is woven into a tapestry of color.

  Ty watched from the corner of his eye as Breen held the nocked arrow between his second and third fingers. The rhythm of his breathing was steady. His brother’s broad shoulders slowly pivoted as he followed the large stag through the brush. Breen drew the hemp to his chin, and waited for a clear shot.

  Perched like a big clumsy bird a pace or two up the bough, Ty reached out with his mind and enclosed the buck with a false sense of security.

  Everything is quiet—You’re
safe—Water is nearby.

  Without warning, a searing pain shot through his right arm. Ty hollered and grabbed his shoulder, practically flipping himself backward out of the tree. Breen was so startled by Ty’s sudden outburst, he pre-released his arrow and missed the buck altogether.

  As swiftly as it had appeared, the pain ceased.

  Ty looked up, but the deer was gone. And so was his brother’s patience.

  Breen turned around with fire in his eyes. “Ty! You sorry excuse for a pile of horse dung, that was our meal for the next couple of weeks!”

  Ty flinched. His brother’s brown and green sleeveless tunic revealed arms layered in muscle. And they were straining at the moment. Ty had always wondered why he couldn’t have been born to look more like Breen. No matter how much he ate or spent time lifting the half-filled feed barrels from the barn, he was never able to come anywhere close to matching his brother’s size.

  “I’m sorry, Breen. My arm . . .” Ty rubbed his fingers across the back of his shoulder. “It started burning again.” Ty had just passed into his sixteenth year, and the strange burning sensations had started not long after.

  Breen combed a hand through his shoulder length, brown hair and studied Ty’s face. Rolling his eyes, he finally hooked his bow on a nearby branch and scooted his way up the bough. “Here let me take a look.” He yanked on Ty’s collar to see what the problem was.

  “Hmm,” Breen grunted as he nudged Ty’s back with his thumb.

  “What’s wrong? What do you see?”

  His brother scratched at the three-day growth on his face. “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this birthmark of yours has gotten . . . bigger.”

  Ty attempted to twist his head around like an owl. “What do you mean by bigger?”

  “I mean it looks like it’s grown since the last time I saw it.” His brother released his shirt. “Maybe it’s not a birthmark at all?” Breen chided. “Maybe, it’s a gruesome skin disorder and pieces of you will start falling off, or perhaps it’s the mark of the Defiler.” Breen finished his ribbing by raising both hands and wiggled his fingers in Ty’s direction while making an eerie noise.