https://mybook.to/kaelci
This is the final edit of Chapter One after taking into consideration feedback from my wonderful beta readers. THANK YOU! ❤️
I hope that you enjoy it. If you do, please consider pre-ordering your copy on Amazon. Vengeance is to be released on September 12th 2020 and I can't wait for you to live in and love this world as much as I do!
Vengeance (Forgotten Prophecy: Book One) - Chapter One
A tendril of wind snaked through the twisted, knotted limbs and blew a breath of life against Lyria’s cheek. Her eyes snapped open. If there was fresh air there was a hole — an escape — she would be free. Dead bodies bore down upon her, surrounded and suffocated her, and nausea stirred as she clawed through the warm, unresponsive flesh towards a tiny gleam of light.
Freedom… it was so close.
Pushing past a weighty arm and through a mass of hair, she pulled herself further through the bodies until the tiny gleam transformed into a great beacon that invited her into its warmth. Birthed by the dead, she fell, gasping for breath as she landed atop a mass of sharp pebbles that dug into her hands and knees. She ignored the pain; the raiders were gone and she was free.
The rainbow skies shone through the sunlight and caressed her face, brightening the countryside and illuminating each golden blade of grass, burgundy leaf, and — nausea burned her throat — the gore that pooled where her mother’s eyes had been.
By Xandur’s eternal light, she whimpered, choking on the vile taste. No, no, no… what had they done to deserve this?
The murderers’ laughter rose up in an imagined cacophony that mocked her pain and she wrenched away from the sight, wincing as a bright sheen was replicated through her tears. Her father’s broadsword lay discarded upon the path and reflected the sun, the steel a brand that seared her eyes; a single streak of blood tarnished it, a crimson drop that was likely one of their own. He hadn’t the chance to even swing the weapon. The murderers had come from nowhere, from the nothingness itself, and there had been no time to scream, to summon her magic, or to even flee let alone attempt a futile defence.
Lyria turned back to the pile and swallowed down her nausea. Father was in there… and so was his scabbard. It was trivial but she would not have it lie forgotten in this morbid pile.
Steeling herself, she dragged her friends and neighbours away from one another, trembling as their lifeless, accusatory eyes threatened to haunt her forevermore, then she saw her father’s face. Tears brimmed, despite herself. At last. With muscles throbbing, she pulled the last body off his corpse and freed him from the pile. A snarling plainscat with ruby-encrusted eyes greeted her, its image etched deep into the black leather of the captain’s scabbard wrapped about her father’s waist, and her disgust rose tenfold as she unbuckled it, repelled by the unyielding flesh that lay beneath his uniform — the same flesh that when soft had received the blow destined for her.
“Damn it all!” she shouted, her voice echoing several times over throughout the empty village. She didn’t want to be alone. Why couldn’t she have died with them?
Lyria whipped away and peered over the remains of the once idyllic cliff-top village — Syosse — and immediately wished that she had not. Houses were shattered, splintered wood and glass lay strewn across the bloodied grass and pathways, and the slaughtered remains of sheep and cattle dotted the nearby paddocks, their carcasses left to rot beneath the summer sun. Even the horses hadn’t survived the onslaught. It was wasteful.
Each ransacked building and blood spatter transformed into a collage of chaos forever painted across her soul, fueling her rage, and as she once again met her mother’s eyeless sockets the fury broke free.
Damn them all to the lower planes of the Aethya! She would hunt the men who had performed these vile acts to her family, to her friends, to her home, and they would pay with their Godless lives.
Lyria housed the sword with a sharp thrust. Unable to wear it properly on her petite frame, she slung the over-sized weapon over a shoulder then stalked the winding path, each step faster than the last until she ran full speed down the incline. Miles of thick grass passed in a flurry of golden hues, the glaring sun scorched her skin, and smoke rose high over the horizon in thick black plumes — fire. The murderers had not burned her village, the next hadn’t been as fortunate.
Fortunate, she grimaced. ‘Fortunate’ was not a word that belonged to this day.
The blackened remains of the Loren settlement came into sight. Only the buildings had been burned, the faint embers still gleaming bright beneath the smoke, and Lyria clenched her fists. More people were piled in the village centre and her nails bit deep into her palm as a gust of wind cleared the smoke long enough to reveal the lifeless stare of a young boy, barely older than five. It was inhuman.
Death and decay danced amidst the sharp whiff of smoke and ash, and bar the crackling of smouldering wood it was as silent as her own village… a groan echoed about the crumbling buildings and with a swift pirouette she removed her father’s blade from its housing and brandished it in both hands.
“Young miss.”
Crisp wood crunched loud as a man’s voice rasped from the ruins of a nearby dwelling. A blackened husk stumbled from where a doorway had been, remnants of a captain’s uniform in tatters upon his body, and Lyria pointed the blade at him as he staggered forward.
“Which way did they go?” she demanded.
The man coughed and heaved before falling to his knees with a sickening crunch.
“Please,” he moaned. “Word must reach… Astana. Lord Andru—”
“Lord Andru be damned!” she shouted. “The raiders. Which direction?”
“They are not raiders… fiends… blood thirsting fiends. Lord Andru. He must be informed.” He stared at her, his eyes pained and pleading, then bowed his head and whispered, “North… they went north. Towards the city. Miss, please… I-I beg of you.”
Her anger briefly quietened. The man who lay by her feet was undoubtedly in the same position as her father: a captain, a lone protector of an otherwise defenceless settlement, and had deserved a better death. Normally a priest would be required to administer the last rites to the dead and dying but no messenger of the Gods would be delivering this man. She would do what she could, however little that may be.
Tightening her grip on her father’s sword, Lyria forced a grating whisper, “By the Three’s gift of light and life, may your Chosen watch over you as you enter the eternal skies,” and without hesitation swung the blade against the man’s neck, severing his spine in one clean sweep.
His dying plea rasped through her mind in an endless litany and her anger festered hotter than the sun as an image of her mother’s face replaced the peeling black flesh of the burnt man’s.
'Please, word must reach Lord Andru' — no, she would not go to Lord Andru! The murderers would not escape while she threw herself before the mercy of a man who would only demand her death. Her magical bloodline was criminal.
Rough chatter drifted through the air and her ears perked. Those grunts, that voice, and the peculiar laugh that chortled alongside them were unmistakable. The murderers were near.
Leaping from golden grass to fiery-coloured trees, her smooth motions belied her rage as she swept into a forest. Her anger had driven her farther than anyone would believe possible: Syosse was surrounded by plainslands as far as the eye could reach and the only forests in the region were miles away, a half-day’s journey on horseback and close to the Lord’s city.
Gliding from tree to tree, Lyria closed in on the men. The day neared its end and first moonrise would be upon them in minutes — second moonrise would be her hour of retribution. A mirthless smile touched her lips. The murderers would rue the their choice to ravage a mage’s village. They would be as unaware of her as she and the villagers had been of them.
A cool breeze swept through her bloodied hair and across her sunburnt skin as night shrouded the land. The rainbow skies were tinged by the low light of the rising moon and enhanced the subtle beauty of the Gods’ creation; the leaves, blades of grass, the smooth and twisted trunk she concealed herself against all shone with an illuminating life, and the sweet, flowery scent of the summer evening was unwelcome as it weaved through the deathly odours that wafted from the men.
Raucous laughter reverberated about the clearing they had taken as their own, their voices both grating and smooth as they chatted to one another and made light of their deeds, cackling as they spoke of more on the morrow — their Lady demanded it.
Lyria fingered the edge of her father’s blade. Their ‘Lady’ would die too.
Devoid of all but the slow thrum of anger, the passing hours were as an illusion as she waited for the glimmer of the second moon to dance across the horizon. The heavens shrouded the orb with a ghostly tinge and as it rose above the skyline her boiling blood burst into life.
It was time.
Small fires had been lit about the camp. They cast an eerie glow across the site and accentuated several sticks staked into the ground, each one showcasing a twisted, mangled body. Their mouths gaped wide in eternal screams and their eyeless sockets wept rivers of blackened blood. Not one face was familiar but each one furthered her rage. Was her mother to be prepped for one of these ghastly displays? She clenched her jaw.
All was silent but for the muttering of the lone guard on watch, the men who lay about the campfires slept as the dead and only one crudely constructed tent had been erected. Those inside must be the leaders: they would be the first to taste her father’s steel. Edging through scattered shadows, Lyria ignored the grim displays and headed for the structure. Gruff snores grunted within, the wheezes reminiscent of the burnt man’s dying breaths, and she briefly closed her eyes as she faced the twin moons.
May Xandur, God of empathy and compassion guide my hand this night. May he redeem himself for allowing this day of innocent death.
As though in response to the silent prayer her blood stirred — a birth blessing that served as both gift and curse — and her surroundings slowed to a crawl. Tearing open the ratted fabric, she slashed mercilessly at the three slumbering men within.
They fell without waking.
The silence of their absent screams was infuriating. Leaping out of the blood-spattered tent, she soared through the air, almost in dance as she paraded through the slowed motion of the world and felled every resting man before they could dare rise and apprehend her. She glided, twirled, slashed and sliced until all that remained was the final oblivious man — the lone guard who had been muttering to himself, unaware of that which occurred around him. Without a word, she grabbed him by his stringy hair and struck her final blow, at last satisfied as the man’s grunt echoed through the moonlit night, as the last murderer’s soul entered the eternal skies to meet those of his victims.
A wave of exhaustion washed over her as the encampment returned to its natural flow. The campfires spun in a dizzying whirlwind of flame and flying embers, sharp pains shot through her limbs and her legs collapsed beneath her, sending her sprawling into a blanket of grass. She had done it. Her task was complete. Through her swaying sight the twin moons joined as one and her heavy eyes drifted shut. She was so tired…
May mother and father ascend in peace, and may I join them in the… eternal… skies, she prayed as all became dark.
Thank you for reading. 🤗