Fantasy Romance
There were no spells in any of Claudia’s books large enough, powerful enough, to destroy all of Ilyious.
No matter how much she studied, how much she was willing to give up, there was no way to end the wars once and for all.
But she would not give up.
She closed her eyes and prayed to the Moon Dragon.
I sometimes enjoy taking my characters for a spin in the sandbox of my imagination.
I have a character that has been knocking around in my head for sometime. You met her in Knight of Valor, and while I have a hazy idea of where her future takes her, she’s very different from other characters I’ve written. To help me better understand her, I wrote a short story from her point of view.
Mara swept the first young Knight’s feet out from beneath him and shoved him hard with her shield. He crashed to the ground, and before he could roll away, she hit his breastplate with her sword.
A second Knight charged her, and she pivoted, letting his momentum in full armor carry him past her. As he tripped over the first Knight, Mara hit his back with the flat of her sword.
Two kill shots.
Both Mara’s.
Anything but a training exercise, and the two Knights of Valor would be dead.
There was laughter and teasing from the sidelines, but a quick look from Mara silenced the other Knights. “How long will any of you survive in the eastern provinces? A day? A week, at most?”
Knight Keenan helped the two younger men back to their feet. “We’re practicing. They’ll get better.”
“But not good enough.”
“Not all of us can be Sir Marcus,” the Knight Mara tripped growled.
Mara pierced the boy with her hard stare. “Sir Marcus spent his life training to fight a lich. You spent yours training to protect the safe streets of Tamryn. The difference shows.”
Knight Keenan cleared his throat. “We’ll keep practicing.”
Mara studied the assembled Knights, her gaze resting on each man in turn. “Anything you face in the eastern provinces will be alive because it’s survived worse than whatever haunts your nightmares. Do you think a wendigo gets knocked down during practice then toddles off to say a few prayers?”
The Knights stared back at her, and several of them were clenching their fists at their sides.
Good. Let them get angry. Better angry than dead. “Next lesson.” Mara motioned to a figure on the sidelines dressed in a plain brown cloak.
The woman walked over to Mara and bowed, then turned toward the Knights.
“Mage Skyla,” Sir Keenan said. “What are you doing here?”
“She’s helping me demonstrate a lesson,” Mara said. “Are your healers out here?”
Sir Keenan nodded toward Knight Matthias, but concern reflected in his pale green eyes. “Is this safe?”
“Less dangerous than sending out half-trained men.”
Knight Keenan glanced at Skyla then stepped back. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Mara glanced back at the woman in the robes. Her brown hair was tied in a simple ponytail, and her large eyes seemed too big for her face. She was easy to underestimate as so many mages were.
“Just like we practiced,” Mara said.
Skyla nodded and walked several sword lengths behind Mara.
“Do you think your Knights can beat Skyla and me?” Mara raised a challenging brow at Sir Keenan. “Or are you going to send them to their prayer vigil and hope Dracor gives them fighting skills?”
“I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“Not what I asked.” Mara smiled at the gathered Knights, a taunting expression meant to rile them. “Pick your best seven. If they can get three hits in before I get a killing blow on each of them, your god wins this round, and I will come back and help you train them until the new moon.”
Sir Keenan glanced at the recruits then back at Mara. “You called for a healer. What do you have in mind?”
“Don’t think seven of your Knights can get in three hits?”
“And if they can’t?”
“You owe Skyla and me a hellfire at Ndrek’s bar.” Not that Mara wanted one, but Skyla did if Sir Keenan was buying.
Sir Keenan stared from her back to the recruits. “Seven against you and Skyla?”
Mara nodded.
“Until the new moon?”
Mara nodded again. knowing she had him. He wouldn’t get her help until the new moon, but the young Knights would still learn a very valuable lesson.
“They could really use the practice against someone with your skills. You’re sure Skyla won’t be hurt?”
“It’s not her you should be worrying about.”
Mara fell into her battle stance, and she felt Skyla building the first spell as seven young Knights took their positions opposite her.
Sir Keenan signaled the start of combat, and Skyla let loose with the spell.
A wall of flames scorched the ground and rose up between Mara and the Knights. Mara ignored the fire, ducking her head as she charged through them and hit the breastplate of one of the Knights. Pivoting, she tapped the breastplate of a second before any of them had recovered their wits enough to close their mouths.
The remaining five backed away from the fire and Mara’s blade.
Just as she’d anticipated.
Skyla loosed her second spell, and the ground under the remaining Knight’s feet turned to mud.
Mara charged.
Slamming her shield into the first Knight’s sword, she shoved hard and sent him stumbling back then barreled into the second. Surprise widened his eyes, and when he tried to turn, he slipped in the mud.
Mara slammed his chest plate with her sword, and if it hadn’t been a practice blade, she’d have accidentally killed the Knight. Instead, she sent him into the mud with the first, whose chest plate she’d already hit.
Both young men would hurt, but the bruises would teach a lesson they wouldn’t forget.
The remaining three Knights extricated themselves from the mud as Mara circled around them. She smiled as one tried to flank her while the other two came at her. Sprinting towards one, she used her shield as a battering ram and knocked him to the ground as the second scored a glancing blow against her arm.
She pivoted and knocked his feet out from underneath him them hit his chest plate with her sword. Leaping over him, she tapped the Knight she’d steamrolled to the ground.
One Knight remained.
As he stared at her, black vines shot out of the ground and encased his feet, rooting him.
Mara circled around him, but he couldn’t turn to face her. She came up behind him and tapped the middle of his back.
There were growing whispers that the battle hadn’t been fair. That they hadn’t been warned.
Mara only smiled. “Combat isn’t about fair. Or justice. Or right and wrong. It’s about winning. In real combat, Skyla would’ve been using fireballs, poison clouds, and ice storms.”
The murmurs grew louder.
“You were so focused on me, not one of you tried to stop her. You’d all be dead now because of it. Never underestimate a mage.”
“Good lesson,” Sir Leopold said. “Well done, both of you.”
Mara felt the High-Knight’s faded blue gaze fix on her. She met his stare, her face impassive even as her stomach clenched. Tall and broad, the only thing that belied his age was the silver in his hair and the rank insignia on his uniform.
She wondered again what he’d feel like beneath her.
Stabbing the thought and leaving it to bleed to death, Mara handed her practice sword back to Sir Keenan.
She picked up her sword, inspected it, then sheathed it. “One hit to seven kills. See you at Ndrek’s.”
Sir Keenan nodded then hurried to check on his men.
Her holy magic filled the clearing.
The darkness in him writhed even as it drank in the essence of death around him.
She was so bright. All the way through to her core.
Almost too bright.
He dropped to one knee in front of her, his head bowed low enough that his forehead touched his knee as he held out his hands, palms up, with his bow across them.
“I am Silvark Corvin, and I pledge myself to you now and forever.”
Lorik stared at the bottom of his third ale.
The memories still haunted him. He’d need something stronger tonight.
Before he could call over the barkeep, an old man and a hunchback stumbled into the bar.
A whisper of magic brushed over him. Strong magic.
Holy magic.
What in the seven hells were they doing here?
“At least I didn’t set Mom on fire.”
Dylan threw up his hands. “I was two years old! Nobody brings up the fact that you pooped on Mom when you were two.”
“Did not. And you were three when you set her on fire.”
“Two, three, whatever. It’s not like I had control of the magic. Not like I meant to do it.”
Lucas inspected the joints on his armor. “Doesn’t matter. You still set her on fire.”
“And I’ve tried to make-up for it every mother’s day since. But no matter what I do, Dad still gives me this look like, ‘That’s it? That’s all you could get your mother after setting her on fire?’ I could magic her up a solid diamond horse and carriage, a fleet of solid diamond horse and carriages, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
“A diamond horse and carriage wouldn’t move very fast.”
Dylan glared at his brother. “What about the time I tracked down three golden unicorns, captured them, brought them back here and taught them to dance for Mom. Dad still gave me the look because it wasn’t all five. But the other two were so freaking fast.”
“Should move faster.”
“You fast enough to outrun a fireball?” A glowing sphere of flame appeared in Dylan’s hand.
Lucas grinned. “What are you going to get me for my birthday if you set me on fire? The last two golden unicorns?”
“Go to the seventh hell.”
“Speaking of the hells, Dad must like you at least a little. He allowed an Oskelesian mage into Tamryn just to teach you to control your magic.”
“An Oskelesian mage that Sir Marcus, slayer of liches and all around hero, married. You may be a prince, but Sir Marcus would still kick your ass if he heard you say anything bad about her.”
Lucas crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow.
“By Dracor’s left fang, you were engaged to their daughter. How bad can her mother be, Oskelesian or not?”
“You had to bring that up.”
“You were engaged last month. On purpose. I accidentally burned Mom over twenty years ago.”
Lucas strapped on his sword. “But Mom didn’t bargain her life to save Tamryn.”
“Not that we know of, anyway.” Dylan snorted. “Shouldn’t you go slay the dragon or something and bring your betrothed back?”
Lucas’s jaw twitched. “She made the bargain voluntarily, and he lived up to his half.”
“Hasn’t stopped other men.”
“I’m bound by the code of Dracor and the Dragon Church.”
“Sounds like an excuse to me.” Dylan leaned against the door frame.
“Then why don’t you go slay the dragon? Oh wait, if you’re not fast enough to catch the last two golden unicorns, you wouldn’t stand a chance against a dragon.”
“Who says I’d want to? Though better a dragon than Mom and Dad marrying me off. At least that’s a fast death.”
“If you want a fast death, piss Dad off again.” Lucas hefted his shield engraved with the twin dragon crest of the royal family. “Speaking of Dad, we have three minutes until we’re late.”
Both princes bolted down the hall toward the throne room.
Andromeda kicked the dirt and crossed her arms over her thin chest.
It wasn’t fair.
She was bored and lonely. A dog would fix both.
Of course her grandmother didn’t want her to have one. She never wanted Andromeda to have anything nice. Laverra was still mad Andromeda had survived being born and angrier yet Andromeda’s father protected his daughter.
Andromeda glanced back at the upper windows of the gothic manor house looming behind her. It blocked out the faint trickle of sunlight that escaped the overcast sky and shrouded the grounds in gloom. The wards around the compound protected Andromeda from the outside evil, but they did nothing to protect her from what was inside.
She’d seen only six summers, but she already knew one day soon she’d have to protect herself.
Another reason for her to have a dog.
Her grandmother would be resting now, preferring to sleep during the day when her magic was weakest.
Andromeda snorted. Magic didn’t care if it was day or night, but her grandmother’s magic was fading. Laverra had deviated too far from Uzakiel’s path, and Rashalee had snared her in a web of lies, greed, and envy. The old woman would soon need a powerful blood sacrifice to appease Uzakiel.
She’d go after Andromeda’s father.
Andromeda wouldn’t let that happen, nor would her dog once she got one. Her father was the only one ever kind to her even if his studies absorbed so much of his time that he didn’t notice her most days.
She kicked the dirt again.
One of the human guards spotted her and hurried away, pretending he hadn’t noticed her.
Andromeda was used to it. She’d always been an ugly child with her too-big blue eyes and golden ringlets. But her father loved her, and people were nice to her because they didn’t want to anger Lord Wrakar.
One day, they’d be nice to her because they didn’t want to anger her.
The thought cheered her as she skipped down to the crypts. Dysentery had killed two human servants earlier in the week, and her father’s apprentices had laid out the bodies in the prepatory chambers with the flesh-eating beetles. Her father had no work for zombies at the moment, and after another week or so, one of her father’s apprentices would raise them for kitchen duties.
Fresh skeletons made the best house staff, and the apprentices needed the practice.
Andromeda liked the skeleton staff better than the human one. The skeletons never called her ugly, her father awful, or her dead mother stupid. And they always did what she told them.
Her grandmother wished Andromeda would be as well-behaved as the skeletons. Laverra could keep wishing.
Sitting on the edge of the mausoleum, Andromeda swung her legs. The crypts were quiet, like they always were. Like the manor house was. And the courtyards. And the workrooms.
She blew a golden curl from her eyes. Sometimes, she wished people would laugh. Smile. Even yelling would be better than the constant silence.
She wanted a dog. Needed it.
The crypts were situated in the most ancient parts of the family compound, and their family was one of the oldest in Oskelez. Andromeda wondered how old the bones moldering in the crypt were.
A smile teased over her lips as she thought of a way to ease her boredom.
Magic filled her, and she sunk it into the ground. It filtered over the bones of servants, then past the dust of her ancestors. Their presence intensified her own magic, and she giggled as a surge of power washed through her.
Harnessing it, Andromeda pushed the magic deeper. Burial sites from long forgotten wars lay further beneath the crypt. Deeper yet were the bones of peasants from a failed uprising.
Sweat beaded on Andromeda’s brow as she gathered the power of the dead to her, bolstering her magic and delving deeper.
Past the bones of noble knights and valiant priests who served gods she didn’t know. Deeper yet to the dust of slaves who’d built Oskelez and the bones of their masters.
The masters.
What is the seven hells were these creatures?
Things of nightmare. Things of…
Wait. Were those the bones of a dog?
A smile lit Andromeda’s face as she ripped the magic from the ancient dead surrounding the dog and funneled it into the beast.
Sweat trickled down her cheek as the dead fought her, resisted her.
She balled her tiny fists and locked her jaw. She was a necromancer of clan Xyrenia.
The. Dead. Would. Obey!
She tore the magic from them and slammed it into the dog. Her dog.
The ground beneath the crypt shook, the dry earth cracking and tearing as a howl ripped through the silent afternoon and echoed off the magic wards.
Bone paws the size of caldrons punched through the ground, followed by two large heads and a massive body. The creature of nightmare stood taller than a man, and it tossed back both heads and howled.
Red pinpricks flickered in its eye sockets as it turned toward Andromeda.
She crossed her arms and waited.
The abomination studied her then lowered both of its heads to the ground at her feet.
Andromeda clapped her hands together in delight.
“I’ll name you Orthul, and we’re going to be the best of friends.”
She skipped back to the house, her new companion at her heels.
If you liked this story, you might like to check out a free copy of my debut novel, To Love a Prince.