Read Online Children of Fire by Drew Karpyshyn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Drew Karpyshyn
Tags: Fiction
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Ezra sensed a distant roar.
A flash flood spawned by the magical deluge was sweeping through the dunes; a great wall of water crashing in to obliterate him. Instinctively the old monk cast up a shield around his body, deflecting the Chaos-driven waves and temporarily holding them at bay.
Cocooned in a shell of protective magic as the wind and waves surged around him, Ezra had a brief hope he might survive the deadly storm of magic. Then a sizzling bolt of blue lightning arced down, sundering the protective shell and engulfing the old man. In a single, brilliant flash his body was reduced to a pile of ashes that were swept away by the raging floodwaters.
The Pontiff crawled across the cellar floor to the far corner of the room, his body drained by his ordeal. The Crown lay on its side in the corner where he had cast it away, undamaged. He reached out and clasped the Talisman with a weary hand, only then recognizing the true toll that had been extracted from him. His knuckles were gnarled and swollen, his fingers twisted and bent. His skin was creased with wrinkles and covered with dark brown spots.
Still prone, he reached up with one hand to feel his face, the other clenched tightly around the Crown. His cheeks were sunken and leathered, as if he had aged twenty years during the course of the spellâthe cost of magic.
With a heavy sigh and a great effort he rose to his feet, the Crown clutched feebly at his side.
The body is only a shell,
he told himself, moving with deliberate, plodding steps as he made his way back to the pedestal. He placed the Crown on top, knowing the Talisman could never safely be used againânot with the Legacy so frail and the Slayer lurking on the other side.
He had failed in his mission; he had not had time to pierce the walls within Ezraâs mind before he had been forced to break off the spell. But all was not lost. Ezra was dead; Nazir had felt the power of the storm that had formed when the Slayer had tried to force his way into the mortal world. He knew the old monk lacked the might to stand against such power. And without their leader, his heretical followers would be in disarray and confusion. Easy prey for Yasmin and the rest of the Inquisitors. With luck, the followers of the Burning Savior would be no more by the end of the year.
The Pontiff repressed an involuntary shudder, knowing his efforts to discover the identity of Ezraâs followers had nearly opened the door for their ancient enemy to return. The Legacy was weaker and more fragile than he had feared. But he had sensed something else before aborting the spell, something that gave him hope. There was desperation in the alien mind that had brushed up against his.
The Slayer, their supposedly immortal enemy, was dying. All they had to do was protect the Legacy and wait, and victory was theirs.
The Pontiff used his key to unlock the door and exit the inner sanctum. Once outside he locked the steel door behind him, his hands trembling with a slight palsy he had not possessed only minutes ago.
He clenched his suddenly aged and arthritic fist around the key.
The body is only a shell,
he repeated.
True strength comes from the mind and spirit.
Channeling all the power and energy of his will into his clenched fist he crushed the iron key into a twisted lump of useless metal, forever sealing the Crown behind the iron door and its impassable warding runes.
Chapter 6
It had been nearly a full day since Jerrod had passed any sign of civilization. Though traveling by foot, he moved with surprising speed, his long, steady strides drawing him ever closer to his ultimate destination. Those passing him on his journeyâhad there been any on the road to see himâwould have found him unremarkable at first glance: a man in his early twenties of average height and fit build. His short, dark hair and pale skin were predominant features among many in the Southlands. His clothes were plain and simple: a light brown cloak,
A flash flood spawned by the magical deluge was sweeping through the dunes; a great wall of water crashing in to obliterate him. Instinctively the old monk cast up a shield around his body, deflecting the Chaos-driven waves and temporarily holding them at bay.
Cocooned in a shell of protective magic as the wind and waves surged around him, Ezra had a brief hope he might survive the deadly storm of magic. Then a sizzling bolt of blue lightning arced down, sundering the protective shell and engulfing the old man. In a single, brilliant flash his body was reduced to a pile of ashes that were swept away by the raging floodwaters.
The Pontiff crawled across the cellar floor to the far corner of the room, his body drained by his ordeal. The Crown lay on its side in the corner where he had cast it away, undamaged. He reached out and clasped the Talisman with a weary hand, only then recognizing the true toll that had been extracted from him. His knuckles were gnarled and swollen, his fingers twisted and bent. His skin was creased with wrinkles and covered with dark brown spots.
Still prone, he reached up with one hand to feel his face, the other clenched tightly around the Crown. His cheeks were sunken and leathered, as if he had aged twenty years during the course of the spellâthe cost of magic.
With a heavy sigh and a great effort he rose to his feet, the Crown clutched feebly at his side.
The body is only a shell,
he told himself, moving with deliberate, plodding steps as he made his way back to the pedestal. He placed the Crown on top, knowing the Talisman could never safely be used againânot with the Legacy so frail and the Slayer lurking on the other side.
He had failed in his mission; he had not had time to pierce the walls within Ezraâs mind before he had been forced to break off the spell. But all was not lost. Ezra was dead; Nazir had felt the power of the storm that had formed when the Slayer had tried to force his way into the mortal world. He knew the old monk lacked the might to stand against such power. And without their leader, his heretical followers would be in disarray and confusion. Easy prey for Yasmin and the rest of the Inquisitors. With luck, the followers of the Burning Savior would be no more by the end of the year.
The Pontiff repressed an involuntary shudder, knowing his efforts to discover the identity of Ezraâs followers had nearly opened the door for their ancient enemy to return. The Legacy was weaker and more fragile than he had feared. But he had sensed something else before aborting the spell, something that gave him hope. There was desperation in the alien mind that had brushed up against his.
The Slayer, their supposedly immortal enemy, was dying. All they had to do was protect the Legacy and wait, and victory was theirs.
The Pontiff used his key to unlock the door and exit the inner sanctum. Once outside he locked the steel door behind him, his hands trembling with a slight palsy he had not possessed only minutes ago.
He clenched his suddenly aged and arthritic fist around the key.
The body is only a shell,
he repeated.
True strength comes from the mind and spirit.
Channeling all the power and energy of his will into his clenched fist he crushed the iron key into a twisted lump of useless metal, forever sealing the Crown behind the iron door and its impassable warding runes.
Chapter 6
It had been nearly a full day since Jerrod had passed any sign of civilization. Though traveling by foot, he moved with surprising speed, his long, steady strides drawing him ever closer to his ultimate destination. Those passing him on his journeyâhad there been any on the road to see himâwould have found him unremarkable at first glance: a man in his early twenties of average height and fit build. His short, dark hair and pale skin were predominant features among many in the Southlands. His clothes were plain and simple: a light brown cloak,
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