The Phoenix Ring (The Thunderheart Chronicles Book 1)

For Mom and Shortstop.

Prologue

              Marcus Thunderheart, the most powerful warlock to ever live, stood on the small island, staring at the expanse of water before him.  Normally, it was calm, the ocean lapping the shore in small waves, an occasional jellyfish in the water.

              Not today though.

              Marcus’s best friend in the world stood next to him, a beautiful red bird taller than him, with white streaks going down its sides, starting at the eyes.  Normally they would enjoy a day on the beach like this, feel the magic around them, revel in it.

              Not today though.

              Today, they stood staring at death, unavoidable, terrifying death.  It was in the form of a long dark line on the horizon, the black sails of countless armies.  If you looked closely, you could see that the line edged above the water further than sails could.  There were more ways for death to travel than in boats.

              Marcus felt blood run from a gash in in his forehead into his eye, but he didn’t care anymore.  The only thing that mattered was the enemy on the horizon, drawing closer even as he watched.

              What do we do?
Marcus asked his phoenix telepathically, he had no strength left for words.

              You know, young one.  You have always known.
  Answered the phoenix.

              I’m scared, old friend.

              You don’t have to be, you know there is another way for you.

              And leave you alone to your fate?

              You have much left to give to the world, my time is drawing short.  You knew this day would come.  Escape now, while you can

              Marcus took off his ring and stared at it.  It was a good ring, one of the best a sorcerer could hope for.  It had been given to him by the phoenix, and it was his most prized possession.

              Go little one.  I will one day see you in paradise.

              Goodbye, old friend.

Marcus clutched the ring and pushed his power into it.  His life, his thoughts, his very soul, they all went into the ring.  He looked up just in time to see the phoenix,
his
phoenix, glowing with power.  On the horizon, the black line faltered, then broke, jagged peaks rose, breaking through it.  The deaths in the army hit Marcus like a physical blow.  Then the tops of the mountains exploded, and a great glowing orange column rose into the air, blocking out everything.

              There was heat, and then there was nothing.

              A young wizard with a wand tucked in his belt ran through the smoldering ashes of the island, his griffin pawing the ground nervously behind him.  Everything was covered in dried lava, the entire island was dead.  Except for one spot.

              It was a small hole, too perfect to be natural, a handbreadth wide, on the edge of the shore. The young man desperately thrust his arm into the hole, reaching down as far as he could.  He found something and pulled it up into the light to see.

              It was a warlock’s ring, the image of a phoenix emblazoned on the front.

1

              Aidan trudged along the dusty path, a bow on his back and a knife at his side. It had been three days since the boy left the only home he had ever known.  He had run out of food on the second day, and was feeling the familiar ache of hunger in his stomach.  He had no idea how far Allenna was from his village, too small to have a name, but he knew that he would reach it if he kept following the road.

              Allenna was the huge city that served as the meeting place for the council, who ruled all three continents of Sortiledge.  Aidan knew very little about the council or city, as few travelers passed through his village and fewer still stayed long enough to share stories.  There was no tavern, no hall, and no governor, just a group of farmers, a horse breeder, and a small blacksmith. 
              Allenna, however, was said to boast several taverns, a group of dwarven smithies, and even a palace.  Most importantly of all for the young traveler, the city held a consignment office for the king’s border patrol, who were more commonly called the king’s Rangers.  It had been over sixty years since the three races of Sortiledge had gone to war with the nations of the Nefarious Lands, but the council still hadn’t removed the Rangers from the southern edge of their enemy’s territory.  It was an extremely dangerous job, as the peoples of the Nefarious Lands had no love for any inhabitant of Sortiledge, and the Rangers were isolated from their homeland by the northern ocean.

              Yet Aidan was determined to join the Rangers, no matter how dangerous his path might be. As he had grown up, he had thrived on stories of his father, the greatest Ranger of all.  Aidan’s father had slain ogres, trolls, goblins, even dragons, before he was slain himself by a treacherous spy.  At least, that is what the boy’s mother had told him.

              Aidan angrily kicked a rock out of his way.  Six months ago, she had shattered his world.  All he cared about was his future as a Ranger, how a spot would surely be reserved for him considering who his father was.  Finally, about a month before his sixteenth birthday, his mother had brought him inside and sent the other boys outside. Aidan seethed as remembered how she had cried and begged for forgiveness.

              Aidan knew his mother had been a barmaid.  She had always told him that his father had slowly won her heart through many visits to the tavern, but the real man did no such thing.

              “It had been a long day,” she had said, “and I was tired.  He was different from all of the others, young, strong, and absolutely brilliant.  We were just talking, but somehow I ended up in his room, and then…” she stopped to wipe away a tear, “when I woke he was gone.  He left a bag of gold coins, which is how I bought the farm.  He also left a note saying I would have a son, how he knew, I’ll-“

              Aidan had left the room then, slamming the door so hard he cracked it near one of the hinges.  It had taken six months for Aidan to leave the farm where he had spent his entire life.  It was one of the most well-built structures in the village, which would have been impressive if the rest of the village wasn’t falling apart.  The farm rested atop a little hill, with several miles of land behind it.

              It wasn’t long after Aidan had been born that his mother realized she could never work the farm alone, and so she took in the first boy.  Since then, more than fifty boys from all over Gurvinite had stayed at the farm for various lengths of time, but none as long as Aidan. Every single one of the boys had been orphans, and were given a safe place in return for their labor.  Some had been kind, others cruel, but it was from the cruel that Aidan had learned the most.  He had learned how to fight, how to court a girl, though there were none in his village, and, most importantly, how to shoot a bow because of those boys.

              Aidan had also learned from his mother.  One of the requirements for staying at the farm was that a boy learn to read and write, as well as simple numbers and reckoning.  She reasoned that the skill might be the difference a boy needed to make a name for himself.  Furthermore, all Rangers had to possess this ability, so Aidan jumped at the chance to learn the letters and numbers of the language of Sortiledge.   She had also taught him how to control the rage that he constantly had to fight.  Maybe it was from the lack of a father, or maybe his heart had known that he was being lied to, but Aidan had always felt a hot anger burn somewhere deep in his chest.  Since his mother told him the secrets that she had kept for the first sixteen years of his life, Aidan’s rage had become uncontrollable.  It became so heavy every time he saw her, or the farm, or anything in his village, that eventually he decided he would travel to Allenna and try to forge his own path.  Of course, first he had to survive the trek. 

              Eventually the boy was passed by an old bearded farmer sitting in an oxen-drawn cart.

              “Lad, where are you headed?”  The man called down.

              “Allenna,” Aidan replied.  “Why?” 

              “You can ride with me if you help me unload once we get there.”

              Aidan gratefully jumped onto the back of the cart, which was covered in a strange sort of material that seemed far too expensive to be owned by a farmer.  The boy took a closer look at the man.  He was dressed in long, gray robes that, again, seemed far too expensive for any farmer to buy.  But what truly startled Aidan was what sat at the man’s side.  It was about two inches thick at its widest, and tapered off to a point after two feet of intricately carved wood.  It was a wand.

              “What’s the matter lad?  Never seen a sorcerer before?  Classic village folk wouldn’t know magic if it smacked them in the face.”

              Aidan became very still.  Magic was something that was spoken of only in whispers at his village.  Even sixty years after the Great Wars, the scars had still never healed.  Some of the older people had once been soldiers, and they still vividly remembered the power with which the sorcerers had waged war against each other, decimating entire platoons with a flick of their wrists.  Magic was something that a person was born with, beyond that Aidan knew little.  Most of the sorcerers had confined themselves to a secret fort sometime after the war, and had not yet emerged. 
              Whatever was in the cart must have been valuable indeed to require a wizard’s protection. 

              “Griffin eggs.”  The wizard said.

              “What?” Aidan asked.

              “I’m transporting Griffin eggs to Allenna.  You were wondering what was under that tarp.  And no, I can’t read your mind, but the look on your face speaks volumes about you.”

              Aidan shut his mouth and stared straight ahead. 

              It was about a half hour of listening to the wizard mutter under his breath before the trees broke, and Aidan saw the gate of the city.  It was guarded by two soldiers in metal armor, each carrying a spear and sword.

              “Amilech!” One of them said, approaching the cart.  “Is it that time already?  How’s the fort?  And did you finally get an apprentice?”

              “Just let me in,” the wizard said.

              The soldier chuckled and procured a piece of paper from somewhere on his person.  “You know the rules.  No sorcerer enters the city without proving their magic ability, unless you actually want to fill out the paperwork this time.”

              The wizard swore, first a word that Aidan knew, and then one he didn’t.  Immediately, the papers in the guard’s hands burst into flame.

              Aidan felt the familiar anger build in his chest, but said nothing.  He doubted the wizard would care what he said anyways.

              “Fine, Amilech.  It was pleasant to see you, as usual. Just try to be nice to that boy of yours.”

              Aidan smiled.  His mother had no magic ability, and his father was a barfly.  He would never be a wizard’s boy.

              The two guards stepped aside and let the cart through the gate.  For so long, Aidan had wanted to see the inside of this city.  He had heard so many stories from the other boys, but nothing would have prepared him for what he saw. The moment the cart entered the city, Aidan was overwhelmed by the sheer number of sensations.  The city was almost alive with the sound of merchants calling out in the streets, next to their carts that slowly released the smells of delicious sausages, soups, and foods that Aidan had never heard of.  The chimneys bled black smoke, and dozens of people roamed the streets in various levels of haste.  Aidan even spotted a dwarf among them, recognizable by his short stature and long beard.

              Most dwarves lived on the western continent of Sortiledge, while most elves lived on the eastern continent.  Humans lived in the center continent, Gurvinite.  The other races normally only came to Gurvinite to trade, but some dwarves settled in the large cities, and there were rumors of elves living in the forests.

              They stopped at a strange sort of barn that rested a little while away from the main road, with a huge hole in the roof.  Aidan had never seen a griffin stable before, nor had he ever seen a griffin up close.  He was hoping that his companion would go inside, but instead the wizard drove the cart to the back of the building, where a short man, also toting a wand and robes, greeted them with a smile. 

              “Amilech, how did the eggs travel?”

              “More comfortably than I did.  The boy will put the eggs wherever you need them.”

              Within a few minutes, the boy was regretting his decision to ride with the sorcerer.  The eggs were the size of watermelons, but much heavier, and had to go into some sort of heated chamber.  The short man and Amilech stood to the side, talking, while Aidan moved all thirty eggs. 

              “That’s all, boy,” the sorcerer said.  “Have a coin for your trouble.  Now get.  I have business to attend to.”

              Aidan gratefully took the coin and walked away from the odd man. 

              “Did you feel what I felt?” The breeder asked Amilech as the boy walked away.

              The wizard nodded.  “It’s why I picked him up on the side of the road.  Perhaps it was only one of the eggs.  It would be rare, but not as rare as what I’m thinking.  Should we follow him?”

              The other man slowly nodded.  “I will check the eggs, to be sure that we aren’t confused.  You stay with the boy.  I’ll have a griffin ready to take you both to the fort if necessary.  Try to be gentle, Amilech.”

              “I’m always gentle!” Amilech snapped.  “Have that bird ready.  I hope to be seeing you soon.”

              Aidan bought a sausage with the coin as soon as he came back to the main street.  He was fairly certain that the coin was worth far more than the sausage, but had never had the chance to learn about currencies, and the merchant had been helpful in directing Aidan to the Ranger’s consignment office.  Aidan was beginning to feel nervous has he took the side road that would take him to his future, whatever it might be.  He could no longer count on his father’s reputation to help him succeed, and his own skills with a bow were certainly not first class.  He was a fairly decent shot and could normally take down a deer, but Rangers were said to be able to knock a man off his horse from four hundred feet away with ease.  His stealth skills were certainly lacking, and while he was good at fist fighting, he had learned very little about the use of knives, key components of a Ranger’s fighting style.  And to make matters worse for Aidan, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

              The office was just a little building, tucked away in the back corner of the city and painted green and brown.  There was no door, just a deerskin curtain, which Aidan pushed aside as he stepped inside.  The room was sparsely furnished, with a desk and two chairs in the middle and a mounted head of some giant beast on the back wall directly over another door.  In the chair behind the desk sat a man who appeared to be in his fifties, though he still appeared strong and fast.  He was clothed in a green hood and cloak, with an unstrung bow at his side.  He was focusing intently on some arrows in various stages of completion on the desk in front of him.  Aidan realized that this was the first time he had ever seen a Ranger in person.

              “Yes?”  The man said, never looking up from his arrows. 

              Aidan’s mind blanked for a horrible second before he could respond. 

              “I want to be a Ranger.”

              The man chuckled.  “I highly doubt that.  Whatever stories you have heard aren’t true.  What are you expecting?”

              Aidan said nothing.

              “The average lifespan of a Ranger is five to ten years after he joins.  You have no support, no backup, only your training, your bow, and your knife.  You will most likely die with only four fingers,” he stopped to hold up his left hand, which was missing the middle and little finger, “your body in constant pain from the goblin poison running through your veins, and with a lifetime of regrets, the blood of dozens of men on your hands.  You will become a ruthless killer, and throw away your only hope to ever have a family.  Are you sure, boy?”