The Rise of the Fourteen (11 page)

It rears its head back to spout its acidic spittle. The rain
begins and splashes everywhere. The man raises a shield to protect himself
while Armifer cowers. “Enough!” the man raises his hand, presumably to torch
the creature again. As he does this, Armifer hears a faint coughing sound.
Nuntios!
Armifer crawls out of his hiding place and makes his way toward his friend.

“Nuntios, Nuntios can you hear me?” Armifer whispers. There
is only the slightest rising and falling of the boy’s chest, but it is still
there. Armifer crawls faster, wary of the raging battle beside him. The man,
his face shining with sweat, raises both palms towards the sky.

“Death will come to you in many ways!” He thrusts his hands
forward, and a stream of fiery daggers spring forth, slicing at the monster in
every way possible, spreading flames up its sinuous torso. Dark blood begins
spilling out across the floor from the struggling beast, but it is not enough.
“Die now!” The monster incinerates as the man's ministrations bathe the hallway
in their glow.

The man then runs to Nuntios, who is barely twitching, raw
scars tracing his side, his clothes sizzling with the acid of the monster’s
spit. The man picks up his limp body, cradling it in his arms. “I’ll be back
for you,” he tells Armifer, who is still lying on the floor, distraught.

“Wait!” Armifer yells. “Who are you?”

“Demetri.” He takes a running start and leaps into the wall,
leaving Armifer alone, crying in a hall of blood.

Say what you will about Demetri and Sorem, but the Sanctuary
is incredibly luxurious,
Arden thinks
.
Tapestries and mosaics cover
the pristine white walls. The ceilings are high and are either painted with
frescos or have large skylights. Gold-plating covers the door handles and window
frames and the floor changes seamlessly from fine hardwood, to marble, to the
rich carpet as the assembled teens go from room to room.

The drawing room Demetri has dumped them in is no less
impressive. Antique-style tables are set around the walls, usually with
Renaissance paintings above them. The room is dominated by a large white
L-shaped couch with a matching love seat and recliner. In the center of the
seating is a sleek glass coffee table, supported by round metal balls instead
of legs. This combination of old and new only adds to Luna’s confusion, and she
can’t hold it in any longer.

“So, when will someone tell us what this is all about?
Please, this is just getting too weird,” Luna says, making urgent motions with
her hands. Ámpelos turns to face Arden.

“Do all English people sound so …?”

“Yep.”

“Hey! You’re English too, whether you like it or not.” As
they dissolve into petty squabbling, Terrance and Callida look around
awkwardly.

Terrance shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
This mansion
seems like a safe place. Better than the executive’s boat by any means. But I
don’t trust these other kids. I can’t understand anything they’re saying.
His
eyes shift from side to side, unease growing in the pit of his stomach.

Callida rolls her eyes and stares up at the ceiling.
They
claim that they saved me, and yet I am in a prison. None of the windows would
smash. There are no vents, none to be seen at least. And for the life of me, I
can't find a door
—o
ne
that leads to the outside anyway.
The noise of bickering still sounds. She
is tempted to ask them what’s going on, but she hesitates.
Better to be
silent. None of us knows anything yet.

Sorem enters carrying a wooden box with a golden flower
inlaid in the lid. Everyone looks up expectantly.

“Now, I know there has been some confusion since you
arrived.”

 “Some confusion!” Luna says, scandalized. Sorem lets out a
sigh of resignation as if expecting an outburst. “You have taken all of us from
our homes after some seriously bizarre shit happens, told us we have ancient
magical powers, then dumped us in a mansion that we can't leave and instructed
us to wait. Wait for what, pray?”

“She has got a point,” Ámpelos chimes in, a smug look on his
face.

 “Alright,” Sorem continues, “Demetri will return soon but,
in the meantime, I need to give you these.” She opens the box to reveal
gleaming silver flowers, engraved with strange runes. “These are
irises.
They
will allow you to speak and understand any language. It’ll become more useful
when there are more of you,” she says ruefully. “But, for now, you’ll be able
to talk to Callida and Terrance properly.”

“I can speak English!” Callida shrieks defiantly. The room
sits quiet, shocked by her sudden eruption. “Just saying.” She feigns a keen
interest in the ceiling and ignores the stares of the others.

 “All right then,” Sorem says, clearly frustrated by the
constant interruptions. “All you have to do is place the flower at the base of
your throat. The magic will then be absorbed through your skin, and you may
speak freely.” They would be less confused had she told them to pat their head
and rub their stomach at the same time.

“It
will
leave a flower shaped tattoo, but you kids
these days think that’s cool, right?” She nods encouragingly, trying to mask
her own uncertainty. Luna crosses her arms, clearly having none of it. Arden
and Ámpelos look at the box with obvious skepticism. Callida’s neck is still
craned up, examining the ceiling. Sorem beckons forward once more and finally
Terrance steps up to the plate.

Hands shaking, he makes his way towards the box. He gingerly
puts a hand in, as if into a box of sewing needles. After reaching for a
flower, he grasps it carefully. Feeling rather stupid, he pulls down the collar
of his shirt, pressing the cool metal against his throat. Raw energy pulsates
through him. With a loud hissing sound, he falls backward and the flower
vanishes.

“Somebody catch him!” Sorem shouts. Callida grabs him by the
scruff of the neck seconds before his head goes slamming into the coffee table.

“Thanks,” he says dryly, hoisting himself up.

“Glad to be of service.”

“Now if everyone would just get on with it! It’ll be bad
enough when there are twelve of you!” All their attention turns to Sorem, who
is exasperatedly waving the box in the air. One by one, they reluctantly reach
into the box and pull out a flower. Arden is about to place the metal to his
throat when Sorem reaches out to stop him.

“What?”

“Sit down first, please.”

“Ah, right.” As he sinks into the sofa, they all laugh
throatily. Arden joins them, because, for the first time in many weeks, he has
heard the sound of true laughter. He doesn’t have much time to enjoy it,
however, as a loud commotion soon sounds in the front hall.

“Sorem! I could use a little help.”
It’s Demetri.
Sorem rushes out of the room, making her way towards the noise. The group sits
in silence for a moment.

“Are all of you just going to wait here?” Luna remarks.
“Sissies.” She gets up and turns to follow Sorem.

 “Luna, wait!” Arden calls, running after her, and the rest
soon follow. When they reach the foyer, they find Demetri and Sorem hunched
over an unconscious boy. They crowd around, murmuring softly and pushing for a
better look.

Callida opens her mouth to ask “what’s wrong with him?” but
closes it as soon as Demetri turns the boy's head. The entire right-hand side
of his face is an angry crimson. Scars and welts spiral down his side like
symbols of an ancient language. Even his clothes are singed black.

“Get him to the
saluber
room, I’ll take care of the
kids,” Sorem says softly.

“What happened to him?” Terrance breathes.

“Some things are meant to stay asleep.”

Terrance scoffs.
Avoiding the question much?
Demetri
carries the unconscious boy to a room with a strange symbol over the doorway
—a
single serpent, wrapped
around a golden staff. A blue glow emanates from the entrance.

“Demetri, you know I’m better at
askelpae
, you talk
to them.” Sorem slams the door shut behind her. Questions flow out of Callida
like water from a burst pipe.

“Who is that? What did that to him?” As an afterthought she
adds, “And
don’t
change the subject.” She crosses her arms as if to seal
her defiance. The others soon follow suit. Demetri nods then beckons them back
to the large entrance hall. There, they sit on one of the marble benches lining
the walls. The benches are almost like pews, which seems fitting for such a
cathedral-esque place.

“It is time you knew. But first you must hear a little
history.” There is a collective groan, but they soon quiet down, like prisoners
waiting to hear their sentence.

“In the times of the ancient Greeks,” Demetri began,
“leagues of sorcerers ruled a great empire.”

“Oh yes, and I have tea with the queen on a regular basis,”
Luna says sarcastically. Demetri gives her a look, but continues.

“Magic could be learned, but after … the dark ages … few had
the potential to learn. Those who could were revered as gods. There were twelve
main branches of magic and fourteen in total. Each young sorcerer had to choose
one path to follow. People are born with inclinations towards specific branches
of magic, but ultimately the branch of magic one follows is the choice of the
sorcerer.” The audience nods silently, convinced that Demetri is crazy but
enraptured by his story.

“Then the Blade of Thorns came. It, whatever it was, used
trickery to turn the people against magic. A series of night attacks began.
Only those who could not do magic were targeted. The Blade of Thorns, in the
form of a hooded figure, convinced the people that the sorcerers were
responsible and that the only way for the attacks to stop would be to wipe out
the sorcerers.

“At first, the people balked. Once, magic was common but,
after the decimation of the sorcerer population during the White Plague, magic
was now so rare that people were hesitant to wipe out this great phenomenon.”
He pauses for dramatic effect, relieved to see that no one is rolling their eyes.

“Then the children started going missing. One by one, the
homes of the people were shrouded in black. It was unusual to find a family
that hadn’t lost one of their children to the ‘night crusaders.’ By then, the
people had had enough. They rose up, burning the schools of magic, pillaging
the sorcerers’ houses, and killing all who could practice, or believed in
magic.

“No magical community in the world was safe. They were all
burning. The sorcerers fled, taking what knowledge and valuables they could carry
with them. They ran far and wide, being chased by the ragtag armies of the
ungifted. Of course, they didn’t know that the ungifted were receiving subtle
aid from the dark magic of the Blade of Thorns. Some pleaded ignorance. Others
were killed in battle. Finally, they came to a last stand in Greece. After
running from an ongoing war for months on end, the sorcerers stood their ground
and fought.”

“What happened next?”

Demetri smiles at Terrance.
At
least somebody cares.
“In the Battle of Prodita, the majority of the
remaining sorcerers were eradicated. The young and upcoming sorcerers
sacrificed themselves so that the old magic
magisters
and the small
children could escape. That was the day when the downfall of the gift began to
snowball.

“For centuries, the sorcerers lived in hiding. Many
attempted to hide in the Labyrinth and were swallowed up by the darkness. No
one ever emerged from those foreboding gates. Others tried to seek refuge in
the Underworld, the supposed secret cities that guarded the path to the Source.
Not even the necromancers lived to see another day.

“In later ages, the sorcerers began to rebuild. By then, the
gift had been long forgotten. They established a series of secret schools of
magic around the globe. The children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren of
the survivors established the school and tried to seek out the ungifted with
akalme
,
an innate openness for magic.

“However, as the years went by, the children became tired of
hiding and turned their backs on the gift
.
The already dwindling magical
populations began to die out slowly. But there were some who lingered. One of
them was Magister
Sapienter, the man who built this place.”

“Okay, you’re saying a human built this house? I thought it
was like, aliens or something.”

“Arden!” Luna cries, smacking her brother’s arm.”

Demetri looks at them with bemusement, then continues. “More
years passed and people found books of strange names and incantations at the
site of the battle in Greece. They thought that the sorcerers, who were once
revered as gods, really were gods. Each class of magic became a god, and all of
the schools of magic became temples to these so-called deities. People came up
with stories and cemented this religion into the Greek culture. And thus the gift
of magic was forgotten.”

“So, there’s no problem then?” Luna asks.

“Sshhhh!”

“But, to this day, the Blade of Thorns still lingers in the
darkness, waiting for the chance to annihilate all mahi
,
like you. You
see, all magic comes from one origin of power, located deep within the earth.
This power, called the Source
,
was split equally between the sorcerers. Stelarian
was the power of the servants of the Dila, the bringers of light, and Subter
was the power of the dark deities, the Maghta. They represent the basic
struggle between good and evil.”

“Umm,
cliché
much?”

“Callida, zip it.” Luna snaps.

“When the sorcerers dwindled to a few underground
strongholds, the light of Stelarian went out. Slowly, but steadily, the Maghta
gained more control of the Source. When the Maghta gain full control of the
source, they will stop at nothing to eradicate all other life. Only the
re-awakening of the forgotten gift
will restore the order needed for the
sorcerers to return, and the fire of Stelarian to be relit.

“The last of the great magisters, fearing that this day of
urgency would come, created the Arrows of Alux, from his most prized
possession, an amulet forged in the fire of Stelarian. When all twelve of you
are gathered, we will have all the arrows, and relight the fire.” Demetri looks
up at them solemnly, his eyes an eerie glowing amber in the light of the
setting sun.