Heirs of Prophecy Read online

  Dad shook his head, totally at a loss. “Honestly, I’ve never had less of an idea what was going on than I do now. We’re definitely not in Arizona anymore. We’re in Oz or Timbuktu for all I know.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute,” said Aaron with a grin. “Oz and Timbuktu are both taken and boring. If we’re in a strange new land, let’s claim it! Welcome to Rivertonland! No—Rivertonia!”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “We can brainstorm names later. I’d like to move away from the teleporting wolf and toward the possibility of a hot bath.”

  “I’ll see your hot bath and raise you a bottle of wine,” Dad said.

  For the first time all day, Mom smiled.

  Heeding Lord Azazel’s call, Munson led the charge up the winding staircase to the top floor. He found his master waiting on his throne at the center of a cold, barren room. The throne was carved entirely of black stone, and the light from the sconces on the dank walls danced ominously off its polished surface.

  Munson took his place beside the room’s only exit, bracing himself for more of the horrors that had become so commonplace of late. By now he’d seen more of these interrogations than he cared to count, so he knew that this one, like all the others, would end in bloodshed. His gut tightened as he looked down at today’s victim. The man crouched at the feet of his lord was a man named Farley—a man who’d been Munson’s best friend since childhood.

  “Please spare me, Lord Azazel!” Farley cried. He reached out to trace trembling fingers over the hem of the wizard’s red robe. “I-I-I’ll never make such a mistake again.”

  Munson prayed that the pity he was now feeling couldn’t be sensed by his master.

  Azazel’s baleful eyes glared down at the groveling Farley. He got up from the throne, his robe billowing, and circled the prisoner. His handsome face parted into a menacing, almost hungry grin.

  “You’ll never make such a mistake again?” The wizard glanced at the soldiers all around him as if waiting for laughter. When it didn’t come, his face contorted into fury. “How many times have I heard that over the centuries? You swore allegiance, Farley, and yet you lied. You tried to hide your sister’s child from me when you knew very well that the child showed signs of magic ability.”

  Azazel wheeled around, turning his back on the prisoner, his accusing gaze now meeting the eyes of each soldier in turn. “Know that I see and hear everything. Loyal servants always benefit. But those who betray me… will be punished.”

  Tense silence hung over the room. Mercifully, it was broken by Farley’s whimpering.

  “Yes, my lord,” the prisoner said. “I’ll never forget. This will never happen again.”

  Azazel turned back to his captive and laughed. A cloud of energy formed at the tips of the wizard’s fingers, and the soldiers all seemed to hold their breath.

  “You’re right,” Azazel said. “It won’t happen again. Understand this, Farley. Since you’ve served me well for these many decades, I will show you a kindness greater than you deserve. I will spare your sister and the rest of your family. Only the child will be destroyed.”

  The prisoner raised his head for the first time. “But Lord Azazel, he is merely a child!”

  Azazel’s eyes blazed. “Your lack of gratitude disgusts me.” His body grew rigid, and a dark aura formed around his head.

  White-hot plasma erupted from his fingertips.

  Munson flinched at the now-familiar sound of crackling energy. A torrent of sparkling light snaked from the wizard’s fingers and engulfed the prisoner, and in an instant, poor Farley was gone like all the others, completely burned away by light and fire.

  Azazel’s tension eased. The dark aura retreated back into him, and the lights vanished from his hands.

  All that remained of Farley were a few molten fragments of armor and a sprinkling of ashes on the scorched brick. That, and the smell of burnt flesh that permeated the air. Munson had to work to control his gag reflex. His fellow soldiers looked equally uncomfortable. No matter how many times they witnessed this, it never got easier.

  Azazel smiled. And then he did something wholly unexpected—and terrifying.

  He turned to Munson, and beckoned him forward.

  His stomach turning in knots, Munson stepped forward to meet his master. Did Azazel know about his friendship with Farley? Would he hold Munson somehow to blame for what had happened?

  Quaking in his mail, Munson fell to one knee at the wizard’s feet.

  It seemed a long time before Azazel spoke. “Send the orders for my agent to find and dispose of the infant,” he said.

  Munson was overwhelmed with gratitude at the chance to kill rather than be killed—and at the same time, the thought filled him with deep shame.

  He stood and saluted. “Yes, Lord Azazel.”

  Munson waved to his men and made for the door, but Azazel called him to a halt.

  Munson obediently stopped, turned, and knelt.

  “Make sure the family is disposed of as well,” the wizard hissed. “We can’t run the risk of another incident. If it happened once, it can happen again.”

  Feeling sick, Munson repeated the orders, saluted, and made haste for the stair.

  They were walking through the gloaming, the sky growing rapidly dimmer, when Dad pointed to an outcropping. “Look at that gray rock, boys. I’ll bet you I know what that is. Come on.” He led them toward it.

  When they arrived, Dad picked up a rounded rock on the ground and began to use it as a chisel against the outcropping, breaking flakes away.

  “Aha! Look at this!”

  “Congratulations, dear,” said Mom drily. “You’ve found some rocks.”

  “No—watch.” Dad picked up two of the bits of rock he’d broken off of the outcropping. When he scratched them together, sparks leapt off. “See? Flint. We can have a fire.” He stood. “Let’s camp here. I don’t know about you, but I’m about dead on my feet.”

  “And I’m starving,” Aaron said.

  Dad squinted toward the east. “Those trees over there look like they have something growing on them. Almost look like apple trees from here. Why there would be apple trees near swampland, I have no idea. But then again, there shouldn’t be grasslands either. How about I build a fire while you see about finding out if those really are fruit trees?”

  After a half hour of gathering wood and armfuls of what turned out to be tiny green apples, the Rivertons assembled around the growing fire. Dad had started with dry grasses and tiny twigs but by now had gotten a stable flame going with larger sticks.

  “These apples are a little sour,” Mom said, scrunching up her face. “And bitter.” She took another bite. “What say we try to bake them? Maybe it’ll improve the flavor.”

  Ryan was so hungry he’d already eaten three of the small green apples, but now he did as his mother suggested, allowing the rest of the apples to cook by the fire for several minutes before trying them again. He had to admit, they weren’t as bitter after cooking—but they were still sour. Still, he ate several more. He was ravenous.

  But once his stomach was satisfied, he was left with his thoughts. And the situation wasn’t good. They’d been walking for a day and a half now, and still they hadn’t seen a road, a building, not even an airplane overhead.

  They must have all been thinking the same thing, because Dad said, “Well. This’ll certainly make a good story one day.”

  “More like a fantasy novel,” Ryan said.

  Dad chuckled. “If it’s okay, I’m going to get some sleep. Perhaps we could keep watch in shifts? And I’ll build up the fire to keep away any animals.”

  “Animals?” Mom said. “You don’t think they’ll bother us at night, do you?”

  “Don’t worry,” Dad said. “They should steer clear of fire. Just let me rest for a bit, then I’ll keep watch for the rest of the night.”

  They lay down to rest, Mom taking first watch, and Ryan was so exhausted, he was soon fast asleep.

  Steaming relics of burnt siege engines d
ot a battlefield covered with the dead and the dying, a blanket of misery. And yet to the west, the battle still rages.

  On one side are human soldiers fighting desperately. Humans mostly, but also short bearded warriors that chant in unison as they swing their giant sledgehammers.

  On the other side… are demons.

  The demons are a motley horde. Some are mottled brown, others bright red, still others black as midnight. The smallest are like children; the largest are giant monstrosities, towering well over ten feet tall. But all are dangerous, all meant for battle. They slash with vicious, dagger-like claws, bite with protruding fangs. Even the bony ridges along their joints are sharp enough to slice any soldier who has the misfortune of brushing against them.

  The defenders are falling back, moving eastward, unable to hold back the onslaught. Soon they have converged at a hill, their last redoubt. Midway up the hill, a circle of lithe fighters draw their longbows again and again, raining a thick stream of arrows down on the enemy. And at the top of the hill, protected by an encircling low stone wall, stands a robed man holding an orb in his hand.

  The man is a sharp contrast to the battlefield. Though all around him is ruin, and all who fight are bloodied and stooped, this man’s white robe is immaculate, and he is calm. Contemplative.

  All his concentration is focused on the orb.

  The demon horde presses up the hill, breaking the ranks of the soldiers. For a moment, it appears that all is lost.

  And then the robed man lifts the orb high over his head. It blazes so brightly that the sun would seem dim by comparison. The orb’s light expands, slowly, spreading away from the man, rolling down the hill, continuing across the fields beyond.

  Every enemy it touches is rendered aflame and then reduced to ash.

  The light expands more rapidly now, drinking up the earth until it stretches from horizon to horizon. What was night has turned to day. What was certain defeat has turned to victory.

  Ryan woke with a start. The dream had felt so… real.

  He looked around. His father was awake now, sitting by the fire, keeping watch.

  Ryan closed his eyes again and let sleep take him once more.

  Azazel grabbed a handful of wheat and let it slip through his fingers. The shipment had just come in from one of the outlying villages.

  “Did the villagers give you any trouble?” he asked.

  The bedraggled soldier shook his head. “No, Lord Azazel. No sane person would dare deny your rightful due.”

  Azazel sighed. “I haven’t been challenged in nearly a century.”

  The soldier looked confused, but said nothing.

  At that moment Azazel felt a familiar prickling at the base of his neck. Leaving the soldier to his confusion, he raced to his tower and sprinted up the stairs to his throne room, shouting at the men stationed there, ordering them to leave. They rushed out, and he barred the door behind them.

  He immediately sat on his throne and waited.

  A moment later, he felt the prickling again. But now it was accompanied by an aroma of sulfur. The wizard smiled.

  The outline of a woman began to materialize in front of the throne. A tall, slender, and beautiful woman.

  “Caution, Azazel.”

  “What do you mean, Ellisandrea?” Azazel asked, concern rising in his heart.

  “I have foreseen danger. Look for strangers to Trimoria. They threaten all that we have achieved.”

  “Strangers?” Azazel repeated. “But there is no such thing as a stranger to Trimoria. Thanks to that fool Protector, we’re surrounded by an impenetrable barrier.”

  “I cannot see where they are from. But they are not from Trimoria, and they don’t belong here. Find them, or they will jeopardize all for which we have strived.”

  “I’ll have my men seek out the strangers and bring them to me,” Azazel said. “What would you have me do with them when they are found?”

  “They must be killed.”

  Azazel felt a fleeting pang of torment, but the feeling dissipated, and he smiled. “It will be my pleasure, Ellisandrea.” He stepped closer, caressed her cheek, and whispered, “When can we meet again, my love?”

  “Soon. Do what you must, and all will be as promised.”

  The vision of the woman faded, as did the acrid smell. When the last wisps of her image had passed from this world, Azazel’s hand dropped to his side. The sadness he felt in that moment was replaced with rage.

  He stalked to the door of the throne room and flung it open. “Attend me!” he called down the stairs. “I have tasks for all of you!”

  Meeting a Protector

  “Considering everything we’ve been through,” Dad said, “I’m feeling optimistic that today will be a better day than yesterday. Let’s keep heading south.”

  “How could it get any worse?” Ryan grumbled.

  They had picked more apples and had put them in an undershirt that Dad had tied into the shape of a bag. It made sense to hoard what food they could find, but still, Ryan didn’t like the implication of the action. Dad wouldn’t want to haul these sour apples along unless he feared they might need them—which would be a reasonable contingency if they didn’t find a road or civilization. Ryan wondered if his dad was as optimistic as he pretended.

  The sun shone brightly as midday approached. Ryan was wiping sweat from his brow when he noticed motion on the horizon. A… person on horseback? He felt a sudden apprehension.

  “Someone’s coming!” he said, pointing.

  As the stranger came closer, Ryan saw that he was indeed strange. The man was huge, probably pushing seven feet tall, with a build that any football team captain would envy. His face was leathery and rugged, giving Ryan the impression that he was in his late thirties or early forties, though he moved like a much younger man. And his clothing looked rustic—wool and leather, all of it apparently handmade—as did his gear, which consisted of a quiver of arrows on his back and a huge sword hanging from his belt. An equally huge bow hung from his saddle. He was like someone out of a different era.

  Then again, strange as he was, the Riverton family must have seemed stranger. Four bedraggled people wandering in the grasslands, carrying nothing but a shirt full of apples.

  The man dismounted gracefully. “Hello! My name is Throll. I’m a ranger and Protector of Aubgherle. I must ask… who are you and why are you at the entrance to the northern swamps?”

  Dad held out his hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Throll. My name is Jared Riverton. I know it might be hard to believe, but we aren’t even sure where we are.” He gestured back at his wife and two sons. “This is Aubrey, Ryan, and Aaron. We were exploring the caves near Benson, Arizona, when there was an earthquake. The next thing we knew, we found ourselves in the swamps.”

  Throll’s eyes narrowed. “Bensonarizona? I’ve not heard of this place. And there are no caves near the swamp.”

  Mom stepped forward. “Maybe my husband didn’t explain himself clearly. We’re lost. Can you help us get to a road or a town? From there we can get back to Benson on our own.”

  Throll scratched his stubbly chin, his expression evolving from suspicion to confusion. “I don’t know of this Benson,” he said, bowing his head slightly to Mom, “and I’ve explored every part of Trimoria. But I can guide you safely to Aubgherle.”

  “Thank you,” said Mom with relief. Ryan wondered if she was thinking about that hot bath again.

  Throll turned to Dad with a frown. “Where are your weapons, Jared? There are many predators in the swamps that would easily make a meal of you.”

  Ryan blurted, “We saw a disappearing wolf!”

  Throll snorted. “A blink dog? Bah! Those are just scavengers. But there are any number of real predators in those swamps. It’s foolish to travel there without being prepared.” He looked Dad up and down and shook his head.

  Dad looked a bit embarrassed. “We don’t own any weapons…”

  Throll looked as if he had never heard anything so perp
lexing. He drew a breath to speak, but then something caught his attention. Pointing into the distance, he shouted an unidentifiable word, turned back to his horse, unbuckled the bow from his saddle, and nocked an arrow.

  Ryan saw immediately what had alarmed Throll. A gigantic cat was sauntering toward them. For a moment his pulse quickened in fear—but then, all at once, the fear dissipated, warming into joy as recognition dawned.

  Silver? But he’s huge!

  He ran straight for the giant cat, ducking his father’s attempt to grab him and ignoring his mother’s shout to stop.

  Silver played the same game he always did. The cat crouched, hopping to and fro, and the moment Ryan got close enough, Silver pounced on him. Normally Ryan would catch the little cat, but now… the giant cat pushed him to the ground.

  He laughed as he looked up at the big, whiskery face grinning down at him. This was definitely Silver.

  He stood up next to the cat and ran his hands along the length of the cat’s back. This made no sense—how did Silver get to be so large?—but he was getting used to things not making sense. He couldn’t wipe the smile from his face as he returned to his family, the cat gliding along behind him.

  “I found Silver!” he announced.

  The giant ranger took several steps back, his eyes wary. “I’ve never seen a tame swamp cat before. In fact, I’ve never seen a swamp cat leave the mists before.”

  The rest of Ryan’s family also looked tentative in the presence of their now three-hundred-pound cat. But when Ryan rubbed the base of Silver’s tail, the cat plopped himself on the ground and exposed his belly, waiting for someone to rub it, and Aaron came forward cautiously. Ryan’s brother laid a hand on Silver’s furry stomach, and the loud purr that resulted made everyone laugh.

  “It is Silver,” said Aaron. “What the heck happened to him? He’s huge!”

  Throll shook his head. Without taking his eyes off the cat, he slung his bow back on the saddle.