Fate's Hand Read online

  Fate's Hand

  by Christopher Lynn

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents within are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or location is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Fate’s Hand

  Copyright © 2013 Christopher Lynn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  It had been thirteen days. Almost all of the volunteers had gone back to the town and offered Val their condolences. The soft-spoken words for his loss only fueled and enraged him to look farther and longer for his sister and uncle. Thirteen days. Val had never been away from his sister for more than three days. That’s just the way it had always been; they depended on each other and tried not to be a burden on their Uncle Pent. Their mother and father had died many years ago in a war soon after Val was born. His sister, Daria, could barely even remember their mother's face. “She had golden hair that curled and bounced in the wind," she would say with a smile that would fade as she went on. “But I can't remember the color of her eyes."

  Val’s mother was an extremely intelligent woman by all accounts. She worked close with the city's army and acting commander, which was easy enough since Val’s father held that title for over 10 years. She was a master strategist for Rannok, a larger city in the east. She was well taught in how to engineer and operate siege weapons. She was also a brilliant strategist and would help the General, Val’s father, in his battle planning. "Her smile could warm the coldest of hearts," Val’s uncle would tell him, “which was perfect, because your father had a heart of stone. He was hard, but he was fair. The "Iron Ram,” as his troops sometimes called him, was a tall and dark man with chiseled and strong features. His father kept a serious and professional air around him at all times. Any time Val saw his own reflection, he would put on a serious face and try to imagine what his father looked like around his age.

  Val Dalton was only twenty years old, but people said he looked older. He was 5-foot-10 and had a sturdy build from having worked on his uncle's farm all his life. He kept his thick, black hair short and clean-cut from request by his sister. She said she could remember their father better that way. The Iron Ram was as strict and disciplined as he was skilled. Uncle Pent was a hard man to deal with, and reasonably so. He had to take Daria and Val at a very young age after their parents were killed. Shortly after a campaign with a bloodthirsty barbarian tribe, the General Ram was helping clear the battlefield and help the wounded. Most of the troops had either retired back to the barracks or were chasing the remaining horde away from the city. While being assisted by a handful of soldiers, his wife, and a few healers, the general was ambushed by a small group of warriors. Val’s father did what he could to fight them off and protect the group. After an arrow felled his wife, he went into a rage and killed each of the barbarians, but it wasn’t enough. He laid with his dead wife as the surviving healers tried in vain to save them both. He was hailed as a hero and Uncle Pent would have been taken care of for life in that city, but he said it held too many bad memories.

  Uncle Pent moved them to a smaller farming village. He used the money left from his sister to supply Val and Daria with a good education and saved the rest for when they wanted to move away. Years later, when times got harder, he had to use their remaining funds to save the farm. It was Daria’s dream to use the money to travel and see the world, but she understood the bigger picture. But that didn’t matter to now. All that mattered was getting his sister back.

  Thirteen days earlier, Val had just returned to their small farmhouse at the edge of their village to find the aftermath. At the first sight of the broken front door and splatters of blood on the grass, his heart started to race. Val ran to his room to retrieve his father’s sword, all the while calling out for his uncle and sister. His mind raced through possibilities as he looked all over the house for his family. His uncle's travel pack and sword were still in the corner of his room. Daria’s room was trashed and the bed flipped over. After several frantic moments with no result, he raced to his closest neighbor’s house. He told the man what happened and asked him to go to the village to get volunteers to help search for his missing family right away. In less than an hour, nine men from the village stood geared up at the house. One of the older men, a tracker, offered to lead the party after surveying the grounds.

  "Orcs, I'm afraid," he deduced.

  Four days later, they found Uncle Pent’s body. As Val kneeled next to the man who had acted as his father all his life, the others searched the area for his sister. Val’s knuckles turned white as he clenched his fist in rage. Then he went pale with immense fear, thinking they would find his sister dead as well. The tracker came and kneeled beside him.

  After a few moments, he said, "Was a spear wound to the lung. Doesn’t look intentional. From the condition of his wounds, looks like they had been beating on him for a few days. There are at least five of them. One is a woman, barefooted.” Val didn’t acknowledge the man's words. "I found which way they went. I'm going with you."

  Val asked two of the men to take his uncle back to the village and bury the body as the others went on. After ten days, everyone but the tracker had turned back.

  "Thirteen days..." Val mumbled to himself, staring into the small campfire.

  "Whada ya say, son?" the tracker asked.

  "Oh, nothing, sorry. I'll be turning in so we can start out early." As Val began to climb to his feet, the tracker looked down.

  "Actually, Val, I don’t think I'll be able to go any further. I'm sorry. I just can’t afford it. Your uncle was a good man and I’m sure your sister was—" The man stopped as Val interrupted him.

  "Don’t speak as if she were dead!" Val screamed into the night, never taking his eyes off the campfire. There was an awkward silence for several moments.

  "I’m sorry," Val said softly.

  "No, I’m sorry, son. You haven’t lost hope and I hope you never do. I will take only enough supplies to get me back home. Take the rest and go on. I will look after your house until you...until both of you return. I will leave in the morning." As he stood and started to walk to his bedroll, he stopped and said, "I’m sorry, son. I wish you luck."

  He walked out of the fire's light, leaving Val with the crackle of the firewood and his thoughts alone. He reviewed his options. He did not know how to track the orcs on his own, but he also could not abandon his sister; she would never give up on him. His eyes were entranced by the flickering fire dancing over the logs and into the air, making faces of flame. The faced laughed at him, screamed and cried, each one only reminding him of Daria. As the fire died, he forced himself to sleep, unsure of what to do in the morning.

  Val woke up with the morning light breaking through the tree branches and shining across his face. He did not have to roll over to know he was alone. He did not hate the old man for leaving him. This was his journey, and he couldn’t expect anyone else to complete it for him. As he gathered his goods,and broke down the camp he found a note with the extra supplies left from the tracker: "From what I can tell they are headed east, to the Grey Hills. Good luck, son." Val looked to the sun and picked his heading as he slung his pack over his shoulder. East it was.

  The demon prince Drask sat in his lavish study looking over a stack of papers. He wasn’t really reading anything, just staring
off while thinking. He realized he was playing with his ring on his right hand again, an unconscious tic he had picked up recently. He studied his manicured nails and clean, smooth skin. He frowned as one of his brother’s minions walked into his study unannounced and dropped a rolled paper on his deck. He looked at the paper, smeared with ash, as the terrible smell of the demon flooded his nose. Drask held his temper in check as the servant turned his back and walked away without a word. Undoubtedly, his brother told the messenger to show Drask no respect or courtesy.

  Drask was always being pushed around, made to do his brother's biddings, because of his size and attitude. Being the son of a Devil Lord means you’re supposed to love torture and killing, but Drask was more of an academic. He considered his brothers and his father simple-minded in ambition. To rule over their plane was his birthright, but he wanted more. He wanted power over the living, not the damned and dead. He wanted to rule in a kingdom under the sun, not a ruined city in his father’s realm.

  So, instead of spending his days flaying souls for his father, he learned. He made pacts with evil wizards whenever summoned for the exchange of information, and rewarded lesser demons for anything they could bring back from the world above. When he heard the summoning call of the eastern wizard Yusar, his mind began to tingle with excitement. Most of his kind came to a summoning in rage and thought it a disgrace, but Drask saw only one thing: opportunity. Yusar Otomo the Red gripped the black book he used to learn the demon’s name until he heard the leather creak. Immediately loosening his hand, thinking of the books value, he took several deep breaths to relax.

  The middle-aged wizard stood in the summoning room of his tower, the long red and gold layers of his robes flowing heavy across the stone floor. With his long, sharp fingernails, he brushed aside a few strands of hair from his face. His fingers smelled like a mix of old copper and lotus flowers. He closed his eyes and adjusted his footing. He could smell the bittersweet scent of the freshly-burnt lotus blossom’s petals he had set aside to prepare his next potion. But to finish that potion he needed something from the lower planes. His eyes squinting in the darkness, he scanned the summoning circle one last time, knowing well the cost of getting as much as one rune wrong. Yusar had summoned this particular demon before and its calm demeanor and soft-spoken words put him on edge. After all, he was a fiend from the nine hells—anything from this demon’s mouth had to be a lie.

  The scent of the flower swept away and was replaced by the pungent and harsh smell of brimstone and burned flesh. The candles around his circle flared and turned to a dark purple hue. The flames went still and the air in the room turned dead silent.

  Yusar saw the orange-red eyes of the devil appear in the middle of the room, followed by his sly and mischievous grin. The light of the candles reflected off his sharp, curved horns. Drask’s long black hair flowed upward with the slight draft coming from the opening to the abyss. His full body took form and he stepped into the dim light. He was wearing his usual exotic grey- and silver-trimmed armor over his robes. His exposed arms swayed only slightly as he advanced with grace, an undeniable power hidden within. The muscles in his arms were sleek and tight, his skin ashen with a tint of red that stole light that fell on him. In previous encounters, Yusar thought the devil might have had an active spell to make him appear blurry to the naked eye, but he could not tell now.

  Drask continued to grin as he stared into Yusar's eyes. Shaken, Yusar broke away to look around the room and asked, "Are you not going to check my circle?"

  "Your artistic skills do not impress me, Brendairs.”

  Yusar winced at the words, knowing it as an insult. The wizard instantly regretted the action, realizing the devil now knew that he understood some Dark Speech. Yusar quickly regained his composure and looked up to see Drask with a huge grin still on his face.

  "I am in power here!" Yusar’s mind screamed.

  Drask’s face turned more serious. "You want me to fetch you the blood of my father’s prized Cerberus, I take it? And before you make that stupid wide-eyed and surprised face all humans make when they are caught off-guard, I can smell your burning flowers. I know that spell very well. Yes, I will bring you the blood. But I want something in return."

  Drask stood impassive, waiting for Yusar to take in all he had said and weigh the implications of striking a deal with a devil.

  "You are a bit more harsh and bold from the last time we spoke, devil," Yusar said, trying to get a read on Drask and getting nothing.

  "Your world makes me sick to my stomach, if you must know. Can we strike the deal, or may I be released, mighty wizard?"

  "An item, you say?" Yusar said, relieved it wasn’t anything physical.

  "A book."

  Yusar's eyebrows raised. The value of a book must be high indeed, if a demon wants it.

  "I have a series of books and this will complete the set; alone, it is worthless. It’s in a library not far from here. Do we have a deal?"

  Yusar looked away from the Devil. He thought, I can retrieve the book, read it—copy it, if time allows—and make the trade with Drask none the wiser.

  "Yes. Yes, I do believe we have a deal." Yusar looked back as he casually stroked his mustache. His eyes fell upon Drask just in time to see him take a step outside the summoning circle. Yusar's hand froze and his eyes went wide.

  "Good. Swear on it."

  Yusar dropped his book in fear and quickly tried to stumble through the hand gestures to teleport himself from his tower. As he was finishing the final sign, he felt Drask’s hand flash out and grab his right hand. His firm grip was unyielding and Yusar stood in shock.

  "Swear, human."

  "I...I, uh, I swear." Yusar coughed out after finding his voice. Drask smiled and shook his hand.

  "You're making that face again." With that, the candles in the room flared and returned back to a dim yellow glow. The devil prince was gone. Yusar stood there shaking in shock for many moments. When he collected himself enough he slowly approached the summoning circle. Only after many minutes did he finally notice a marking on a rune that looked like he had dragged his foot across it. He slowly let himself slide to the floor thinking how he was lucky to still be alive. Better yet, if Drask could leave the circle why not just kill him and retrieve the book himself? Intrigued, and with his heart still racing from the encounter, he whispered to the darkness.

  "Oh, I'll get your book, Prince of Flies."

  Val traveled for two more days before finding an actual road heading east. He figured the orcs would stay in the woods, but a road might bring him to a town or village and he was running low on supplies. A whole day passed before he saw a person. He came upon a man walking aside a limping horse. The man was wearing a plain, long cotton robe over his clothes and carrying a weathered walking stick. He was a heavy set man and his massive beard and long, pepper-colored hair only made him look larger. Val noticed the large and beautiful black wood veins that ran along the staff as he got closer.

  "Hello, sir," Val called out. The man stopped and slowly turned to face Val, his expression curious, his eyes bright and sharp. "Yes?"

  "Can you tell me what the nearest town on this road traveling east is?"

  "No towns, really, just a farming village before the pass through the Grey Hills."

  Val nodded and, with a slight wave of his hand, started back east.

  "But I wouldn’t go there if I were you."

  Val stopped in his tracks and turned.

  "Why not?"

  "Well, you’re not a criminal, are you?"

  "No, sir, I’m not."

  Well, there isn’t anything in that direction but a house full of highwaymen that will strip you of anything you’ve got and leave you naked by the road half-dead or worse."

  Val stood silently and faced east. The old man walked up to him.

  "Did you hear me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then what are you doing?"

  "Thinking."

  "About what? They will probably
kill you."

  "Yes, sir, and so will the orcs that have my sister, and they are east."

  Both men stood staring down the road. The old man broke the silence right as Val got the courage to start off eastbound again.

  "My name is Jerib Havens of Merrithorn. Come with me to my cottage."

  "I’m sorry, sir, but I really must be going."

  ”Come with me and I’ll give you the supplies you need. I’ll even tell you where to find your sister."

  Val looked at the man with confusion plain across his face. "How?"

  With a robust voice of pleasure, the man replied, "Magic, my dear boy! Magic! Now come this way.” He turned and started off the road into the woods. Val looked at the man’s back, unsure, but then followed him down the worn game trail.

  "Is your horse lame?"

  "Ha, Gabby here? No, she is fine. She sprained her ankle once and I babied her a little too much. Anytime she gets tired of carrying me, she buckles down until I get off, then limps all the way home. She’s smart enough to know I’ll never put her down, so now I walk." The old man had a warm smile on his face as he gently stroked the horse's neck. "But I walk with a friend."

  Val smiled and asked, “Friends with a horse?"

  "Oh, I’m friends with all manner of animals. I’ve found them to be better friends than most humans I meet."

  "So you live in the woods alone?"

  Jerib looked at him with an eyebrow cocked.

  "Uh, well, I mean you live out here with all your friends?"

  Jerib smiled. “Yes, I like it better that way. This sister of yours: how long has she been missing?"

  "A fortnight and a day.”

  "Hmm. And you still believe her to be alive?"

  "As long as I am alive, I will not stop looking."

  Jerib didn’t have to look at his face; the conviction in Val’s voice was plain. "Fair enough. We're almost there."

  Drask formed in the smoke with the same smile he had when he left the world above. At once a scowl came across his face as the smell of the seventh layer hit him. His father was Baal, ruler of Verim Laris, the seventh layer. In Drask’s opinion it was the foulest plane of hell. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the smell of the burning lotus petals on the surface. With a grunt, he angrily stalked to his study to review his plans. Getting the blood the wizard asked for was no hard task; he had already obtained it several weeks before. Preparations for the book he asked for would be a different story.