The Willbreaker (Book 1) (3 page)

              “Good Commander General, you have yet to disappoint. Take this eve and retreat to your quarters. Get some sleep; you will be leaving in the morning. Lieutenant Blackwall’s units have regrouped and are ready for dispatch. Your units together should give you, what, fifty Maidens?" Gretchen gave a quick nod. “Good. That should be enough. I will send word and have your provisions prepared. Take the Maiden’s north; Reinhold has been using the Septa River to drop off supplies to Daladin Bay. By river, his men are able to have one day’s access to more provisions and equipment straight from Belkin. This gives him an advantage in combat. Secure the docks there. By the time you arrive, Jenaveve and her Flame Legion should have toppled Darrow’s Hold, and Savanah should be two or three days south of you. We will take Daladin Bay. Ensure our victory Commander General Lomire; this is not a move we can afford to lose.”

Gretchen drew her clenched fist to her chest in salute, and bowed her head to the floor.

“Yes Empress Aurora. You wish is my command. I do your bidding." Gretchen flipped around and headed out.

“Oh, Gretchen, there is one more thing." Gretchen froze, her breath caught in her throat. Aurora never called her by her first name. She spun to face her Empress.

“Make sure Reinhold’s men tell us everything we need to know. Once we have what we need, take them to the boiling room.”

              Gretchen swallowed hard. “Yes Empress Aurora.”

A cloaked figure stood in the streets of Greylin and watched the small farmhouse from the alleyway, the same way he had for the last few weeks. He did not know exactly what he wanted to find. Perhaps that is why he watched and waited. He did know that he had to talk to the man that lived there; something made him special.

As the sun started to settle behind the cradle of the mountains, movement in the house caught the watcher’s eye. He squeezed his eyes together, trying to focus and make out exactly what he saw.
Come out, c’mon. Come out
. The door opened with a 'click.' The watcher’s heart pounded with excitement as he straightened, getting ready for action. The man stepped out and closed the door behind him. He stood a second, looked to the left and right, and pulled his jacket tighter around his chest. Around six feet tall, with a stout build, it appeared as if he had done labor intensive work his whole life. He had a dark leather skullcap pulled down to his brow. As before, the watcher sensed magic from him.

              The man at the house thrust his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake off the chill of the night as he headed down the street. The watcher crept out of the shadows and followed his target, keeping to the side of the road with his cloak pulled well over his head. He followed him down the main road for fifteen minutes. Following him tested the watcher’s abilities, for he wished to stay hidden. However, as luck would have it, whenever the watcher would fall behind, the man would stop and look into shop windows, or make chit chat with someone passing by.
Luck is on my side. I
am
supposed to follow him.

              The man never looked back towards the watcher; as far as the watcher knew the man had no idea he followed him. The man continued down the left side of the cobblestone street and turned casually into a building lit by a single torch above the doorway. A rough crowd gathered outside, laughing loudly while they smoked their pipes. The sign above the door said “Tom’s Tavern." The watcher cautiously stepped inside.

              The smell of sweat, tobacco, and sweet-peppered meat hung thick in the air. Loud laughter rang out as a man slammed his stein down to his table, resting his hand on his knee as he shook his head; the other people at his table laughed at whatever they talked about. People filled the tavern. Tables packed the room, putting the patrons shoulder to shoulder. Small oil lamps hung haphazardly around the walls, giving the room a soft ambiance.

The watcher received a few looks from the tavern’s patrons, appraising him quickly, before going back to their business. He glanced over to the right, where a plump, balding woman busily served the men at the bar top. She wiped her greasy hands down her filthy apron, and went to the next man calling out for service.

              A short, little man with a round belly approached him. His full beard followed his jaw-line up to his ears, where the hair thinned out considerably. The top of his bald head glistened with sweat. Rubbing his hands together as if they were cold, the little man hollered up to him. “You want a table tonight mate, or ya just lookin’ for a seat at the bar?”

              The watcher sized up the area around him, trying to spot any open tables close to the door. As his eyes scanned the dimly lit room, he saw something that made his stomach lurch. A man sat in the back of the room, alone at the table in the corner. He stared at the watcher with his elbows on the table. It was
him;
the man he followed. His eyes stared deep at the watcher, and even though they were a soft blue, they were unblinking and cold as death. A small smile split his lips. The watcher froze as the man in the corner brought his hand up, and with his forefinger, signaled him over.

              The watcher looked back to the barman in front of him, who patiently waited for an answer.

              “No, thank you, I seem to have a table already.”

              The small man gave a quick nod, dismissing him, and headed back behind the counter to help the patrons at the bar. The watcher kept his eyes locked upon the man in the corner as he maneuvered slowly around the packed tables. The man at the table, thicker and more formidable than those around him, sat with confidence; his knuckles were dry and slightly cracked, and large defined veins in his hands ran up through his considerable forearms. Tufts of feathery hair, bronze and blond in color, fluted out of the base of his blackened leather skullcap, which encircled around the top of his ears and the middle of his forehead. His eyes, soft blue and unblinking, burned with confidence. As the watcher approached the edge of the table, the man spoke in a low, questioning voice as he scanned the watcher before him. The man's eyes locked waist high on the watcher.

              “Evangeline. Is that your wife?" he asked. The watcher gasped.
How could he possibly know about my wife?
The watcher’s wife passed away years ago and he felt his face flush as he suddenly became nervous
.
The man at the table motioned towards the watcher’s hand. A small tattoo, two angel wings protecting the name Evangeline, showed on his wrist. The watcher glanced down at the tattoo with relief.

              “Are you . . . Edward?” the man at the table asked.

              The watcher stepped backward, throwing his hood to his shoulders. Edward had thinning hair that stretched down past the top of his shoulders, but had no hair on the top of his sun-spotted head. The wrinkles on his face, shooting out from the sides of his eyes, layering his forehead, and wrapping around his mouth, betrayed him old enough to be someone’s grandfather.

“How do you know my name? I have never seen you before. What . . .” Edward paused briefly. “How do you know my name?" His eyes stared at the man at the table looking for answers.

              The man at the table flipped a small hourglass between his fingers, tapping its base on the table; every spin making the brown sand flail around chaotically within its prison. He laughed in disbelief as he stared at the old man in front of him.

“Sit down, Edward. I think I need to talk to you," he said, stone-cold, as he gestured to a chair with his hand.

“Please, sit. I knew I would meet you tonight, and I knew your name would be Edward. What are the odds?” he said, joking. Edward sat in disbelief of the whole situation.

              “Please, I don’t mean you harm, I’ve only been following you because I saw . . .”

              A stern look shot through the man’s face as he interrupted Edward.

              “You’ve been following me? How long have you been watching me? What makes you think this is okay? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t get the town guards involved." He angrily shook his head, and his expression turned to disgust.

              “Please, let me explain.” Edward protested, holding up both hands. “I will answer all of your questions. My name is Edward Poggintop and I work for the Mayor’s council. I am an advisor on the interpretation of the prophecies."

“Wait,” interrupted the man angrily. “Interpretation of the prophecies? Are you serious? What is the Mayor doing poking his head into the readings of the prophecy? That’s not something a Mayor should be doing. He isn’t important enough be given the rights to know or read anything about the prophecies." The man’s eyebrows pointed inward, as his look of disgust grew. Edward nodded his head, trying to indicate that he understood where the opposing man came from.

              “That is why I am here, actually. Mayor Hancock has an influential brother working for Lord Reinhold. We receive copied scripts of the prophecies. I interpret them, and give Mayor Hancock my perspective of the readings. We hope the information will aid us in defeating our adversaries. I am quite good at understanding them,” he said with a proud smile on his face. Once his eyes caught the other man’s, Edward quickly withdrew his smile and proceeded.

              “I am also gifted." As he said this, the other man leaned to the back of his chair; replacing his look of disgust with surprise, and worry.

              “I am gifted of the Mind Sphere. I am not only psionic, but I am a Sensor as well. I am sure you are not unfamiliar with being gifted; I sensed the magic from you the first day I saw you." Edward peered into his eyes, which looked back curiously. “In any case, I have this ability, which allows me to see auras around people. I can’t do it all the time, and not everyone has an aura. That is the reason I am here, because of the aura I see around you. Two days ago, as I walked down the road in front of the library, I noticed a young woman sitting on the steps next to a young man. They were obviously fighting, about something or another. She had a crimson red aura all around her, but he had none. As I continued in my travels, I noticed a man with a green aura around him, but as I watched him, it faded. I have no explanations of what they mean. They vary with every person I see, but there is always something concrete about the auras; they are always changing, and they never stay. I saw the woman again from the steps of the library yesterday when I was on my way from the Mayor’s office. She had no aura at all.”

              “Ok, but what does that have to do with me?" His eyes scrunched down irritably as he spun the small hourglass in his fingers.

              “I’m getting to that part. Please, let me finish. Thirteen days ago as I headed home from work, I saw a man heading into the cemetery. He had an aura around him, and it was unlike anything I have ever seen. It was purple, and as it stretched outwards, it shifted into a stronger golden one. I stopped and watched him trail out of my sight. It was late and I was hungry, so I headed home, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him." The man watched him with absorbing eyes.

              “Two days later, I saw him again. He headed down the street past old Johnson’s corner store. The aura was still around him, but the purple color faded into all gold, and it was bright. I wondered if this was a coincidence, so I followed him to his house. I’ve been watching him now for eleven days, and I’ll be buggered if I know why, but that aura has not faded in the slightest bit. I have seen a few others, like the purple one, but the strong, steady golden one always dwarfs them. The man I saw in the cemetery that day was you.”

              Momentary silence broke up the conversation. The man at the table finally spoke. “Can you see it now? I mean, is that aura still around me?”

              “Yes, as strong as I’ve ever seen it. Now please, you know why I am here; may I get your name?" Edward’s eyebrows rose as he extended his hand out to the man at the table. The man shook his head for a brief moment, as if lost to himself.

              “Yes, I’m sorry. My name is Brandon, Brandon Pike." Brandon reached his hand out and shook the old man’s twig-like hand.

              “Now you know about me Brandon, may I please know how on earth you knew my name, and how you knew that you would meet me today? You aren’t a Visionary, are you? A seer? Did you dream this?" He seemed excited to find out.

              “No, none of that." Brandon reached to his neck, pulling on the silver chain that revealed a black satin bag from underneath his shirt. He untied the golden silk cord that held it tightly closed and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Upon doing this, Edward shot backwards, almost tipping his chair.

              “What is that . . . the magic . . . it’s incredible. . .” He could not get the words to come out. As he unfolded the paper, Edward saw a page torn from of a book. He could see words written on it in dull red ink. The magic it gave off took his breath away.

              As he spoke, Edward jutted forward, anxiously pressing his stomach anxiously against the table. With his arms crossed in front of him, Edward listened intently, trying not to miss a single word.. His eyes were still wide open.

              “This was given to my caretaker when I was a baby. My mother and father died when I was too young to remember. My caretaker’s name was Margaret and she was supposed to give it to me when I was old enough to read it, but she never did. Not until she sat in her deathbed did she take the writings on this page seriously. Margaret was a great woman; she raised me with all the love and care that anyone could ever ask for. She took me as her own, and I loved her. She was the mother I never had, but she was not in the greatest of health. As she lay in bed, dying, she told me that the writings on this paper were real, and that I was never supposed to let anyone know that I had it. She said I must keep it in this bag at all times, and never let it leave my sight. Margaret passed away that night, on the first day of summer. That was the summer that the dragon fires of Arbedon burned out of control. The fires burned nonstop for three months." As he said this, Brandon flipped the paper around so Edward could see the top of it.

             
“A loved one will die of a broken heart.”

First day of Summer. Year of the Fire. Age of War.

              As he finished reading, Brandon pulled the page back. Edward’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened. His eyes darted to the left and to the right, as if thinking a thousand different things at once.

              “Son! Do you have any idea of what you hold in your hand? That is a page of the prophecy! A real page! Not a copy!”

              Brandon looked around to make sure no one heard the old man whispering excitedly. No one paid them any attention. Edward seemed to understand his concern, and lowered his voice to a loud whisper.