Vengeance

By Kaelci

Her family was murdered; all that she's known, destroyed. An ancient curse has rebirthed and Lyria is the sole survivor of its deadly wake.

Borne of an illegal bloodline, she must now build a new life in Lord Andru’s city without divulging her secret — a magic that serves as both gift and curse. However, Lyria is soon caught up in her Lord's dogmatic beliefs and becomes embroiled within the deeper politics that guide their world.

Despite her desire to live a normal life, her hand is destined to shape the future... for better or for worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B.M. Matthews
• Release date: Mar 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005399764

Book preview

Chapter One

A tendril of wind snaked through the twisted, knotted limbs and blew a breath of life against Lyria’s cheek. Her eyes snapped open. If there was fresh air there was a hole — an escape — she would be free. Dead bodies bore down upon her, surrounded and suffocated her, and nausea stirred as she clawed through the warm, unresponsive flesh towards a tiny gleam of light.

Freedom… it was so close.

Pushing past a weighty arm and through a mass of hair, she pulled herself further through the bodies until the tiny gleam transformed into a great beacon that invited her into its warmth. Birthed by the dead, she fell, gasping for breath, and landed atop a mass of sharp pebbles that dug into her hands and knees. She ignored the pain; the raiders were gone and she was free.

The rainbow skies shone through the sunlight and caressed her face, brightening the countryside and illuminating each golden blade of grass, burgundy leaf, and — nausea burned her throat — the gore that pooled where her mother’s eyes had been.

By Xandur’s eternal light, she whimpered, choking on the vile taste. No, no, no… what had they done to deserve this?

The murderers’ laughter rose up in an imagined cacophony that mocked her pain and she wrenched away from the sight, wincing as a bright sheen was replicated through her tears. Her father’s broadsword lay discarded upon the path and reflected the sun, the steel a brand that seared her eyes; a single streak of blood tarnished it, a crimson drop that was likely one of their own. He hadn’t the chance to even swing the weapon. The murderers had come from nowhere, from the nothingness itself, and there had been no time to scream, to summon her magic, or to even flee let alone attempt a futile defence.

Lyria turned back to the pile and swallowed down her nausea. Father was in there… and so was his scabbard. It was trivial but she would not have it lie forgotten in this morbid pile.

Steeling herself, she dragged her friends and neighbours away from one another, trembling as their lifeless, accusatory eyes threatened to haunt her forevermore, then she saw her father’s face. Tears brimmed despite herself. At last. With muscles throbbing, she pulled the last body off his corpse and freed him from the pile. A snarling plainscat with ruby-encrusted eyes greeted her, its image etched deep into the black leather of the captain’s scabbard wrapped about her father’s waist, and her disgust rose tenfold as she unbuckled it, repelled by the unyielding flesh that lay beneath his uniform — the same flesh that when soft had received the blow destined for her.

Damn it all! she shouted, her voice echoing several times over throughout the empty village. She didn’t want to be alone. Why couldn’t she have died with them?

Lyria whipped away and peered over the remains of the once idyllic cliff-top village — Syosse — and immediately wished that she had not. Houses were shattered, splintered wood and glass lay strewn across the bloodied grass and pathways, and the slaughtered remains of sheep and cattle dotted the nearby paddocks, their carcasses left to rot beneath the summer sun. Even the horses hadn’t survived the onslaught. It was wasteful.

Each ransacked building and blood spatter transformed into a collage of chaos forever painted across her soul, fueling her rage, and as she once again met her mother’s eyeless sockets the fury broke free.

Damn them all to the lower planes of the Aethya! She would hunt the men who had performed these vile acts to her family, to her friends, to her home, and they would pay with their Godless lives.

Lyria housed the sword with a sharp thrust. Unable to wear it properly on her petite frame, she slung the over-sized weapon over a shoulder then stalked the winding path, each step faster than the last until she ran full speed down the incline. Miles of thick grass passed in a flurry of golden hues, the glaring sun scorched her skin, and smoke rose high over the horizon in thick black plumes — fire. The murderers had not burned her village, the next hadn’t been as fortunate.

Fortunate, she grimaced. ‘Fortunate’ was not a word that belonged to this day.

The blackened remains of the Loren settlement came into sight. Only the buildings had been burned, the faint embers still gleaming bright beneath the smoke, and Lyria clenched her fists. More people were piled in the village centre and her nails bit deep into her palm as a gust of wind cleared the smoke long enough to reveal the lifeless stare of a young boy, barely older than five. It was inhuman.

Death and decay danced amidst the sharp whiff of smoke and ash, and bar the crackling of smouldering wood it was as silent as her own village… a groan echoed about the crumbling buildings and with a swift pirouette she removed her father’s blade from its housing and brandished it in both hands.

Young miss.

Crisp wood crunched loud as a man’s voice rasped from the ruins of a nearby dwelling. A blackened husk stumbled from where a doorway had been, remnants of a captain’s uniform in tatters upon his body, and Lyria pointed the blade at him as he staggered forward.

Which way did they go? she demanded.

The man coughed and heaved before falling to his knees with a sickening crunch.

Please, he moaned. Word must reach… Astana. Lord Andru—

Lord Andru be damned! she shouted. The raiders. Which direction?

They are not raiders… fiends… blood thirsting fiends. Lord Andru. He must be informed. He stared at her, his eyes pained and pleading, then bowed his head and whispered, North… they went north. Towards the city. Miss, please… I-I beg of you.

Her anger briefly quietened. The man who lay by her feet was undoubtedly in the same position as her father: a captain, a lone protector of an otherwise defenceless settlement, and had deserved a better death. Normally a priest would be required to administer the last rites to the dead and dying but no messenger of the Gods would be delivering this man. She would do what she could, however little that may be.

Tightening her grip on her father’s sword, Lyria forced a grating whisper, By the Three’s gift of light and life, may your Chosen watch over you as you enter the eternal skies, and without hesitation swung the blade against the man’s neck, severing his spine in one clean sweep.

His dying plea rasped through her mind in an endless litany and her anger festered hotter than the sun as an image of her mother’s face replaced the peeling black flesh of the burnt man’s.

‘Please, word must reach Lord Andru’ — no, she would not go to Lord Andru! The murderers would not escape while she threw herself before the mercy of a man who would only demand her death. Her magical bloodline was criminal.

Rough chatter drifted through the air and her ears perked. Those grunts, that voice, and the peculiar laugh that chortled alongside them were unmistakable. The murderers were near.

Leaping from golden grass to fiery-coloured trees, her smooth motions belied her rage as she swept into a forest. Her anger had driven her farther than anyone would believe possible: Syosse was surrounded by plainslands as far as the eye could reach and the only forests in the region were miles away, a half-day’s journey on horseback and close to the Lord’s city.

Gliding from tree to tree, Lyria closed in on the men. The day neared its end and first moonrise would be upon them in minutes — second moonrise would be her hour of retribution. A mirthless smile touched her lips. The murderers would rue the their choice to ravage a mage’s village. They would be as unaware of her as she and the villagers had been of them.

A cool breeze swept through her bloodied hair and across her sunburnt skin as night shrouded the land. The rainbow skies were tinged by the low light of the rising moon and enhanced the subtle beauty of the Gods’ creation; the leaves, blades of grass, the smooth and twisted trunk she concealed herself against all shone with an illuminating life, and the sweet, flowery scent of the summer evening was unwelcome as it weaved through the deathly odours that wafted from the men.

Raucous laughter reverberated about the clearing they had taken as their own, their voices both grating and smooth as they chatted to one another and made light of their deeds, cackling as they spoke of more on the morrow — their Lady demanded it.

Lyria fingered the edge of her father’s blade. Their ‘Lady’ would die too.

Devoid of all but the slow thrum of anger, the passing hours were as an illusion as she waited for the glimmer of the second moon to dance across the horizon. The heavens shrouded the orb with a ghostly tinge and as it rose above the skyline her boiling blood burst into life.

It was time.

Small fires had been lit about the camp. They cast an eerie glow across the site and accentuated several sticks staked into the ground, each one showcasing a twisted, mangled body. Their mouths gaped wide in eternal screams and their eyeless sockets wept rivers of blackened blood. Not one face was familiar but each one furthered her rage. Was her mother to be prepped for one of these ghastly displays? She clenched her jaw.

All was silent but for the muttering of the lone guard on watch, the men who lay about the campfires slept as the dead and only one crudely constructed tent had been erected. Those inside must be the leaders: they would be the first to taste her father’s steel. Edging through scattered shadows, Lyria ignored the grim displays and headed for the structure. Gruff snores grunted within, the wheezes reminiscent of the burnt man’s dying breaths, and she briefly closed her eyes as she faced the twin moons.

May Xandur, God of empathy and compassion guide my hand this night. May he redeem himself for allowing this day of death.

As though in response to the silent prayer her blood stirred — a birth blessing that served as both gift and curse — and her surroundings slowed to a crawl. Tearing open the ratted fabric, she slashed mercilessly at the three slumbering men within.

They fell without waking.

The silence of their absent screams was infuriating. Leaping out of the blood-spattered tent, she soared through the air, almost in dance as she paraded through the slowed motion of the world and felled every resting man before they could dare rise and apprehend her. She glided, twirled, slashed and sliced until all that remained was the final oblivious man — the lone guard who had been muttering to himself, unaware of that which occurred around him. Without a word, she grabbed him by his stringy hair and struck her final blow, at last satisfied as the man’s grunt echoed through the moonlit night, as the last murderer’s soul entered the eternal skies to meet those of his victims.

A wave of exhaustion washed over her as the encampment returned to its natural flow. The campfires spun in a dizzying whirlwind of flame and flying embers, sharp pains shot through her limbs and her legs collapsed beneath her, sending her sprawling into a blanket of grass. She had done it. Her task was complete. Through her swaying sight the twin moons joined as one and her heavy eyes drifted shut. She was so tired…

Mother… father… may you ascend in peace… and may I join you in the… eternal… skies, she prayed as all became dark.

Chapter Two

The hot sun bore down upon Avia’s pale skin and illuminated the waves of red hair that fell across her shoulders, each strand as fiery as the vines woven through the balustrade, and her turquoise eyes gleamed as they swept over her domain. Vaelon: a city carefully constructed by her own hand, formed from her dreams, and bound to her whims.

Each building was intricately carved from the volcanic sandstone that lay abundant across the region and had been designed by her imagination alone. The rooftops were perfectly angled to reflect the high moons into her estate, the latticing over each arched window and door allowed unique sun-shadows to form across the glittering pavements, and the gardens that wove in and around each building spread towards the city centre in a vibrant display as fiery as a magnificent sunset. Hundreds of busy yet blissful people travelled the pathways and took shade beneath burgundy foliage that cascaded from trees older than the Gods, and each person was entirely unaware of the enchantment that held them captive, that helped to command their lives.

The now-flourishing city had been a ramshackle eyesore crudely constructed on the border where the habitable land of Fan’driel met unlivable wastes. That had been until four years ago. After charming her way into the hearts and minds of all who dwelled within, her guiding hand transformed Vaelon into the very image of perfection. Flanked by the renowned lava pools of the south it was now a city both beautiful and prosperous, and though the years had been long her grip remained firm.

She would not relinquish it. Vaelon belonged to her.

Sweeping aside the vines, she leant across the balustrade and watched as her people went about their lives, the soft silk of her white dress cooling her sun-warmed skin as the billowing fabric contained and used the gentle breeze, then she stiffened as footsteps approached.

Dear sister.

Avia slowly turned and reclined against the barrier, the clack of her fingernails loud upon the rail as she gazed upon her identical twin — identical but for the colour of their hair and style of dress — and her voice was as a breath as she exhaled, Mirabelle.

With a lock of black hair twirled about her finger, Mirabelle rolled her eyes and placed a hand on her hip, leaving a smudge of dust on the already-filthy linen.

This is my greeting? I arrived as quick as I was able, just as you asked. This heat is menacing.

It’s perfect. Come, I have something to show you.

Not waiting for a response Avia brushed past Mirabelle and entered the estate, her long legs quickly passing the distance. The thick sandstone overhead made it seem as though they were deep underground, keeping the interior as cool as night, and the heat that filtered in through the windows was thwarted by the chill. White candles in golden sconces sat every half-metre lit with ethereal flames, accentuating shelves that held dozens of glittering gemstones and showcasing colourful tapestries that dressed the walls; the most notable of which was woven with the image of an ancestor with hair as rare and vibrant as her own. The red hair was believed to be cursed — superstitious nonsense.

She smiled at the tapestry and glided further along the corridor.

A low hum vibrated up from the depths of her private sanctum as they approached the centre of the estate. Light tremors danced up and down her spine as the sound stimulated her blessed blood and she hurriedly ushered her sister down the stairs. Her demonstration must be experienced, not merely spoken of.

Mirabelle grumbled but soon quietened as tiny enchanted replicas of the two moons came into sight. They drifted beneath the dome-shaped ceiling in a slow circle, their false moonlight allowing the blue fire-fungi that climbed the walls to endlessly bloom, and illuminated a thick quartz slab placed at the back of the area seated within a perfect circle of unlit candles.

I see you redecorated, Mirabelle sniffed.

Avia waved a dismissive hand and headed for the circle, unable to stop the spread of her smile as she said, There’s more to your left, my dear, and stifled a giggle as Mirabelle’s eyes fell upon the naked young man.

Bound by writhing tendrils of his own siphoned blood, his brunette curls hung limp over his face as he dangled by the reliquary, powerless to break free.

This wonderful specimen assisted me with a rite two weeks ago. He was my centrepiece — a perfect sacrifice for my appeal to wake our sleeping masters — but then his eyes flew open, as golden as Xandur’s flame, his body filled with struggling spirit. I ensnared it swiftly, obviously.

A-a… spirit?

Yes, dear sister; a spirit. Unintentional though not unwelcome.

She stepped towards the man and swept her fingers through his hair, revealing high cheekbones and a well-defined jaw hidden beneath his woolly mane, and with a lover’s touch she caressed his face, her arousal stirring as an obvious grimace pulled at his lips. Inner flames licked at her loins and set her pulse racing as quick as a beast in pursuit of its prey, but her pleasure was quickly shattered by Mirabelle’s high-pitched squeal.

By the Aethya’s lower planes, send the damned thing back!

Spare me your hysteria, Avia sneered, retrieving a silver blade from her belt. The false moons cast a white gleam upon the filigreed hilt, enhancing each ornate tracery and tiny ruby, and she gently ran a finger along its edge before whipping it along the man’s arm and capturing his blood in a small glass vial.

Avia!

Quiet.

The gaping flesh closed over within moments, leaving no evidence of the infliction, and the man remained silent, motionless, as though he were more offended by her soft touch than the callous strike. Avia placed a deliberate, insulting kiss where the wound had been then turned away, raising the vial into the air so that the artificial moonlight shone through the vessel and brightened the blood.

It was unlike normal blood; small bubbles formed atop its surface and released a warm, opaque mist into the trapped air and then dove to the bottom, each bubble swirling with a life of its own as it sought escape.

My dearest Mirabelle, with death comes life and when life returns of its own volition… the cycle breaks, the Gods lose their power, and all that we know must be relearned. Reclaimed.

I’m not entirely certain of what you’re suggesting.

Avia whipped around. Mirabelle backed towards the stairs and gripped the railing, ready to hoist herself up and away. That just would not do — the demonstration had not even begun yet. It must be seen. She clicked her fingers, their sharp snap echoing several times over in the cavern, and her manservant promptly appeared and blocked her twin’s escape.

Thank you, Samson. Avia smiled at the short muscular man who had served her since the first day she had stepped foot into Vaelon, who performed his duties with an incomparable devotion despite his bizarre inability to fall under her enchantment, and who rewarded her with his service as much as she rewarded him for his.

Beckoning over her shoulder, she stood by the altar and lightly swished the vial from side to side as Samson manoeuvred Mirabelle back into the sanctum.

Dear sister, I would never allow you to be harmed. The spirit is bound and my subjects have already been chosen. I merely wish to show you that which is now possible using this delightful blood. You can return to the mundane in just a moment.

I don’t fear you or your demon; I fear the Gods’ wrath and refuse to take part in your madness. Death, demons, divine usurpation! The red hair is cursed. Mother should’ve drowned you.

First of all, dear Miri, the Gods are fast asleep. I’m sure they don’t mind my forays into their realm. Furthermore, we are no longer children. Such hateful remarks no longer affect me. Now, watch.

Avia simultaneously dropped the vial onto the altar and clapped her hands three times. The sharp cracks echoed about the cavern before the glass shattered and as the blood spattered over the quartz the surrounding candles flared into life. Their flames were as red as her hair and their dance as elegant as that of a fabled fairy, and they rose as tall as the ceiling, arching along the curve until they met in the centre and entwined about each other. Guided by her hand, the blood swirled up through the flames as crimson ribbons and sizzled as the tiny blood-bubbles shone with a golden glow. Shimmering with divine light, the fiery blood cascaded as a waterfall onto the centre of the altar and sprayed outward, summoning a thick, white mist that spread as far as the ritual circle but did not dare seep beyond.

What are you doing? Mirabelle hissed.

Ignoring her sister’s fear, Avia bowed her head and waited. After several timeless moments the mist cleared and revealed the faint six-legged shape of a body upon the altar. It was impossible to tell what the creature actually was, but as it solidified and reared its serpentine head Mirabelle leapt back towards the stairs.

You summoned another blasted demon? she shrieked.

Not just any. It’s one of Esraelle’s yet unreleased creations, Avia purred. Isn’t it beautiful?

The creature’s intelligent pale eyes focused on hers. As though it approved of her compliment a mane of golden feathers sprouted along its spine and curved into the shape of a noble-woman’s hand-held fan, then a low purr emanated from the creature as a slender tongue flicked about its mouth.

With a sharp twist of her hand, Avia pulled the blood-bound spirit’s essence through the aura of the new arrival and shattered it as easily as the glass vial, leaving a faint golden smudge shimmering atop the altar where the creature once stood.

Are you mad? Mirabelle cried. You would destroy a demon of Esraelle!

I will do more than that, dear sister, Avia smiled and wiggled her fingertips. If it pleases you I can return it to existence.

Please me? Please yourself. I want no part of this madness.

Mirabelle whipped around and ran up the stairs two at a time, stumbling over her feet as she reached the landing.

Avia placed a hand on Samson’s shoulder as he moved to follow and said, Let her go, love. She’ll be back by week’s end, I guarantee it. Mirabelle never could resist these matters for long, and listened as her sister’s racing footsteps faded into the distance.

Yes, milady.

Samson slipped a warm hand around her waist and she gently extricated herself before he could become too familiar. Such activities, though always a delight, were irrelevant at this moment and could wait. What was to come would be just as pleasurable if not quite as orgasmic.

There were motions in play that required a viewing