Ungifted, p.1
Ungifted, page 1
Ungifted
J.D. Ruffin
3Aussies Press
Copyright ©2021 by 3Aussies Press.
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
Before you begin . . .
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7.
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
Also By
About Author
Before you begin . . .
Thank you for joining us on the Kingdom War journey. As a special thank you, I'd like to give you a free copy of The Rise of Irina. Just tell me where to send it.
Chapter one
High Chancellor Danai Thorn strode through the massive bronze doors of the Temple of the One. At midnight, the Temple should have been deserted, but one lone supplicant rested on her knees with her forehead reverently touching the cold stone floor.
He loomed over the praying woman. When she didn’t turn, he barked, “Out, now! The Temple is closed.”
The woman’s head wheeled around, a scowl creasing her weathered face. “This holy place is never closed, and I am in prayer.”
He thrust out his palm, called to his Gift, and a ball of brilliant azure flame blazed to life above his palm. The woman tumbled back and scurried away before gaining her feet and racing out of the building, casting a frightened glance over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold.
Silly, pious fool. If she only knew The One she actually worshiped, Thorn thought.
He dismissed his flame and stalked the length of the Temple’s nave, taking in every corner of the grand hall. Normally brightly lit, only a few candles still flickered, casting eerie shadows that hid nearly as much as their light revealed. Enormous colorful tapestries hung on the walls, depicting The One as an ambiguous ball of light comforting some commoner or healing the lame. Thorn’s favorite was viewed by many, even some priests, as a garish misrepresentation of their benevolent, loving god. It depicted troops locked in a bloody battle on a field littered with the dead and dying. The familiar light of the One shone near the front line, urging their side to victory. Few knew that tapestry was older than the Temple, even older than the people’s false god.
But Thorn knew.
He climbed the few steps that led to a marble altar, then walked around it toward the door leading to the building’s eastern end. He knelt, lifted an ancient rug, and found the ring he sought. After a final check for witnesses, he lifted the trap door, summoned another flame, and descended into the catacombs.
The walls of the narrow hall he entered were adorned with golden plaques engraved with the names and honorifics of long-dead Kings and Queens. The marble walls, with their golden monikers, were smooth and well maintained, somehow both stately and humble in their simplicity.
The end of the corridor held a set of double doors etched with the Phoenix, the universal symbol of magic. Fist-sized rubies set into the eyes of the Phoenix glowed and gained intensity with each step Thorn took in their direction. When he arrived to stand before the doors, the rubies flared to brilliance.
He extinguished his flame and placed his palm against the breast of the Phoenix.
“E vesh Irina,” he whispered.
Irina, take my life.
The ruby eyes pulsed, and Thorn heard a click. He gripped the handles and pulled, the doors swinging easily on their ancient hinges.
What opened before him stole his breath.
The large perfectly square room was brightly lit by dozens of braziers with magical flames dancing above silvery bowls. A semicircular knee-high wall stretched nearly the width of the room. Ten water-filled paces spanned the area between the wall and a set of marble steps that led to a landing of polished marble whose colors swirled and churned like an angry ocean. A sarcophagus of unmarred gold rested atop the swirling sea.
Intricate carved panels on the wall behind the golden coffin reminded Thorn of a massive headboard towering over its slumbering guest. Of the three pieces, the left and right we made of snowy marble and arched inward, mimicking a profile view of two praying supplicants facing each other. In contrast, the center piece’s ebony surface towered above the others, rising nearly to the ceiling. Golden script etched in the inky stone shimmered, as if freshly hewn, as it had for more than a thousand years.
Thorn crossed the lake, ascended its shore, and stood before the monolith. Transfixed, fought to shake his head free of its paralyzing lure as he sensed the stone assessing his presence.
Nothing moved.
Nothing breathed.
Nothing mattered but the stone.
After a moment of disquiet, tension evaporated, and Thorn again stood before a simple monument. He traced its glittering script with his fingers. The Prophecy had lived in his memory for most of his eleven centuries of life but gained power in his heart each time he stood before its golden text.
Seven Scattered as lands shattered.
Bind the Heir. Make diamonds bleed.
Speak the Words.
E vesh Irina.
Chapter two
Declan made it fifty paces before turning to watch Keelan and the team disappear into the woods.
He studied the map of the surrounding mountains Atikus had scrawled for him and was amazed at the Mage’s perfect recall. Atikus had even included large boulders with unique shapes to use as landmarks, noting them in fine script on the edge of the page. Declan’s destination, a mystical gate that would transport him to the isle of Rea Utu, was drawn as a small archway with odd symbols crawling up and down each side.
He smiled, thinking of the old Mage. Atikus said he hadn’t visited the gate—or even the mountains—in over twenty years, yet he drew a better map than any Declan recalled seeing before.
“What am I supposed to do when I get there?” he thought aloud.
Kingdom scouts were scouring the forests lining the border, possibly preparing for an assault by the armies camped beyond the mountains. Melucia’s military was weak, offering little hope of defending against the might of the Kingdom’s forces.
Atikus had practically begged Declan to seek aid, describing the town of Rea Utu and its inhabitants, but giving little guidance on how Declan was supposed to find The Keeper and the magical well. No one even knew if the Keeper could help, but the Mage insisted that they had to try, and Declan was the only person alive who could make the journey.
That was the strangest part, the part that made old resentment rise to the surface. Declan, the one without a Gift, the one magic had rejected, was the only one who could run off to some mystical island, meet with the holy magic man, and save the world using his secret well?
It sounded ridiculous. At least, it would have if it had come from anyone other than Atikus.
“Can’t worry about any of that now.”
He folded the map and stuffed it in his coat pocket, then rechecked his pack and headed west.
There were only a few hours of daylight before the sun slipped beyond the peaks, cloaking the forested slopes in shadows, so he found a small clearing among a stand of pine and made camp for the night. Once his tent was tethered securely, he gathered loose branches and made a fire. There was something about the scent of a fire when it was first lit that made him smile.
He dug through his pack and settled on a dinner of dried beef and apples. He was used to sparse rations, but couldn’t stop images of roasted meats dripping with fat and an ocean of peppery buttered vegetables from invading his mind.
He crawled into his tent and had barely closed his eyes when a sudden movement outside pricked his senses. Without stirring, he peeked through the open flap. What he saw made a smile crease his face. He lifted his head, careful to avoid spooking his visitor.
Standing on his pack not two paces away was a fuzzy baby owl. The feathers around its legs shone a pale gold and puffed out to resemble a mummer’s pantaloons, but its head was hooded in charcoal plumes with a splash of white that rose to form white brows. Declan couldn’t help grinning at its massive black eyes with golden rings that never wavered in their piercing glare.
As he leaned forward, the owl began hopping up and down on his pack, peeping urgently.
“Hi there, little guy.”
He sat up and faced the bird with his legs crossed. The peeping and hopping accelerated, so he reached down to where the last of dinner’s dried meat lay wrapped in a cloth and tore off a piece, slowly reaching it out.
The owl froze.
It swiveled its head to the right, then to the left, then back to the right.
In a blink, it darted forward, snatched the meat out of his hand, and raced back to its perch on his pack where it began tearing and swallowing.
“Quick little guy, aren’t ya?”
The owl stopped ripping long enough to peep a piece of its little mind in his direction before resuming its meal.
Declan was stunned. “Uh, OK. So . . . what was that all about? You don’t like the meat?
The owl focused on dinner, ignoring Declan.
“So that’s not it. Hmm. You’re not a little guy, are you?”
The owl dropped the meat and hopped a few times. Blink, blink.
I’m losing my mind in these woods.
“Alright. Sorry about that . . . uh . . . miss.”
He watched the fascinating creature devour her last bite then settled back into his bedroll. The owl hopped off the pack and edged closer, then scurried back a step. She did this several times, each new attempt traveling a bit closer. Finally, when he thought she might run away into the safety of the forest, the golden blur darted from the pack and hopped onto his legs.
He froze.
She pecked and scratched, then settled into place and began cleaning her feathers. Preening complete, she nuzzled deeper into the crevice between his shins and closed her eyes, emitting a long whirring sound that reminded him of a cat’s satisfied purr.
He couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t disturb his new friend, so he settled back and closed his eyes.
Declan woke the next morning to the pattering of the owl on his chest. As his eyes adjusted to the light of the new day, the undersized ball of fluff glared at him.
“Good morning, Miss Owl.”
The bird hopped twice and blinked.
“OK, OK. I’m getting up.” He leaned forward, and the owl hopped off his chest and resumed her stare.
He chuckled. “Persistent little thing. I bet you‘re hungry. Let’s see if I have any more of that meat you liked so much.”
He dug into his pack and held out another piece of meat. She snatched it from his fingers and ran to the other side of the fire. While she ate, he made quick work of his own breakfast, then began breaking down the campsite.
The owl hopped to the edge of the clearing and bounded on top of his pack, watching his every move. Satisfied everything was in good order, he turned toward her.
“Miss Owl, it’s been a pleasure, but I really need to get moving.”
As he knelt to lift his pack, the owl scampered up his arm and into the hood of his cloak. He craned his head and laughed as she gently pecked his earlobe.
“Where I’m going, you can’t follow, little one, but I suppose you can ride back there a while. It’ll be nice to have someone to keep me company in these lonely woods.”
She peeped twice and nuzzled his neck before settling into the deepest part of his hood.
As they hiked, brisk wind whipped through the trees, but the sun shone, and they made good progress down one mountain and up the next. Each time they stopped to rest or eat, the owl waited until Declan fished more dried meat out of his bag, then peeped happily as she shredded it to bits. When the bird finished her meal, she clambered up Declan’s arm and back into the warmth of his hood.
As the sun began her descent behind the mountains, the sounds of someone approaching halted their progress. Declan found a hiding place among some fallen logs and nocked his bow. The owl stirred, poking her fuzzy head out of his hood, but remained quiet.
Tense moments passed before three men in blue Kingdom tunics stomped through leaves and over limbs with confident indifference. They were spaced roughly fifty paces apart and, scanned as they trekked. Each carried a loaded crossbow that moved to either side with their gaze.
As the search line passed Declan’s hiding place, one of the men stopped and held up a closed fist. His head swiveled as he inhaled deeply. The others paused and watched their partner’s familiar routine. A moment later, he shook his head and signaled for the team to continue forward.
Like most Rangers, Declan was skilled with his bow and was confident he could take down two of the men before they could fire a shot, and, while he liked the idea of thinning the enemy’s ranks, his mission was to reach the gate, not hunt scouts, so he and the owl kept their heads down until several minutes after the uniformed men vanished.
“I’m afraid Atikus and Keelan were right. The Kingdom is up to a lot more than just guarding the woods. I’ve really got a bad feeling about all this.”
A muffled peep sounded from inside his hood.
They were cautious in their advance from that point forward, stopping periodically to listen and watch for threats. It slowed their progress but seemed prudent after nearly running headlong into a team of scouts.
As darkness fell on the second day, they came upon a huge rock formation that reminded him of a giant hand giving a thumbs up to the world. It looked natural enough, and the boulders were far too large and heavy for men to move, but Declan couldn’t shake the feeling they were arranged in that formation somehow.
He rechecked the map and his pulse quickened. This was the last major landmark Atikus had drawn. He scanned the area and found a trail leading from the base of the rocks up the mountain. The heavily obscured trail hadn’t been used in a very long time and ran nearly straight up the mountain rather than winding back and forth, making the ascent both physically challenging and dangerously steep.
They were roughly halfway up the mountain when Declan felt the firmness of stone under his feet. He knelt to discover ancient steps buried and worn by centuries of disuse—but there was no mistake—someone had built a stairway that mirrored the path on the map. As he peered closer at the first step, the baby owl hopped out of his hood and onto the stone, peeping in rapid succession while hopping and flapping her wings. Declan cocked his head as she turned and scrambled up the path, peeping all the way.
“What the . . .” was all Declan got out before she disappeared from view. He straightened sore legs and started up the stairs after the owl.
He stopped counting steps after thirty, realizing this would be a long climb, but was pleasantly surprised when the path ended abruptly. The entrance into the mountainside looked more like the crack on an egg than an intentional opening. The owl’s peeping echoed from within and a strange, shimmering glow shone faintly through the opening. When he didn’t enter immediately, the peeping became more rapid and insistent.
“Yes, dear. I’m coming.”
I’m being henpecked by an owl. Now I know I’m losing my mind.
He squeezed through the crack and was stunned to see it open into a wide chamber that was well lit by braziers mounted on tall stands scattered throughout. He walked to one of the silver basins and marveled at his reflection in the polished metal. Cerulean flames blazed above each bowl, dancing with warmth and light.
At the far end of the alcove sat a round table. A silver pitcher and three crystal glasses rested on its wooden surface. Declan was again shocked to see the pitcher nearly full of garnet liquid, and barely a hint of dust on either the table or pitcher. Curious, he poured a small amount into one of the glasses. The nutty, hearty aroma of well-aged grapes tickled his nose. Fascination conquered caution, and he took a sip.
“Sweet Sprits! That might be the best wine I’ve ever tasted.”
The owl peeped to his left, and he turned to find her standing in front of a large metal arch. The far wall was visible through the structure’s center. Flowing script in a language he didn’t understand covered the silvery face and shimmered faintly. At the apex, a small but unmistakable etching of the Phoenix glowed brighter than any of the lettering.
The owl peeped a few more times and cocked her head. He reluctantly set his glass on the table, then moved to inspect the arch. As he traced his fingers across the script, he felt a tingling sensation, as if the arch was somehow alive. Encouraged, he placed his palm across a section of the writing and gripped the archway.
Nothing happened.
He stepped back a few paces, scanning gate again. “OK, I’m here. How to I make this thing work?”
He walked around to the back, finding no seam or break in the gleaming surface. The script appeared to be a continuation of whatever was etched on the front, and he couldn’t find any unusual symbols or raised areas that might offer some guidance to the gate’s operation. Without thinking, he stretched his hand through the archway.
Still nothing.
The owl peeped up at him twice.
“I’m trying. I just don’t know what to do now.”
Frustrated, he walked back to the table, sat, and poured a full glass of the wine. As he set the pitcher back down, he noticed that it didn’t seem to be any emptier, despite having nearly a quarter of its contents drained into his glass. He grabbed the pitcher’s handle again and filled the other two glasses.
