Bounty Hunter (The Black Tulip Chronicles #1)

2. Ikar

Chapter 2

Ikar

I look across the wasteland before me. What once were rolling hills scattered with neat farms and bounteous crops sit empty and naked. Dead. It’s my fault . It has to be my fault. As the High King, it is my magic that is bound with our world. There’s no one else to blame. It’s as if someone washed the vibrant color from a landscape painting and left only the shadows and grays. If I were stronger, my kingdom would be stronger, so they say. But nothing I do stops the dark from spreading, sucking out the lucent magic that we require to survive and protect ourselves, leaving death in its wake. Miles and miles of nothing spread before my eyes, but it’s mere illusion. It’s not just nothing.

I feel its awareness. Drawn to our load of charmed weapons like a moth to flame. To our lucent magic, our energy. The gloam is never satisfied.

My soldiers toss the last of the tents atop a convoy of heavy-laden wagons, four in the middle are loaded with swords, axes, knives, bows, and arrows to bolster my army. The weapons are newly charmed by the weapon masters who created them, of the Maker form of magic and gifted in weaponry. They are the only ones who can charm them in a way that will harness lucent magic, and kill gloam. They come at a hefty price, one so high it feels as if we carry actual treasure straight through a thief-infested land. It’s not if gloam and its creatures will come… it’s when. We stay alert, and rather than the usual low rumble of conversation and comfortable camaraderie between my soldiers, it’s quiet. We’ve been traveling for over a week, the going painfully slow. A journey so important I joined it myself to ensure its protection, but rather than thieves, our greatest enemies are the dark creatures birthed from gloam as we cross the deadened, lifeless land I used to be proud to call my own.

The outlying boundaries of my kingdom have taken the brunt of the darkness, just this year the gloam has moved in further than ever before, but still our Originators protect us, and I owe it to them. Unfortunately, some of our farmland is now desolate like the land we travel, and people are beginning to struggle, not just for lack of magic, but for food, as well.

With that heavy thought on my mind, as it always is, I mount my large war horse, Champion, and give the command to head out. We roll forward slowly, too slowly.

Nadiette takes her usual place beside me, astride a blindingly white horse that matches the armor fitted to her body. There’s a confident set to her lips and a glitter of challenge in her green eyes. She craves the fight. She carries only a sword, her best weapon the power of her magic. She’s one of the most powerful Originators I’ve ever met. Her power combined with her team have kept gloam at bay for years, as her mentors did before that. She was raised alongside me, and what once was friendship between young children turned to attraction and then more as we became adults. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect soon-to-be fiancé and future High Queen. Though nothing has been made official in regard to our relationship, I plan to make it so soon.

I hear the rider coming before he shouts and turn in the saddle to gauge the situation.

“Your Majesty!” The man’s face is slicked with sweat, his eyes wide with worry. “A shard beast at the rear of the convoy. The traps are giving out.”

I immediately halt the lumbering convoy with a sharp command as I turn and gallop toward the fight, Darvy and Rhosse, my closest friends and two of my top commanders, right behind me.

Champion eats the ground before me with a speed so fast the dead grass blurs beneath us, and still, I push him harder.

I pull the reins up and jump from my horse before he’s completely stopped, taking in the deteriorating scene before me as I pull my sword, enchanted and made specifically to fit my hand and height, to wield my magic. At least twenty of my men have combined their magic to create a trap, a sort of shield trapping the shard beast in their midst. It looks as if a giant crushed an obsidian vase and mashed the jagged shards together to create the monster. Gleaming tips of wicked-looking edges catch the light, filled with the gloam mist that pulses from its darkly beating heart at the lower left of its chest, giving it its smoky-black color. Its face is a mottled mess of edges, glass like a row of knives forms a sort of mane. Knives, all of it.

I eye the heart, a spot deeper black than the rest that pulses as the creature gives a roar to match its shard armor, the sound of breaking glass piercing my eardrums so painfully I wince. I hear shouts and cries of pain around me, and some of the men drop their parts of the trap, grasping their ears and panting, falling to the ground, exhausted. More move in to fill their places, deaf as we all might be by now. The creature rears up and charges, slamming its body against a portion of the shield, and I watch in horror as the men fly back with the force of it before more fill their places.

Three men lie unmoving within, warriors brave enough to confront the monster first, now dead. I recognize them, some of the most powerful hunters in my ranks. Dead. Dead . My jaw clenches in anger. I hear shouts as the men still standing yell to each other, one pulling more magic here while another takes a break there. But all of them struggle, and if I don’t hurry, some will die just from the overexertion of pulling lucent magic where there’s not enough. I run forward, ignoring Darvy’s shouts from behind me.

“Let me through!” I shout and push past the men holding the shields in place. When they see it’s me, their looks of refusal drop to submission, and they immediately release it enough to allow me entrance.

The shard creature turns its black gaze toward me with a swing of its great neck. One brush against it and my armor, my skin, will be shredded. I pull lucent magic through my veins, feel its warmth and power as my hearing and smell become more acute, my vision sharper and fuller. My body fills with strength beyond a mortal’s, my muscles warm and prepare for battle. I keep my focus on its heart, my target. Confidence settles my mind. I’ve fought shard beasts and came out victorious. I know exactly what I need to do.

It charges forward, sounding like glass scraping against glass, and with my hearing heightened, it makes my ears ache. It lowers its head, pointing the row of knives toward my midsection. I move quickly, magic making my movements a blur to the normal eye, before it gets too close, attempting to keep it from hitting the trap shields and further injuring my already weakening forces .

I run toward its side while it searches for me, caught off guard by my speed. I thrust my sword expertly between the glass shards, but instead of reaching its black pulsing heart as it has in the past, it sticks halfway through its armor. Like I’ve hit a wall of impenetrable steel. My mind spins. I’ve fought these before, and that has always worked. I pull back on the handle, but it seems stuck as if it’s now one with the beast. I curse, unwilling to release my sword.

The monster roars again, and I instinctively retract the magic to dull my hearing. Its head whips around in anger, and I duck while keeping my grip on my sword. I can’t lose my sword. The edges along its head scrape along the bracers protecting my left forearm, shredding it in mere seconds like a hot knife through fresh butter. I feel the warmth of blood trailing down my arm, but as long as it functions, it doesn’t matter right now. I’m yanked along with it as it sidesteps, attempting to get a better position to stab me with. I pull copious amounts of magic through my muscles, so much that dots begin to dance in my vision. Too many people using such a small amount of magic. My body rebels. I hope the strength I’ve pulled is enough, knowing my position is vulnerable and the shard beast is going to kill me if I don’t take control of the situation. I grit my jaw and pull, and with the aid of magic, finally the sword slides free of the beast’s clutches. I immediately jump back to avoid its wide, jagged feet.

We circle each other, and my mind scrambles for a way to get through its armor, since it appears brute force will no longer work. But it doesn’t wait for me to figure it out. It runs forward again, and I dodge it, swiping at its side with a powerful stroke. A small piece of its armor cracks and chips. Not enough.

I dodge another charge, sweat dripping down my back. The day is cool, the sun on its way down, and the air crisp with the turn of seasons. But my magic runs hot, especially when I pull as much as I am now. I am as a furnace beneath a sweltering sun; it’s borderline painful. And then an idea hits me. If it doesn’t work, I and my troops may very well be killed this afternoon.

“Allow Nadiette through!” I shout, as I run and dodge the beast.

There’s only a moment before I see her slip through a small break in the shield and then it closes up again.

“Stay behind me. I need magic. All you have.”

She nods with a determined set to her mouth as she positions herself behind my back. I feel the power of her magic as we both fight to pull it. She pulls so much from around us I struggle to maintain my own high amounts, which shows how powerful she really is. We battle to keep what we’ve pulled and gather so much that the trap my men are holding begins to give out as we take everything they have. Out of the corner of my eye, I see several fall to the ground. No more magic can be pulled by those weaker than Nadiette and I in this small space, so instead our trap-made arena narrows as the men still able to maintain their traps shrink its size in order to fill the gaps. I hope those who have dropped have only passed out and aren’t dead from overexertion with us practically forcing their magic from them. I grit my teeth and more dots dance before my eyes. Sweat drenches my clothing, making it one with my skin.

“Give it to me,” I shout. And she does. Raw, hot magic pours into my body in a wave. I feel as if I have stepped into a blazing fire. The shard beast rears and charges once again as I force the hot, lucent magic through my hand and into my sword. The handle becomes so hot in my grip it feels as if blisters are forming. I push harder, more and more as I grit my teeth against the heat. The blade begins to glow brighter, my hand feeling as if it has grabbed hold of molten metal, and a war cry of determination and pain rips from my chest as I run toward the shard beast, ignoring the gleaming knives that are attempting to disembowel me.

I’m not as fast as I’d like to be, with the energy required to keep this much magic flowing through my blade, but I know it must be hot. Fiery. Molten. What I give up in speed, I make up in heat. I jump to the side, avoiding most of its knife mane and thrusting my sword up in an arc beneath its neck and hope my plan works.

What shapes glass? Heat.

With a shatter my sword crashes through and the pulsing light pauses, the shards seem to mold to my blade, then the heart flashes with a burst of darkness so dark and cold my sweat temporarily cools, and the beast crashes to the ground. I fall to my knees in exhaustion and then collapse. In mere seconds, Darvy drops to his knees beside me, his focus on the bloody wound spreading deep red blood across my torso I didn’t realize I had. While he works, I look at the beast beside me, still and cold. As I may be soon. Its shards are no longer obsidian, the black pulse of its heart forever extinguished. Now it simply looks like a mountain of clear glass, its tips eerily lit by the orange of the three suns in the sky. I release the magic from my pull, and it flows from my body like a cooling river. I think maybe my life drains with it as darkness edges into my vision. A circle of people stand above me, and I spot Nadiette’s concerned face. Is she crying? I’ve never seen her cry before.

“How many dead?” My voice is gravelly and rough and drifts at the end without my control.

“Don’t worry about that now,” Darvy says, as he continues to work .

I’m grateful I drift into oblivion before I feel the torturous burn of his healing magic.

By the time we arrive in the city several days later, word has spread of my victory over the shard beast and Nadiette’s part in it. While my people have always harbored great respect for her as our most powerful Originator, protector of their High King, now she is a heroine. The story has grown to epic proportions, as stories passed ear-to-ear tend to do. While I’m uncomfortable with the exaggerations, I acknowledge that my people need this. Hope .

The people crowd around my guards, attempting to give their thanks to myself and Nadiette as we enter the High Kingdom, to get closer to the powerful couple, ‘the couple who will save the nation,’ they shout. Nadiette rides beside me, graceful and calm on her white steed. She gives a serene smile and nods to the people surrounding us. The people practically beg me for the wedding. Traditional wedding flowers are tossed around us, and I realize the story is more than a hero and heroine, it has also become one of love. The people love Nadiette. They love the symbol of our power and the hope it instills. At least I can offer that… for now.

Amidst the crowd and their chanting, their begging, their honors and well-wishes, my mind flashes back to the battle. My body hot with magic, my hand blistering around the handle of my sword. I pulled more magic than I ever have in my life, and it was barely enough to beat the beast. I think of how close I was to overexertion—maybe even death. I can’t stop thinking about the fight.

It didn’t used to be that difficult to beat a shard beast, and this time it killed ten of my men and almost cost me my life. Never before has one had to heat a sword to almost melting point to defeat gloam creatures. The only one who is capable of that is me. What will happen when even I cannot defeat them? Either the dark creatures are getting stronger, or we are getting weaker. From the state of my mark, probably both. I nudge my horse forward, done with the crowds and the hope they so badly want from me. I feel as if I am an imposter, acting the hero when I am in the process of utterly failing my people.

Later that evening, I inspect my mark before a tall mirror in my room, wondering when more will turn black. An intricate, scrolling mark begins at the top of my shoulder, trailing down half my left bicep, down my collarbone, across one quarter of my chest, and a quarter of the way down my back. It is the mark of the High King, given by Lucentia, the goddess of lucent magic. Every king since it was given has been born with his own added portion, his lasting mark upon the kingdom carried on with each heir. The earliest parts of the mark are light, like the lucent magic we use. But the later parts, the generations just before me, are the coal-black of gloam.

When I was born, and even as a young boy, the small portion I added to the mark was light, shimmering like gold, and I hoped I would be a worthy king, such as those earlier ones who saved our kingdom and helped it prosper. As I grew, the burning began. I wasn’t yet eighteen before the first parts of my mark began to blacken like soot and ash. The excruciating burning caught me off guard that first time—my shouts had healers rushing to my side, and rumors flying in just days. I was full of shame and embarrassment for months. People’s pitying looks and whispers behind my back were torture. I never allowed that to happen again. In the ten years since, it has only grown more black, though, and through sheer discipline, I show no reaction to the pain. No one needs know how unworthy I truly am, or I’ll have mutiny on my hands on top of the other problems I face. I think of the King’s Council I must attend in four months’ time. The weight of their stares and silent judgements. I can almost tangibly feel the unrest between the low kings, kings that should be united under my leadership. Still more failure on my part. Unworthy.

My gaze catches once more on my portion of the mark and the black that fills the uppermost lines. Then I pull a loose shirt from my wardrobe and toss it over my head, eager to cover the mark and all the ugly truth it holds.