PASSION’S PRISONER

By

Trudy Thompson

© copyright September 2005, Trudy Thompson

Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright September 2005

ISBN 1-58608-646-4

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

PROLOGUE

Gustoff climbed stone stairs up a passageway much used over time. The lumalantern he held caused flickers of ghostly light to creep up the ancient walls. Smoke and ash teased his nostrils as he gained the top of the stairs. He reached out from beneath long purple sleeves to tug off his cowl. Heavy, silver-gray locks fell to his shoulders.

He sat the lantern on a dust-covered table, bent to place several more small sticks on a fire in the pit at room’s center, then walked across the tower to a barrel beside the far wall. He filled a battered bucket with water, returned to the cauldron, and added liquid to that already bubbling over the pit.

Gustoff took a seat in a huge wooden chair beneath the lone tower window to await the appointed hour. As he waited, his thoughts traveled back over time and gathered strength from his memories. He made a mistake in discharging his duties as Guardian. Had he destroyed the emerging evil force when he had the opportunity, he might have prevented the destruction foretold and altered the path of Fate over the next decade.

Instead, this night marked the beginning of events that would eventually complete the task he had forsaken. His Guardianship would end, and a younger, more agile being would finish the battle he had fought for fifty-eight of his seventy winters.

He thought about Thea, daughter of Lars Asvaldr, Ruler of Glacia. Guardianship of the Sphere of Light would now be passed to her because her father no longer abided by his legacy inherited from the Ancient Ones, and ruled the Glacian people by the Articles designed by the Elders.

The shuffle of footsteps disturbed his silent musing. He tilted his head. The chamber grew brighter as approaching footsteps brought another lantern and a tiny figure covered in gray from head to foot. The figure paused on the top step and, with his eyes cast in darkness by the hood of a cape, searched the chamber.

“Gustoff?” A soft whisper pierced the silence as the covered head turned from side to side. “Gus, are you here?”

“Enter, Thea.” Gustoff smiled as the figure edged forward and paused before his chair. He squinted until his eyes grew accustomed to the light of the lantern held suspended from the sleeve of gray.

“Is it time?”

“It is time,” he answered. He stood slowly. He extended his hand to rest upon the shoulder before him, then raised it higher to push back the cowl and expose the trusting face. He grasped an offered hand.

“Everything you have been taught has had its purpose. Tonight you will learn the reasons. Come with me.”

Gustoff led Thea into the light. The glow of the fire caught shafts of russet and sent flares of gold around her still-bent head. Tendrils of long, dark hair escaped the gray cape and cascaded forward over the cape ties, falling to the evidence of budding breasts hidden beneath the folds of wool.

“Sit,” he ordered, and pointed to a stool beside the warmth of the fire. Knowing she would do his bidding without question, Gustoff turned to a table against the wall and removed one candle. He dipped the wick in the pit and shielded the gathered flame with his hand as he placed the candle in a holder at the center of the table.

“Hold out your hands.”

He waited until her slender hands were cupped, palms up, before him. He reached back to the table, drew the candleholder into his left hand, and with his right captured the flame in his fingers. The fire continued to flicker as it danced on the tips of his fingers, not charring his flesh, but becoming a part of his extended hand.

Gustoff closed his eyes and mumbled words in a tongue familiar only to the Ancient Ones. When he opened his eyes, the tiny flame had grown into a blazing white light that covered the palm of his hand. The sphere pulsed with life and energy, grew in intensity until its luminescence flooded the tower.

Reaching forward, he placed the Sphere of Light onto the girl’s upturned hands, stepped back, and whispered yet another incantation as he placed his hand on the top of her head.

“Hundreds of years ago, long before the Articles by which we now live were written, the Ancient Ones ruled our world. In their time, there was no separation of peoples. All lived as one. But there were devious men among the populations. Men dissatisfied with the teachings of the Ancient Ones. Their words caused great unrest. Soon revolution spread. War followed. Blood ran like water into the sands of Solarus, through the jungles of Borderland, and froze in the Tundra of Glacia. Still the usurpers were not satisfied. They killed hundreds of thousands of people, destroyed everything in their path, and finally met the Ancient Ones on the field of battle.

“Because the Ancient Ones held the Sphere of Light that enhanced their powers far beyond the knowledge of the men who thought to destroy them, the battle was short lived. All of the leaders who sought to obliterate peace were executed.

“Decades passed. Then another, Queen Shakara of Borderland, sought disharmony. The Ancient Ones again destroyed forces working against world peace.

“Because their numbers were few and the distance they ruled far, the Ancient Ones elected a Council of Elders to help govern so they might be forewarned of any upheaval taking place in the world before such destruction took place again.

“The Elders became more accessible to the general populace and, after a few decades, grew in power. They disagreed with the Ancient Ones rule. In order to prevent another revolution, the Ancient Ones relinquished rule to the Elders and assumed the position as Guardians of the Sphere.

“The Elders then designed the Articles and split our world into three different regions. They chose hundreds of Messahs to go forth over the three regions and teach the knowledge of the Articles to all people.

“The people of Glacia and Solarus were eager to accept the Elders teachings and abide by the Articles, but the warriors of Borderland, staunch supporters of their deceased queen, Shakara, refused the Messahs admittance into their lands.

“Decades again passed, and the Ancient Ones, being mortal men, gradually decreased in number, unheeded and ignored by the populace. Yet, the Sphere of Light burned on. To protect the last magical talisman of their forefathers against the forces of evil, the remaining Ancient Ones selected the most worthy of their members and entrusted Guardianship of the Sphere into his keeping. Over the years that followed, protection of the Sphere has passed through the dwindling numbers until now only a few may control it.

“As the Elders passed and were replaced by new generations, interpretations of the original Articles were altered until laws of docile neutrality and male supremacy, to prevent another female leader from gaining enough power to create a revolution, were established in the lives of all who followed the Elders teachings.

“Now, as we enter into a new decade, warned by the Ancient Ones that it will be filled with death and destruction, the gentle society the Elders created will be powerless to prevent their own demise. Once again, through Guardianship of the Sphere of Light, the Ancient Ones will be called upon to save our world from disaster.”

Gustoff had seen the future. He knew what trials she would face. His heart ached at the pain she would suffer, but he could not change what was now predestined. He touched her forehead with two fingers.

“Evil will once again spread over our world like a pestilence, Thea. Blood will flow like water over the snows of Glacia, the sands of Solarus, and the jungles in between. The Sphere of Light holds our salvation. I have kept it safe since it passed to me when I reached two and ten. Now, on the eve of your second and tenth winter, I pass its safekeeping to you.”

Gustoff closed his eyes. “The passing of the Sphere of Light gives you the magic of the Ancient Ones to be hidden in the depths of your mind until the demand for such magic surrounds you. When needed, a voice will come, whispered through thousands of years by generations. You will seek wisdom and find allies in the most unlikely places. Comrades will guide you along your chosen path. The heritage passed to you from your forefathers will find victory in our cause.

“But know this. The task is for you as one of the last known survivors of the Ancient Ones. No one will be able to assist you over the threshold, or be able to assume your responsibilities, though there are those who will try. Trust only those who earn your trust. Confide only in those trusted, and remember, while not in physical form, I will always remain at our side.

“Take this Sphere into yourself. Use its power wisely and keep it safe until the time comes for its next passing. Cherish the truths and faiths you were taught, for if you allow doubts and uncertainties to fester and grow, the power of the Sphere will weaken. Bless you, Thea, daughter of the Ancient Ones.”

Gustoff then spoke the words told to him many years before. He opened his eyes as Thea repeated the words, and watched as the Sphere of Light grew smaller until it finally disappeared.

Satisfied the Sphere had diffused itself into Thea’s body, he lifted the two fingers still on her forehead and placed his hands on her slim shoulders.

“Open your eyes, Thea.” She stared at his face, entranced. “You will go on with your life as it was meant to be until the special powers within you are needed. I will continue to help you control the gifts you possess until I join the Ancient Ones.

“Go with love, my child.”

CHAPTER 1

Borderland

A Decade Later

Exhaustion threatened to collapse his aching lungs, but Galen Sar ran on. The harsh clang of metal against metal combined with cries of the injured, shouts of battle, and the woeful wail of mourning to play a dreadful symphony inside his head. His people were in danger. His skills, and those of the thirty warriors with him, were desperately needed.

Adrenaline surged, giving another burst of energy to his depleted muscles.

Galen glanced at the men standing near. He signaled for his warriors to spread out, and began to run again.

Sweat beaded on his brow, accumulated dirt from the smudges covering his face, and dripped into his eyes. Not breaking stride, Galen used his shoulder to wipe away the salty mixture blocking his vision.

A half league. Another quarter. The terrain beneath his feet became rockier, the vegetation more sparse, the air cooler. The city of Cree lay beyond the next bend.

“Galen! Behind you.”

Galen turned to find a warrior cloaked in robes the color of sand poised to strike a lethal blow with his broadsword. The warrior’s fierce cry echoed through the jungle. With no time to draw the sword belted to his waist, Galen sprang forward, blocked the downward thrust of the warrior’s arm, and deflected his sword.

Shorter by several spans and lighter by at least two stones, the warrior stumbled, then fell beneath the force of Galen’s blow to his midsection. Galen straddled his prone foe, forced the sword from the warrior’s hand, and used the interloper’s own weapon to end his life.

“Aheeee!”

Galen turned at the alien war cry. Three more warriors blocked his path. He lunged, locking sword hilts with the first warrior. Jakar, his second in command, stepped to his side, blade flashing in the slivers of waning sunlight that filtered down through the dense jungle foliage. A third Creean warrior joined the battle, but his opponent turned and ran back toward the city.

Quickly dispatching his charge, Galen kicked the body of his victim aside. “That warrior will warn of our approach.”

Jakar wiped the blood from his sword on the side of his leg. “Perhaps, we should--”

A woman screamed.

Thoughts of strategy scattered. Running headlong, Galen and the warriors of Cree rounded the bend and entered the city.

Galen could barely contain the stampede of emotions that pounded through him. Hundreds of his people lay dead or dying in the clearing that formed the main thoroughfare of Cree. The smell of fresh blood and burning flesh hung in the air as thick as the smoke that billowed from the houses lining the avenue. Enemy warriors, perhaps fifty, looted and pillaged the buildings that remained, strewing clothing and household articles in their wake as they moved from one abode to another.

“Galen!”

Galen pivoted at Jakar’s warning in time to ward off the blow of a pike aimed at his head by a warrior whom he’d not heard approach. He stepped back, stumbled over the body of another foe who’d been defeated by one of his warriors, and deflected the oncoming blow by raising his foot and kicking his attacker in the stomach.

Jakar finished the man and Galen pressed forward.

“Gaaaalen!”

His mother’s voice reached him over the din of battle. Galen turned to discover his father lying on the steps of the Temple, his body covered with blood and dirt, his golden head cradled against his mother’s breast. Galen stumbled toward them, but another warrior attacked viciously, swinging his bloody sword like a club. Galen dropped to one knee and thrust his own blade upward, burying it beneath the warrior’s breastbone, plunging it in to the hilt.

A movement from the corner of his eye caught Galen’s attention. Turning, sword raised, he found Jakar had stepped to his flank. Jakar engaged a charging foe, clearing the way for Galen to make his way to his parents.

“Gaaalen!”

His mother’s garbled scream tore at his innards.

A warrior was at his mother’s side, gripping her hair, holding her head back to expose the tender white flesh of her throat, sword poised, prepared to strike.

Less than fifty spans separated them, but it might as well have been five hundred. Galen ran, fighting the agony that crushed his heart, knowing he’d never reach her in time. He sidestepped the blood-covered bodies of children, slipping and sliding in the sticky wetness that soaked into Borderland’s fertile soil.

“Ahheee!”

The warrior’s battle cry echoed in Galen’s ears. A bloodied sword raised high in one hand, his mother’s head in the other, the warrior of the desert had but one second of triumph before Galen’s sword ripped into his midsection and punctured his heart.

Galen fell to his knees before the mutilated bodies of his parents. Tears slipped unchecked down his cheeks. He reached out, disentangled the dead warrior’s fingers from his mother’s platinum hair, and then closed her eyelids with trembling fingers. He clasped his father’s lifeless hand and brought it to his cheek.

“I swear I will avenge you both. I pledge this with every beat of my heart, each breath I draw into my body.”

A hand touched his shoulder.

“Galen, by the Gods, I’m sorry. The invaders have been defeated, Galen, but several escaped into the jungle. We were able to capture one. He told us all this was Berezan’s doing. Berezan sent his army to Borderland in search of some mysterious Sphere of Light.”

Galen closed his eyes. He trembled with grief and rage. For many sunrises he’d warned his father not to ignore the rumors of unrest and violence from Solarus. He insisted the warriors of Cree remain home instead of leaving the populace vulnerable while they went on their semiannual hunting trip. But Omar Sar had cast aside Galen’s worries, maintaining the rumors from Solarus were only rumors, that Berezan would never be foolish enough to attack Borderland.

The senseless murder of his parents, his people, could have been prevented if he’d been stronger, more insistent.

“Don’t blame yourself, Galen. You couldn’t have foreseen this.” Jakar bent and slipped a golden chain from Omar Sar’s neck. He held it out to Galen. The bronzed sun-shaped medallion suspended from the chain glistened in the last afternoon light. “The warriors who escaped may bring back reinforcements.”

Galen pushed Borderland’s symbol of leadership away. “We need to bury our dead, help the wounded, and see that the survivors are taken to our hiding place.” Galen rose, wiped the blood from his sword on the beige robe of the fallen warrior at his feet, then sheathed his weapon.

“Galen? Take this.” Jakar held out the bronzed medallion. “It’s your place to lead.”

Galen shook his head. He lifted his father’s body from the Temple steps. “I have no right to accept the emblem of leadership or the position of Regis until I’ve avenged our people’s deaths. Come. There’s much to do before I depart.”

“Don’t be foolish, Galen. After our people are seen to safety, your warriors will go with you.”

“No. I won’t wait. Berezan is mine.”