Only a Glow Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The White Warrior Series

  Copyright

  Demon's Den

  Prologue: The White Warrior

  One: Azrel

  Two: Azrel

  Three: Azrel

  Four: Azrel

  Five: Azrel

  Six: Azrel

  Seven: Rabryn

  Eight: Azrel

  Nine: Azrel

  Ten: Ortheldo

  Eleven: Azrel

  Twelve: Azrel

  Thirteen: Azrel

  Fourteen: Ortheldo

  Fifteen: Azrel

  Sixteen: Hathum

  Seventeen: Rabryn

  Eighteen: Glessar

  Nineteen: Rabryn

  Twenty: Azrel

  Twenty-one: Hathum

  Twenty-two: Azrel

  Twenty-three: Rabryn

  Demon's Den Ad

  Find me online!

  The White Warrior Series

  Book I: Only a Glow

  Book II: The Blaze Ignites

  Book III: Steady Burn

  Book IV: Doused

  Book V: Embers Under the Ash (Coming Soon)

  Book VI: Fire of the World (Coming Soon)

  Other Books by Nichelle Rae

  Frost Burn

  Lights Fall

  Copyright © Nichelle Rae 2012

  The right of Nichelle Rae to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the writer. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Cover art by Pro Book Covers

  Fear was something he’d never felt before. He had heard of it, had seen it in the eyes of people under his command, but he had never felt it. Because t the emotion didn’t make sense, it had to be fear.

  Once realized, the emotion took over. Fear claimed him in an instant. His hands and legs trembled. His throat began to close as The Shadow descended upon him.

  Desperately, he clawed for the presence of The Creators. He could usually draw upon Them for strength and wisdom. He was horrified to find that he was barren! The Creators had abandoned him! Why? Why today of all days? The fear intensified, quickly filling the void in him that They had left. He was alone, so alone, with only the black wall of horrific destructive S horrifying hadow filling his eyes. Fear consumed him. Amidst the panic, he had only one rational thought: that he had to protect the Sword.

  The Shadow drew closer. As It did, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was somewhere far away from the battlefield. Weakened by his first encounter with fear, he dropped to his hands and knees, falling face-down in the ash. Guilt and shame devoured him as quickly as the fear had, and he covered his head with his arms, as if that would take the haunting feelings away. But he had to leave! He had to protect the Sword. It was the only link the Light Gods had to this dark earth. It was the world’s only hope. It was the only thing that mattered.

  He felt confident that he had fulfilled his duty to keep the Sword safe, but he was beside himself. Fear had defeated him. How could a simple emotion be so powerful? But even more alarming, why had the Light Gods left him vulnerable to such fear on this day? Why this day?

  Suddenly a bright white light appeared behind him. He spun around to face it. “You have dishonored us,” a female voice cried so loudly that his ears began to ring. He was not a man for trembling, but the authority in that voice made him quake with fear.

  Fear again?

  He looked up into the light, almost blinded by it, and knew who was speaking. “No!” he replied desperately, “My only intention was—”

  “SILENCE, COWARD!” the voice screamed.

  It was the Creators, the Light Gods. How strange. They were so distant. He was so used to Them being inside of him. They had indeed left him! After 7,000 years, they abandoned him today?

  “We have decided,” the voice said coldly, “that you will remain a mere human from this day forward. But you will not age or die until you have a child. Then your offspring will finish what you should have.”

  The very thought of his child facing the great Evil he had just left behind frightened him more than he could express in any language he knew—and he knew them all. “No!” he cried, throwing himself onto his belly before the light. “Please don’t doom my kin to such an end!”

  “It is decided,” the voice replied. “You have forsaken your crown and thus have lost it!”

  With this the white light stretched down toward him, like a massive hand reaching from the clouds, and lifted him off the ground. As the light brightened, he felt his power draining from him. He felt sick and weak, as if the very blood in his veins was slowly being pulled from every inch of his body. He gasped in pain. Then the light vanished as quickly as it had appeared, dropping him on the ground hard enough to make the ash rise around him.

  Confused and dazed, he managed to crawl to a nearby stream to see what had happened to him. He looked into the water and stared in disbelief at his reflection. The light had taken everything from him—his power, his color, and his crown.

  Quickly, he became aware of something hanging at his belt. It was the Sword, still dangling there. Distraught, he wondered why, of all the possessions he could keep, why the Sword? Why the one thing that had just cost him everything he’d ever known? With his power gone, how could he even protect the weapon anymore?

  “Protect it,” he scoffed to himself. All he wanted to do right now was throw it into the nearest forging fire and watch it melt into oblivion! What was he to do now? He was…normal. He’d never known normal in his entire existence!

  Grief consumed him as he looked down at the burden in his belt. He suddenly realized why it remained. They allowed him to keep the Sword so he could pass it on to his future child who would “finish what he should have.”

  He began to weep until he could barely breathe. A part of him even wished that he would stop breathing. Death would be better than bringing a child into this desolate world, especially a child born only to try to defeat a creation that he couldn’t even look at! A creation of pure evil brought into physical countess.

  Seven thousand years. For 7,000 years, he had fought and clawed to restore the influence of Goodness and Light back into the world. The cracks and crevasses he searched for any sliver of Goodness were unimaginable. But that’s why he was created. His child, however, would be mortal. This child wouldn’t have the luxury of 7,000 years of experience to try to accomplish what he could not.

  The most horrible thought was that he wasn’t sure the Light Gods would even back up his offspring in the battle. After what They had just done to him, his trust in Them was completely shattered. Why should he even bother passing on the Sword? The Nameless One was backed by the Shadow Gods. What chance did a mere mortal—his child—have without the Light God’s help? They were the only reason he succeeded as much as he did in his existence.

  Suddenly he grew very angry. He clenched his teeth and fists so tight that his lips and palms bled; he was determined never to have a child! He would not doom his kin to an existence like his, only to meet such a vile end! He would face millenniums alone if he must, but he would never have a child.

  I knew every sound in our woods. I even knew about sounds that my father didn’t notice. Therefore, any sound out of place was like a clap of thunder in my ears. When I heard the thunder this morning, I knew t
he threat was there. But I wasn’t prepared for finding myself in the toughest fight of my life.

  I couldn’t understand it! I had at least five inches on this creature, and there was no way he had as much training as I did. My whole life was training! Why did I have to fight so hard? I was panting from the exhausted effort. I didn’t pant!

  Clink! Clank! Swish! Clank! Clink!

  He was ruthless! I couldn’t even get a good look at him because he moved so fast. I knew only that he was a small human boy. His footing was so precise and perfect that I was almost daunted, and that made me mad. He spun, and I blocked him again and again. My rage spiked.

  My father had told me rage and emotion took a warrior’s mind out of the fight, causing mistakes. Not me. When my father and I dueled, my attacks became more precise and accurate the madder I got. My mind also became clearer, not foggier. This shocked my father, which said something because nothing shocked my father.

  Alright, play time was over. This little boy had no idea who he was dealing with. Among a thousand other things my father had taught me in my short thirteen years, he had showed me ways to maneuver my body with kicks, punches, blocks, turns, twists and organized combinations, all to avoid a blow of the sword (and anything else that might come at me). This empty-handed fighting style was known only to my father and me. He said it was his greatest advantage over his enemies. And it gave me the advantage here, too.

  As he swung again with his sword, my left leg shot u up and my foot connected to his wrists, stopping him. I instantly jumped and spun around, swinging my opposite leg so my heel smashed square into his cheek. He went flying to the ground, and before he could recover, my sword was barreling down toward his chest. He would have been dead had something not grabbed my wrist and jerked my arm backward. I gasped in surprise.

  “Well done, my daughter,” my father said as I looked up at him in shock. I knew how to read his eyes exceptionally well, like written words on a parchment, and I realized that he had planned this attack on me!

  My brows dropped as I looked down at my defeated foe. The boy couldn’t be more than ten years old! He wore his black hair loose. It fell just below his chin in the front and longer in the back. His eyes were a very strange periwinkle color, a delicate blend of purple, grey, and blue. I’d never seen such eyes, but then again, my father’s gray eyes were the only ones I’d ever seen in my life.

  Before I seemed too interested in this boy I snatched my wrist from my father’s grip and stood up, straightening to my full height, a pitiful 5 feet 5 inches compared to my father’s 6 foot 6 inches. “What’s going on?” I cried, placing my hands firmly on my hips and glaring into his eyes. I wanted to know why he suddenly decided to have this child fight me. It insulted my abilities because, well, I almost lost!

  “You fight well, Ortheldo,” my father said to the boy, ignoring me. This would have made my jaw drop had my teeth not already been clenched so tight. However, my eyes did widen.

  Ortheldo picked himself up off the ground. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  All I had to do was glare at my father, and oh, what a glare it was. His eyes met mine, which were narrowed into slits. “We’ll talk at home, Azrel,” he said, then invited Ortheldo to come along. I curled my lip as the boy accepted my father’s invitation with a beaming smile, and they both started for home. I fell behind them in silence, extremely angry that this ignorant boy almost beat me!

  “Why are you so upset?” my father asked over his shoulder. “You fought well.”

  “Yes, you did!” Ortheldo piped up.

  I clenched my teeth so hard I’m surprised they didn’t break. My father had been my only companion my whole life so my social skills were obviously less than perfect. Besides, I was hardly feeling gracious toward this child who had nearly beaten me in a dueling match!

  My glare shifted to the boy. “Nobody asked you what you think!” I said. “In fact, I don’t think my father was speaking to you at all. So, mind your own business.” Okay, maybe he was just being nice, but who was he, this strange little child, to say anything about my fighting abilities?

  I expected him to break down into tears, but he just looked at me. He was calm and detached, and I noticed for the first time that there was sharpness in his eyes—a maturity and wisdom, even severe pain in them. I could see he had been through a lot, but what exactly I couldn’t say. I had an urge to apologize for my harsh words, but my pride was still bruised.

  As we headed home to the cave, my anger dampened slightly, yet I suddenly felt a strange sense of insecurity. I’d never encountered another being, human or otherwise, in my entire life. Why was this boy here now? How did he get here? How long was he going to stay? Where was he from? I clenched my teeth again and crossed my arms tightly across my chest, not liking this sudden and, so far, unpleasant change in my life. It had always been just my father and me.

  My entire world consisted of my father teaching me about war. About fighting techniques, swords, bows and arrows, and any other aspects of violence and gore that he knew. I also had other lessons, like learning all the languages of Casdanarus, as well as how to use different plants (even seemingly useless weeds) to heal the sick or wounded and make low-level potions. But sword dueling was what I loved! It had been my whole existence since I was born! I knew the unique calling of my life, so how could this boy be just as well trained as I was? He didn’t have the same calling I did. There was only one White Warrior.

  I shook my head, frustrated with myself for allowing my insecure thoughts to drift to this stupid boy again. But I couldn’t get over it. I doubted that very many fathers took their children to secluded caves in the woods to train them in nothing but swordplay, like my father did. So how did Ortheldo almost beat me?

  When we finally arrived home the three of us had a very long talk. My father started off by telling Ortheldo a lot of his own history, as well as stuff I already knew about The Nameless One: the great evil that ended my father’s glory days. Ortheldo listened and seemed to understand much of what my father said, though I was very uncomfortable with him sharing such sensitive information. But then I found out why Ortheldo understood so well.

  Ortheldo was a runaway, that much I had guessed. But I found out he’d run away from Dwellingpath. Dwellingpath used to be a very powerful human city far in the east. Recently, it had fallen into disarray. Ortheldo was not merely a citizen, but the heir to the throne.

  I repressed a flinch when I heard this. The ancient royal family of Dwellingpath had defeated The Nameless One 3,000 years ago, after my father left the battle. So, that meant Ortheldo’s very own ancestor was the one responsible. To this day, it remained unknown how a mere human with no magical power had defeated The Nameless One. My father had told me his theories on the subject, though.

  Curious about why this young prince left his home, I questioned Ortheldo quite a bit that night. I could see it hurt him to speak of such things, but he was cooperative and answered my questions anyway. I learned a lot about him, maybe more than I wanted. I started to pity him, but at the same time, I respected him for what he had lived through. His actual age did not reflect in his eyes. Yes, he was only three years younger than me, but to me he was a baby, like most human ten-year-olds. But he was probably just as mature as I was, or more so.

  His difficult story began with the decay of Dwellingpath. His mother had fallen ill and died, and Ortheldo’s father was so grief-stricken that he willed himself to die, too. His death left Ortheldo’s much older brother Socrat to rule. Under Socrat’s greedy rule, the kingdom began to fall apart, and he treated Ortheldo with incredible harshness and cruelty, often beating him without reason or starving him for days. Socrat even tortured Ortheldo, though the boy refused to go into detail about it. Those years of abuse initiated Ortheldo to meet secretly with an old sword master.

  “After three years, I felt like it was time to face my brother,” Ortheldo said. “Socrat was about to hang me by my wrists again, so I drew the blade I’d hidden unde
r my cloak. I dared him to try to touch me, threatening that I’d kill him if he came close enough. Socrat just laughed and drew his sword.”

  “Weren’t you afraid?” I said. “I mean, being so young and facing a horrible person like that? A person of such power?”

  “No,” he said simply, shaking his head and shrugging. He looked at the floor. “If he killed me it would have been better than what I was living through.”

  I pretended the pang of pain I felt for him was just my imagination. “Go on. I’m sorry I interrupted,” I said.

  He gave me a fleeting smile and continued, “‘When this is over, you’ll get the beating of your life and you won’t eat for a month,’ Socrat said to me. So, we started to duel.” Ortheldo closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Socrat was winning. But when I was almost done for, he got cocky. He drew his leg back and prepared to wail a kick to my ribs.” The boy shook his head and looked at the opposite wall. “So, I raised my blade, and he shoved his foot right into the tip.”

  I grimaced at the thought of a sword being shoved up my foot, but I also felt a sense of satisfaction for Ortheldo’s sake—a sensation I again pretended wasn’t really there.

  “He screamed in agony as I staggered to my feet,” Ortheldo continued. Then he bowed his head again. “He was quickly silenced when I cut off his head.”

  My eyes bulged. I thought for a moment I hallucinated those last words. This young child, practically a baby by human standards, decapitated a man?

  “My satisfaction quickly changed into terror, though,” he went on. “I had just killed the King.” He looked at me with wide, terrified eyes, as if the body of his beheaded brother lay at his feet this very moment. “Regardless if he was a horrible, cruel older brother, the King had been murdered.” He shook his head, keeping his wide eyes locked on mine. “I thought I’d be hung for sure. Or worse, tortured again and forced to live as if I’d never killed Socrat.” His intense gaze finally shifted to the floor in what looked like shame. “So, I fled from the kingdom and found myself in the wild.”