The Phoenix King: The Thunderheart Chronicles Book 2

  For Dad and Chase

  Prologue

  Lightning flashed across the sky as Malcommer surveyed the gaping hole before him. The cold rain poured down his face in tiny rivulets and streams, though the young warlock could not bring himself to care.

  He stood in an ancient place of rock and gravel, with cliff faces stretching away from the earth on either side. Giant boulders occupied most of the space in the clearing.

  “Father!” he yelled. “Father, I know you’re there.”

  A balding, hunchbacked man stepped out of the entrance to the cave. Centuries of age were etched into the lines of his face, like the bark of a tree that has stood through storm and fire. Behind him sat an equally old red and white bird. The raindrops sizzles as they hit the birds feathers.

  “You are no son of mine. Why are you here, Malcommer?” the old man asked, standing protectively in front of his phoenix.

  “They killed her, father.” Malcommer said. “They made me stand there while she screamed. They chained me, made me powerless. And then they murdered her.”

  The old man’s eyes softened. “I know your pain, Malcommer—”

  “Yes, and you did nothing for her, or anyone else. When my mother was arrested and hanged, you stood in the crowd and watched, a coward. I am giving you the chance to redeem yourself. Give me your power, so that I may avenge my Evelyn and destroy those who destroyed her, and you will never have to see me again.”

  The old man shook his head. “Always the same, Malcommer. How many did you murder to come here? How many more before your bloodlust runs dry?”

  Malcommer hung his head. “I had sincerely hoped, for your sake, that the answer would have been different. Kill the bird.”

  One of his men flung a spear from where he was hidden behind a boulder. It pierced the phoenix through the wing and drove it into the ground, impaling the creature.

  The old man seemed to grow to three times his previous size. His eyes glowed with white power as the millennia fell off of him. He rose into the air outside of Malcommer’s reach.

  “Magnificent,” Malcommer said, a smile spreading across his face. His men came out from behind the boulders, each bearing a staff tipped with Rakka steel. They numbered thirty in all.

  “Do you not know who I am?” the old man said. “I am Matthias, last of the Ancients, guardian of Avalon, the Phoenix King! Submit, and you may yet live.”

  Malcommer laughed and stepped on the phoenix’s wing. The bird, who had remained silent till now, let forth a wretched cry.

  “Give me my birthright, or your friend dies. How many of them are left? Ten, maybe, in all the world? You may be the Phoenix King, father, but that matters little if your subjects are dead.”

  Matthias waved his arm, and lightning crashed down from the heavens, instantly killing three of Malcommer’s men. Five more turned and fled, dropping their weapons as they ran. The young warlock grimaced. They would pay for that mistake with their lives.

  “You disappoint me, Malcommer,” the ancient said. “I have slain hundreds of weak, scheming men such as yourself. I know that you will kill the phoenix whether you receive what you wish for or not. As for my power, I cannot give it to you.”

  Malcommer felt his heart leap. “Then the rumors are true,” he said. “You have no more power. You are nothing but a weak, old man, clinging to life by the magic of a nearly extinct bird.” The warlock laughed, and, faster than Matthias could have anticipated, cut the throat of the phoenix. It screamed once more as its lifeblood gushed to the ground, then turned silent.

  Had the Ancient been at his full power, Malcommer knew he would have been slain on the spot. As it was, all the old man could do was flee, for even the power that held him off the ground was diminishing now that the phoenix was dead. He flew to the top of the cliff face and turned to his son one last time.

  “The Fates of Avalon have spoken. I may never kill you, but there is another of your blood who will. Your brother will fight you to the death if you continue on this path, Malcommer!”

  Malcommer smiled and released a bolt of magic toward the top of the cliff.

  “I know!” he yelled, though he assumed Matthias was already gone. “I’m looking forward to it.

  1

  73 years later

  Aaliyah watched carefully as the deerskin-cloaked in front of her waded through an ocean of leaves, the roughhewn sword at his side gleaming in the sunlight. She knew he was hunting her.

  It was Aaliyah’s first mission. Master Borin, who waited for her back at the enemy’s camp, had sent her to follow this well-muscled beast of a man while he gathered firewood. Her target was part of a group of amogh slavers—men who captured, tortured, and sold Aaliyah’s kind for money. He was a monster.

  And he had seen her.

  She had been stalking him when she made the mistake of getting too close. The amogh had disappeared into the field as he gave a shout and charged towards the place where she had been.

  The girl was only twelve years old, and while she had accompanied Borin on many such excursions, she had never before been on her own. But she knew what had to be done. This man could not return to his camp to warn his friends.

  She realized when she was just a few feet from his massive back that she was far too short to reach his head, or, more importantly, his neck, without first alerting him. She stopped moving too suddenly, and her footsteps fell out of sync with his.

  He swung around, his sword moving just behind him. Aaliyah hit the ground just in time to avoid the stroke that would have removed her head.

  “Amogh.” The slaver said. “Did you know your body is worth just as much dead as alive?” he raised his sword to deliver a killing blow.

  Aaliyah’s ability suddenly kicked into full effect. All amoghs possessed certain gifts, aside from being immune to magic, that gave them an edge over other humans. Aaliyah’s gift was the ability to predict the immediate future’s chain of events.

  On instinct she turned her dagger at just the right angle and brought it up to deflect the downward stab.

  The blades sparked as they hit, but Aaliyah’s dagger and amogh strength held. The short sword skittered away from her body and instead punched through the very surprised slaver’s foot. He howled as he fell backwards, his limb skewered to the ground.

  Aaliyah wasted no time jumping on his chest and raising her knife. She felt no anger and no hate as the blade slashed one time.

  For a moment she stayed there as her heartbeat began to slow. Then, suddenly, the battle rush wore off, and the young girl raised her trembling, blood covered hands to her face.

  “I killed him,” she said. “I really killed him.” A single tear dripped down her chin. She fell to the ground beside her victim, whose lifeless eyes stared up at the sun. She sobbed into the grass, the realization of what she had done and the life she had ended pouring over her.

  She was a murderer.

  ***

  Aaliyah screamed and kicked the blanket off of her body. Sweat beaded her forehead, and tears streaked down her face. She rolled out of her bed and lit a lantern, trying to force herself to be calm after her nightmare.

  She had killed eight people in her life, nine if she counted Luke, a boy she’d fatally injured before Aidan Rune delivered his killing blow. Each of her victim’s faces was forever burned into her memory, tormenting her whenever she fell asleep, though that first kill would always be the worst.

  She could forget if she chose to. She had seen other amoghs harden themselves to their past, but it changed them, turned them into people that Aaliyah never wanted to be. Some had brought themselves so
far that they began to enjoy the act of killing their next victim. They lived for the joy of the hunt. No, Aaliyah never wanted to be like them.

  She dunked her face in the water basin near her bed. The room was far too heavily decorated for Aaliyah’s taste. The walls were made of smooth stone with intricate patterns etched across them. In fact, everything in the room except the mattress, lamp, and mirror was made entirely out of stone. There was a stone desk, a stone dresser, and even a stone door. Everything was covered in etchings of battles, kingdoms, and maps. Clearly, the entire room could only have been the work of dwarves.

  Aaliyah pushed her dripping hair out of her face and paused in front of the mirror. Her heart was still beating far too quickly, but she knew it wasn’t just from her dream. Aidan must have been having his own nightmares.

  Almost three months before, Aidan had saved Aaliyah’s life when she was poisoned by connecting their arorr, the life magic inside every living being that feeds the soul. Since then, their hearts beat in unison, and sometimes they experienced what the other was feeling and thinking.

  Aaliyah hated it.

  She knew Aidan loved her. She cared for the young wizard, certainly, but as a romantic partner? Perhaps, but not now. She constantly felt chained to him, from her heartbeat to her dreams—where he had accidentally intruded more than once. She had spent years learning to control her own impulses, but Aidan’s emotions were like a frayed bowstring waiting to snap. To add to the difficulties, Aidan was a wizard and she was an amogh. Simply being around her diminished Aidan’s power greatly.

  She hated having to deceive him. Aidan’s master, Bartemus, had sensed the connection between them and confronted Aaliyah shortly before the Battle of the Isle, through a communication crystal. He had told her about his plans for his apprentice. Malcommer, the greatest enemy Sortiledge had ever faced, was returning. And Aidan was the only one powerful enough to kill him.

  So, Aaliayh had pretended to be hurt and useless at the Battle of the Isle while Edwin stood over her. She had almost given in to her instincts and ended the fat warlock’s life with a Rakka steel knife, but Aidan had prevailed and earned the right to be a wizard, brandishing a wand instead of a staff. Aaliyah much preferred more solid weapons, such as her bow and knives.

  The amogh shook her head to clear it. A large, impractical dress had been prepared for her for the ceremonies of the day, which probably involved more council meetings and other things that an amogh had no business attending. She laughed at the neatly ironed, frilled silk and instead chose her old outfit from her pack. The shirt had one sleeve on the left side that reached all the way down her arm and acted as a wrist guard when she used her bow. The other arm was sleeveless to allow greater mobility for her fighting arm. Her pants were thin but warm, and held multiple well-concealed pockets and knife sheaths. The entire outfit was colored varying shades of green and brown to help Aaliyah blend into the trees better. She slipped one of her knives into a hidden pocket on her right thigh. There were supposed to be no weapons in the dwarves’ courts, but Aaliyah had no doubt Borin would also have a hidden weapon somewhere on his body. The wizards and mages, of course, would bear their staffs and wands, but those were not considered weapons as much as tools. Aaliayah grimaced. She knew for a fact that those “tools” could be pure instruments of destruction.

  Her heartbeat suddenly returned to normal. Aidan must have woken and used one of the calming exercises Aaliyah had been teaching him. Aside from controlling his emotions, she had also been trying to teach him to use knives and even his fists as weapons. No matter how powerful Aidan was, his enemies were stronger, and there was no guarantee that Aidan would not soon be facing amoghs again. It also made Aaliyah feel a little less guilty about playing with his emotions to mold him into an emotionless killer, the one thing she refused to become.

  She put on a necklace strung with dragon bones from the Black Thunder that Aaliyah had slain. It gave her some status amongst the councilors and kings she would be meeting that day.

  She tied her hair back with a piece of string, closed her eyes and opened the door. She could already tell it was going to be a very bad day.

  ***

  Aidan felt extremely uncomfortable in his ceremonial wizard robes. He remembered with longing how comfortable his old mage robes had been. They were made of soft magically enhanced materials (he still wasn’t sure what) that were fireproof, waterproof, windproof, and dirt proof. Even his old battle robes, which had been shredded by the Black Thunder at the Battle of the Isle, were more comfortable than the stiff, regal attire he was forced to endure at every meeting.

  He sat next to Timothy and Eleanor, his best friends and fellow wizards, in the great hall of the dwarven palace. He clearly remembered the day that Timothy had burst into Aidan’s quarters, back on the Isle, rambling about something with magic and mages and wizards. Aidan didn’t understand what his friend was talking about until Eleanor, Timothy’s girlfriend, explained.

  “Timothy thinks that, by using your power to boost his and then slowly removing the help, he may be able to learn to use a wand far more quickly than a normal mage.”

  Aidan had doubted his friend’s logic, but agreed to help. Though he had almost killed his friends on multiple occasions, the method had worked and within a month both mages had traded their staffs for wands. Bartemus and Malachi, Aidan and Timothy’s masters and the only warlocks in Sortiledge quickly adopted the system for all sorcerers. Over half the mages had graduated to the next class of sorcery, and there was talk of wizards attempting to become warlocks soon.

  The great hall where the convention was held was built like a miniature coliseum with a round table, boasting six chairs, in the center. The seats where the audience would normally sit were divided into three sections, for the three continents of Sortiledge. Ariyahn, the eastern continent and home of the elves, had the fewest representatives, numbering eleven in all. They wore tight-fitting green and brown clothes that were clearly meant to show off their perfectly sculpted features. Aidan could see the two councilors, as well as a shaman and several guards. The tall, not quite human creatures were silent and observant while the other groups chattered amongst themselves in preparation for the meeting. Aidan’s group, representing Gurvinite, the center continent, was by far the most varied. Amoghs, wizards, guards, and even a few rangers were crammed around a young man with a lopsided crown. Aidan had spoken to King Lief on more than one occasion, and found the he liked the ruler. Unfortunately, the monarch was extremely inexperienced, having received the crown from his father just two years ago, and was absolutely terrible at any sort of politics. After the first day of failure, the Gurvinite group had decided that it would be more beneficial for Bartemus to do the speaking. Lief happily agreed.

  The western continent of Beganor, home of the dwarves, had by far the most comfortable seats and largest section. That was of course to be expected as Beganor was hosting the meetings. There were two separate sets of dwarves within their group, easily identified by silver and gold markings. For the past thirty years Beganor had been separated into two nations, the north and the south. The peace between the two had been fragile at best, and did not bode well for the future of these meetings.

  Someone in the dwarven assembly called for silence, and the hall fell deathly quiet.

  “Council members, rise!”

  Aidan rolled his eyes as the two designated members from each continent stood and walked to the center table. All of this was just for show; the young wizard had no doubt that the meeting would soon dissolve into chaotic screaming.

  Bartemus and Lief met the dwarven and elven councilors at the table and bowed. The gesture was returned and all sat at the perfectly carved chairs, built more like thrones than anything practical.

  Aidan couldn’t even begin to pronounce or remember the names of the other council members, so instead called the dwarves silver and gold and the elves leaf and stick.

  Gold, the female, stood and began to give formal introduc
tions, not that they were needed. The council had just met the day before. Aidan had never seen a female dwarf before sailing to Beganor, about a month ago. They were stocky and short, just like their male counterparts, but instead of massive beards and dark hair they were covered in a soft, downy fuzz.

  “Bartemus, I believe you have some words to say?”

  Aidan’s master stood, and the boy suddenly snapped to attention. He had not spoken to his master for the past week, and was as keen as the rest of the convention to hear what Bartemus had to say.

  The warlock made the formal introductions on behalf of Gurvinite, then said, “I would first like to reiterate my request to the dwarven kingdoms, to allow us to use your furnaces to hatch this phoenix.”

  Bartemus said a quick spell, waved his hands, and the egg appeared. Being a warlock, Bartemus did not need to use a wand or staff to perform magic. For a brief moment after he used his power, the dragon mark etched into his forehead glowed.

  “As you know, the hatching of a phoenix egg requires extremely precise blasts of heat. Our best sorcerers have examined this egg and confirmed that the creature is indeed alive and ready to be born.”

  Gold pursed her lips. “And I would like to reiterate our response, that if your calculations are wrong and Malcommer can be reasoned with or put down by standard means, hatching a creature of such power could start a full blown war.”

  A few of the king’s rangers sitting near Aidan angrily ducked deeper into their cowls. The rangers patrolled the southern Nefarious Lands, and had lost over a dozen men in the past three months. Aidan had heard them say many times that they had no doubt Malcommer was rising again.

  “Is there anything new, Bartemus?”

  The warlock glanced up at Aidan. The boy could already read the message in his eyes, this is not going to work.

  “Aidan Dragonslayer, who singlehandedly slew Edwin and held back the dragons at the Battle of the Isle, has requested permission to search for his father.”