Wolff - Sefiros Eishi: Chased By Flame

SEFIROS EISHI

CHASED BY FLAME

THE SMOKE & MIRRORS SAGA: BOOK I

MICHAEL L. WOLFF

Copyright MICHAEL L. WOLFF 2016

Published by Black Rose Writing

www.blackrosewriting.com

2016 by MICHAEL L. WOLFF

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

Second digital version

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Print ISBN: 978-1-61296-722-6

PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

www.blackrosewriting.com

Print edition produced in the United States of America

To my parents, who supported me through years of small-time jobs and late, lazy nights spent in basements. To my friends, who demonstrated vast amounts of patience in dealing with my obsession with writing the eternally unfinished time-travel story. To the Cheshire High School class of 2000, who gave me a thunderous applause on graduation day.

But especially to JP and MP, who took me into their home

and made me a part of the family.

Thanks guys. We did it!

Table of Contents

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Mykel LeKym (Michael LA-Kem)

Sefiros Cayokite (Suh-FEAR-ros KAI-yo-KAH)

Sutyr (Suh-TER)

John Jekai (ja-KAI)

Lazarus (LA-ZER-ris)

Shayna Kae (shay-NA KAY)

Cardinal Omeros (Om-MER-ros)

PROLOGUE

Somewhere. Somewhen.

A whisper on the edge of awareness was all the warning he had, and then suddenly his left arm blazed like a golden torch. Ifirit... A tremor shook his right arm until it was near to thrashing... Grothia. The two khatars thrust forward, and suddenly Sefiros was moving. He dug his heels in but it was no more effect than a twig had in a hurricane. Sefiros watched helplessly as the weapons took over and yanked him to the Mahou. The fire-water remained still as he waded through to the center. The arms rose upward, draped over as in prayer. Finally, in the instant before the twin khatars entered the Mahou, the Heart of the World, source of the planet s magic, its lifeblood, Sefiros realized a horrible truth.

A beast easily given food is a beast that craves more.

What was more bestial than symbiotic weapons aroused from a diet of slaughter?

The Mahou bubbled and spewed and hissed as the gauntlets pierced them and then down, deep, deeper, directly into the Leylines themselves. The power thrashed into Sefiros arms like electric fire and his whole body locked and convulsed, sinking into the luxurious magic. He could feel the power burning in him, sweet fire sweeping, devouring every fiber and cell, remaking them as they passed. He cried and the tears sizzled and hissed red smoke from his cheek. Red? He realized everything was tinted red, half flame and half blood. His very eyes brimmed with power. He laughed. Then the fire swept him and the thought sank into ashes. There was nothing to think about. Sefiros recognized the void he was drowning in and fought his way out, but his struggles were weak and grew weaker by the second. No. The khatars continued to devour the magic from the world s very heart despite him. No. No. No! The despair was too strong.

Suddenly it disappeared like a pricked bubble. The fire sweeping through him, filling him, remaking him, snapped away, leaving only a hollowed void where it had been. Hunger like he had never known pushed him to his feet. Where? Where is it? His vision was still blinded scarlet. He couldn t blink fast enough for it to clear.

The Mahou, the World s Heart, was dry as a desert bed. Only a drop of magic remained, a tear of fire and blood, glittering as if in mourning. Sefiros took three steps forward before he realized what he was doing. No! The Hunger clawed at him, more desperate than anything he ever knew, and twice as keen as the cloistered hunger for flesh he knew as a mortal. Still his clawed fingers itched for the last tears of magic. No! No, please... He sank to the floor sobbing. No... It can t end like this. Yet a part of him was relieved it was over, damn the consequences. It was an end, a sweet balm of release.

For now.

I

Mevos Prime.

Sepias 23 rd , 2211 AD (Anno Domini Calendar).

I don t see why I had to come. Mykel grumbled.

The creak of the wagon s axle came in time to the wind s laughter, sending cold knives skimming on his flesh. Mykel silently laughed, too, as he realized that his stepmother had been right all these years. It s too cold out for that. Put on a heavier cloak. A red cloak with a heavy mantle on the side to better shroud the left arm. The gold stitching was re-woven just a few days ago, glittering in all its bastardized glory. There. That should do it. Never mind that it made him look like a circus bear. The only consolation was that he could remove the cloak in a few hours. He wanted to burn it, but somehow the ashes would find their way into Lady Fenrir s hands, and she d scold him on a gift denied. Mother was always one to find the worst truths at the worst times.

His regular outfit underneath, the leather cuirass and the dark leggings of the 14 th Century Khatari, complete with red fedora, was the only thing that saved the damn cloak from looking ridiculous. The chain-mail that reached halfway down to his knees in pronged spikes was not part of the uniform, either, but Mother was twice the worrier on outside ventures. What if bandits were to ambush you on the road? She quailed. What if some of the king s guardsmen mistook you for a drunkard and shoots you through the eye? Such were the ghosts that haunted the manor of Mother s mind. The extra precautions made him look even more ludicrous.

Mykel tipped the hat lower to block the rising sun. He wasn t exactly the best prize to look at this early in the morning. Deep black furrows under his eyes hollowed out cheek and bone, but the glasses he wore hid them, made him look almost normal. Black hair lay stiff and limp under the fedora, and the bare fringe around his chin rounded out his gaunt face. Mother was always the one to worry about nothing. A gust tickled his back with icy fingers, almost as if the cloak was not there at all. Well, maybe something. Just this once.

Grunting he turned to his book. The Golden Helm, volume seventeen of the Sefiros Cayokite saga, the largest epic told in ages. Sighing as the cart jolted over a bump Mykel randomly flipped to the twenty-first chapter, where the great evil Emperor Jagan was sitting in his tent with his advisor Sinise, discussing tactics for the coming battle over a king s dinner. As usual, the emperor was being an idiot.

My Lord, I believe a hit-and-run strategy would be best in this endeavor. A thin, skeletal man, Sinise commanded a broad, deep voice that put many an adversary off-guard. It was an advantage he seldom refused to take. We do not know wherever or not Cayokite is in the Valley of Skulls.

We don t know if he isn t there, either. Jagan spat through a mouthful of lamb. A big, hulking man with a big, hulking face, the Sacred Emperor of the Dominated Lands always looked irritated. You have to take risks in a war in order to succeed. Cayokite is a senile old man, but he has many allies. They will prod him there, and we will be waiting to crush him.

Mykel smiled, and in an instant his imagination put him into the book s world.

Mykel laughed, jerking the two men around. Ignoring their glances Mykel pulled up a chair and joined them. Fine venison. You treat yourself well, Jagan.