Page 11 of Bounty Hunter

Ikar

One month later…

Iride amidst the patrol, flanked on all sides by guards. Around my guards ride sixteen of my soldiers. The horses are anxious. Champion pulls at the reins and shakes his head, and I can tell he wants to be anywhere but here. I rub a hand down his dark gray neck, calming him. Darkness infests the forests, and for every bit that magic weakens, gloam hungrily fills the space. We’ve been pushed back by an enemy that seems impossible to battle, and I hate to see the kingdom that was entrusted into my hands after centuries of dedication and work by my forefathers dwindling due to my weakness. I employ Originators throughout all the kingdoms, and they have helped in some areas. They pull raw magic, sharing it with my people in the small amounts they are able wherever they go, but it’s not enough. It’s like a drop of water in an ocean. It is said that weak kings have weak kingdoms, and naturally, they die off early. I’m in my late twenties, but interestingly, I feel at more of a prime than I was even five years ago. Nothing adds up, but guilt is a constant companion.

We ride in silence, watching warily. The further the threesuns set, the more chance something will come forth in an attempt to claim even more of our land. Just a few miles away, a small farming village relies on the protection of these patrols, and the same goes for all the outlying villages. If we can’t protect our food source and our kingdom’s main source of income, mainly exporting wheat and other crops, the situation is hopeless. I battle the despair daily, because even if we protect our farms and our people, lucent magic is dying, and it has affected every part of our world. The weather is more sporadic, sometimes even violent. Our main river for travel is now inconsistent and dangerous, and the soil and plant life are struggling. And on top of it all, every day it seems harder and harder to pull magic for protection. Only the strongest can now do so without collapsing or dying within minutes.

Shadows reach longer and longer, and an eerie wind begins to blow from the darkness beyond. The warmth of the suns is replaced with a bitter cold that quickly reaches my core. A few minutes later, the head soldier signals us to stop. It means he sensed something, same as I, as my eyes search for something unseen. I place my hand around the grip of my enchanted sword as our horses prance uncomfortably, shying away from the black forest line several hundred yards away.

I want to remind them not to pull magic. It will drain us too quickly. We have only one Originator traveling with us as I don’t have enough to send two with every patrol that is constantly protecting our borders. We’ve increased our training with enchanted weapons to counter the effects of the lack of lucent magic, but it’s difficult to fight the instinctive ability to pull magic when in danger.

I see the silver tips of the curved stingers that rise unnaturally from their backs, their four powerful legs crouched and prepared to spring, and in the last of the dusky light, I see theirblack, fathomless eyes. Deathstalkers. I readjust my grip and pull my sword. Round heads lined with a halo of dark, pointed spikes step out of the shadows. Their dark eyes are magnetizing, and I intentionally avert my gaze so I don’t get stunned. They pull their lips back, revealing razor sharp teeth as they stalk forward. A reptilian-like skin armors their bodies, thick and tough. They are the monsters of grown men’s dreams.

One of my men stiffens, beginning to release his grip on his weapon. I watch in horror as the soldier next to him immediately jumps into action, catching his sword mid-air and snapping him out of the stun, but the Deathstalkers lunge, and we all race to battle.

I rest on a comfortable sitting chair in my room beside a hot fire, my armor and clothing stripped from my tired body long ago. I’m left in undergarments while one of the healers wraps a wide bandage around my lower thigh. Even with an Originator to assist, he wasn’t able to pull enough magic to heal it in one sitting, but I’m grateful for the pain that’s left. It grounds me in reality when it’s so easy to get lost in the darkness and imaginings of what my kingdom is becoming.

“I’ll remove the dressing tomorrow, Your Majesty.”

I nod, but inside, I feel hollow. I stay sitting long after he leaves. Defeated. Over and over again, I see the way my soldiers were stunned, killed, ripped from their horses while their magic and then their souls were devoured by the Deathstalkers right before my eyes. I’m supposed to protect them.

My eyes burn with emotion that never truly shows itself. I realize my jaw is clenched when my head begins to ache. I’ve let my people down. I’ve let my soldiers down. Yet, why hasmagic kept me alive? Every morning, I wake, waiting to feel the call of death, feelings of weakness, anything to indicate that magic is displeased. And there’s nothing. I have no heir, so now would be the perfect time for magic to choose a new, stronger king. It’s not up to me, though, so I’ll continue to honor my position and serve my people with everything I have.

There has to be a better way to deal with the gloam. In fact, Jethonan has already suggested a better way. I sit and think about everything he told me. The picture he showed me in the ancient book… I don’t know what all the symbols mean, but I trust Jethonan. If he says it will work, I have to believe it will. Memories of my father and his advisor drilling me about how to handle the low kings battle with more recent memories of Jethonan urging me to find a Tulip.

My thoughts turn into a mixed haze of indecision until I take a breath and clear my mind. My father was a good man, a strong king. He taught me well, was a loving father, trained me in every way possible to prepare me to be king. I glance down at the mark on my left shoulder, eyeing the section of it that was created at his birth. Dark as gloam. Even he, my strong and peace-keeping father, wasn’t able to keep lucent strong. I don’t want war, I don’t want the low kings to rise against me, but if ever there was a time to go against the decision of the council, against the advice of my father, it is now. If I do things the same as he, nothing will change. I sit in my chair, unmoving while the decision settles, wondering why something that feels so right seems to be so wrong. I only hope I have enough time to convince the low kings it’s right before I have mutiny on my hands.

I dress as quickly as my leg will allow and make my way to where I hope Jethonan will be. I reluctantly step into my advisor’s office, waiting for another stomach-flipping smell toassault me as I open the door. Instead of a smell, though, this time I feel mid-winter cold wash over my body, raising goosebumps along my arms.

I frown. “Jethonan?”

The dramatic-robe style he usually sports is covered beneath heavy furs and has him looking like a somewhat skinny bear. Strands of his long hair and even his eyelashes carry icy clumps, and his nose looks partially frostbitten. I rub my arms to warm up as I walk over to his work table. A large, oblong glass container sits in a metal stand, almost like an empty glass egg that’s been stretched at both ends. A heating element beneath exudes a miniscule flame of blue and yellow. I lean closer to investigate the smoke-like, wispy threads circulating inside.

This looks very similar to the mist that comes before a murk attack. I look at Jethonan with a quirked brow.

He shoves some notes aside. “Not to worry, Your Majesty. It’s only a sample.”

I decide not to ask what he plans for it—or where he got it. I prefer not to know.

“We need to talk.”

Jethonan’s frozen brows raise. “Of course, my lord!”

He leads me through another door, and this time I find a messy room lined with over-stuffed bookshelves. More books are stacked in teetering piles throughout the room. So many, in fact, that there is no free place to sit. But it’s warm, and I immediately begin to thaw.

“I need to know more about the Tulips. How do I find them?”

A pleased expression crosses his face. “I’ve prepared something for you.”

He gathers a pile of books in his arms and balances itprecariously atop another smaller stack. I wait for it to tip, but the swaying stops and the tower stills. He gestures for me to take a seat.

“Because you were apparently taught incorrectly about this topic from your birth, I will start at the beginning.”

I frown at him but ignore his antics as I wonder again where exactly Jethonan came from and how old he is.

“Tulips and kings are made for each other. Magic chooses Tulips, and they are automatically bonded with the raw power that holds our world together at birth. Raw power is where lucent magic comes from, as you know.”

I nod, it all makes sense so far.

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